In the grand scheme of life, we've broken up.

          We used to be a "we," and now it's just a "me." They say time heals all wounds, but it's a tricky thing, isn't it? On the one hand, I'm like, "Yeah, we've broken up, so that's all in the past," and I want to sound all cool and nonchalant about it, make it sound like a breeze. I could even add a little chuckle for dramatic effect. But in reality, it's not that simple. You see, there's a reason we were together in the first place. There's a reason why she made me smile even on the rainiest of days. And there's a reason why her absence feels like a gaping hole in my life.

But yes, I can still crack jokes and act like I've got it all together. I'm practically a stand-up comedian on the outside, making light of our past while my heart feels like it's on a rollercoaster, going from loop to loop without any warning. It's like trying to juggle bowling balls while riding a unicycle. You laugh to cover up the fear of dropping them all.

          Breaking up is like trying to fold a fitted bedsheet. It looks so easy in those "how-to" videos, but when you're standing there with the tangled mess in your hands, you realize it's more complex than quantum physics. It's like trying to thread a needle in the dark while wearing mittens - near impossible.

So… yeah, I don't know. Maybe I'm not a comedian. Maybe I'm just a clown. Beneath the makeup and the laughter, behind the oversized shoes and the juggling acts, there's a heart that can break just like anyone else's.

I loved her, you know?

But I couldn't make her stay.

And I thought love was just another act, another performance. But it wasn't. It was real, and I let it slip through my clumsy, oversized fingers.

 

I tucked Max in, fluffing his pillows and adjusting his stuffed animals for the tenth time, trying to make sure he was as comfy as possible. As the room darkened, he stared at me with those curious, bright eyes, clearly not ready to drift off into dreamland. I'd already read him a book about dinosaurs, sang a lullaby, and even tried the classic "counting sheep" method, but Max was having none of it.

          "You have to put me to sleep."

"Yeah..." With a sigh, I asked him, "Max, how about we talk about something interesting?"

He perked up, nodding eagerly. "What are we gonna talk about, noona?"

"I've got a question for you."

"What's the question?"

"Imagine someone knew they were going to die soon. What would you tell them to do?"

He furrowed his little brows, deep in thought. "Hmm... they should eat ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream!"

I chuckled at his answer, "Well, that sounds delicious, Max. But what else?"

"They should go to the playground and swing really high. And then, they should look at the stars at night because stars are like magic, noona."

"You're right, Max. Ice cream, swinging high, and stargazing sound like wonderful things to do. Anything else?"

He grinned and said, "They should hug their favorite stuffed dinosaur, like me, because it's the coziest thing in the world!"

"But what if the dying person doesn't have their favorite stuffed dinosaur?"

"Then they should hug the one they love instead."

I smiled—because that was everything I could do.

"I don't want to die," he said.

And neither did I.

While Max seemed content in the comforting embrace of his dinosaur, I found myself pondering the inevitability of my situation. The clock continued its relentless march, bringing me closer to a future I was reluctant to face.

He yawned and snuggled deeper into his covers, his eyelids getting heavier. "But we'll be okay, right, noona?"

I brushed a lock of hair away from his face and forced a smile. "Yes, Max. We'll be okay." My words were more for my comfort than his.

I walked out of Max's room, leaving him to the embrace of his dreams. The house was quiet, a comforting contrast to the busyness of my thoughts. Just as I reached the living room, Joshua and Se-an entered.

"Sorry we're late."

"It's okay," I reassured them with a small smile. "I just got Max to bed."

"We've got some food. Would you like to join us?" Joshua offered. It was a kind gesture, but I had been wanting to be alone for a moment.

"Thank you," I replied, "but I think I should head home."

Always considerate, Se-an stepped into the kitchen and returned with two pieces of chicken legs, "In case you change your mind," she said, offering the food. "It's the least we can do."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hong. I appreciate it. Have a good meal."

 

Raindrops kissed my skin as I walked through the wet streets. Pitter-patter. It would have been great if I had an umbrella.

A chill ran down my spine, a reminder that I might catch a cold. But then, I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.

I mean, should I really be concerned about getting sick? What's a cold compared to what lies ahead?

Hmm, life is a lot like finding yourself in an unexpected downpour. You've got a choice: either grumble about it or have your own little dance in the rain. Tonight, I decided to go with the latter, welcoming the pandemonium and letting it rinse away the worries that were just excess baggage.

 

 

 

As I approached my doorstep, raindrops splattering on the pavement, something in my peripheral vision caught my attention. I couldn't see clearly through the rain, but an unmistakable hot pink umbrella stood out amidst the grayness. My heart skipped a beat. There was only one person I knew who would carry such an eccentric accessory - Sana.

The thought was curious; after all, a hot pink umbrella seemed like something a cheerful old lady might have, but it was hardly the kind of rain that lured senior citizens out of their homes at this hour.

It has to be Sana.

"You never learn, always forgetting your umbrella."

I chuckled softly, acknowledging my recurring forgetfulness. "Well, maybe it's less of a mistake now and more of a choice."

"Here, take cover," she said, extending her hot pink umbrella towards me, even though it wouldn't make much of a difference. It wouldn't keep me any less soaked.

"Sana," I began, "what brought you here? Did you forget something?"

There was a prolonged pause, the sound of the rain creating an unspoken symphony in the background. Sana's smile, once playful, had transformed into a sad one. She slowly shook her head.

With a deep breath, she finally met my gaze. "Dahyun, this... it's not working," she said.

A wistful chuckle slipped out of me as I tried to ease the melancholic moment. "Well, you know," I said with a touch of rueful humor, "we've parted ways. It's clear this isn't going to work."

"No, I mean, it's just... this isn't working for me. I can't simply be without you. We've shared a home, our lives, for so long. I've been with you longer than anyone else in my life," she explained. "It's hard to be apart, even though I thought... I still think that it's best for us to be apart." She sighed, "It's  too... complicated."

"So, what do you want to do about it, Sana?"

"Can't you... be the one to say something now? What do you want to do about it, Dahyun?"

 

So, should I take Sana back? It's a question that's been playing in my mind like a broken record.

There's that nagging thought in the back of my mind – the one that says it might be unfair to her. I don't want her to go down that road, knowing that it doesn't lead to a happy ending. My time here is limited. What if we were to rekindle what we had, only for me to disappear again? Would that be fair to Sana?

Or would it be fair for her to love someone who has an expiration date, someone who's going to leave her permanently when the clock runs out?

Wouldn't that be cruel? To start something beautiful for the first time again just for it to end abruptly. I know she loves me, and I love her just as much. But love isn't always enough, is it?

Do I give in to my heart's desire, hold onto the love that still lingers between us, or do I do the "right" thing and let her go, sparing her the pain of seeing me slowly slip away?

I wish life came with a manual, with answers neatly laid out, but it doesn't work that way. Perhaps god isn't as kind as people paint him to be.

 

"Thirty days," I said.

"What?"

"It took us thirty days the first time to figure out we wanted to be together. Maybe this time, it'll take another thirty days," I explained. "So, for thirty days, let's just do it all over again. At the end of that, we can talk, and we'll have our final decision about this break-up."

 

Did I wish for those thirty days to help her decide, or was it a longing to steal a few more moments with her, to craft a bubble where my world could feel whole? A piece of me thought that I could infuse those days with joy, giggles, and priceless moments, so that when the final grains of sand slipped through the hourglass, I would harbor no regrets.

Is that selfish? Perhaps.

Yet, wasn't it a modest plea? To be selfish for merely thirty more days.

After all, isn't love itself a little bit of selfishness, a desire to hold on to something beautiful for as long as we can?

So, let me have it, please, let me be selfish for just thirty more days. Allow me to indulge in this bittersweet dance of love and loss. I need it. Desperately.

Let this be the last petal of a fading flower – something I'll hold on to, even if it's fleeting, even if it hurts, because, for a little while longer, I can call her mine.

The first morning, I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against my window, a soothing rhythm that seemed to calm my racing thoughts. As I blinked away the remnants of sleep, I felt a warmth beside me that made my heart skip a beat.

Turning my head to the side, there she was, Sana, her peaceful expression in slumber as beautiful as ever. I couldn't help but smile, despite the grogginess that clouded my mind. I listened to her soft breathing, a gentle lullaby that whispered promises of a new day.

"Good morning, beautiful," I mumbled, my voice still heavy with sleep. She stirred but didn't wake, and I couldn't blame her. Mornings had never been her forte, and even the softest of whispers was enough to drag her back into dreamland.

As I leaned in to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, I noticed she was already halfway to consciousness. With a sleepy smile, she turned her face toward me.

"Hey," she mumbled, her words slightly slurred. "You're up early."

I chuckled, ruffling her hair affectionately. "And you're up late."

"Mmm. I've got to run some errands this morning. I'll be back in the afternoon."

"Errands? You're not running off without breakfast, are you?"

She grinned, now more awake. "I promise I won't leave without breakfast."

"Good," I whispered. "Is there anywhere you'd like to visit? We could go together after I finish babysitting Max. It's like a second first date for us."

Sana's face lit up with a charming smile, and she took a moment to consider my question. "Hmm... how about we visit Chan's restaurant?"

"Ooh... the place where we first met, hmm?" I teased. "That's a great idea! I haven't visited since then."

"Perfect! It'll be a nice surprise for him, too."

"Alright, then. I'll finish up early, so we can make the most of our day."

 

Rekindling what we once had wasn't easy.

It's like trying to put together the pieces of a shattered mirror, gluing them with all your might, and even if you manage to make it whole again, there are still cracks that linger, reminding you of its fragile past. It's not the same as before, and we both knew it.

We were retracing footsteps on a sandy beach, trying to make the path smoother, but the imprints of where we stumbled still remained.

And that's okay. That's okay.

 

Walking along the side of the road, I quickly pulled out my phone to send a quick message to Sana. "On my way," I typed, followed by a smiley emoji.

I continued walking, navigating through the crowd while thinking about my day with Max. That child was a bundle of energy. He has to be one of the most chaotic kids alive. He made me chase him around the house and clean up more messes than I thought possible.

Yet, as chaotic as it was, spending time with Max had a special charm that I couldn't deny. It felt like an escape from the reality that I, well, you already know what I mean.

But then, in an unexpected twist of fate, I found myself bumping into someone familiar. It was Dr. Park, my oncologist. The coincidence was almost uncanny, as though it were destined, or perhaps even serendipitous.

We ended up in a cozy nearby coffee shop.

"I've been trying to contact you, Ms. Kim," she began.

"Yeah? Well... I've been quite busy lately."

She nodded, looking a bit solemn. "I understand that you've had a lot on your plate. It's just that I wanted to discuss something with you."

"What is it?"

"Ms. Kim, there's a new experimental treatment called 'Project Lumen.' It's shown some remarkable results in trials, and I thought you might be interested in participating. The best part is that it's fully funded, so it won't cost you a thing."

"Project Lumen?"

"I know you've been through a lot, and I understand your concerns. But this might be a chance for something more, a way to fight back."

I have to be honest. The potential of this project was tantalizing, offering the promise of an extended life.

But there was a catch, a bitter pill to swallow.

"If the experiment is successful," Dr. Park said cautiously, "there's a chance you could have up to five more years—five more years of life... of experiencing everything." Her words trailed off, "But Ms. Kim, if it doesn't go as planned..."

"What?"

"If it doesn't work, the time you have left might be much shorter. It's a risk, and it's a tough decision to make."

"Then, I'm not doing it," I said, pushing the chair back, ready to stand up and escape the mounting pressure.

"Look, I know this is a lot to take in. But it's a chance—a chance for more time, a chance to l