Luhan watches. Luhan waits, but he smiles.

----------

2010.

4 years ago, prior to knowing of his leukemia, Luhan had vanished into foams of despair. Everything was planned out just right and everything just fitted out perfectly; in his book, that was. He didn’t need the pursuit of happiness because just you had filled his sleepless nights. Because you were there amidst him having his unfortunate illness just to hold his hands, so “Everything will be alright.” Just like how your smiles condensed his ill-starred days, how your eyes sparkled of reassurance and faith that in time, he’d get better.

But everything vanished – every little of him dissipating agonizingly slow, yet too soon to live forever.

So Luhan stopped, and he began to wait for the end. He opted a new beginning, but that unfaithful night where words overpowered his faith – he knew he was already a lifeless soul.

“Luhan, it won’t be too long,” Luhan had just gotten his gift ready for you but his father called him in. He showed up all jittery but smiley, as if everything was going to be okay. But there never was a time to be okay. His father held him by the shoulders with tottering hands. Luhan hadn’t noticed, he was all too preoccupied. His father had mustered up with as much calmness and composure to prepare him for what would be next.

“W-what do you mean?” His eyes began to shadow and darken, his lips almost quivering.

“It was beyond my knowledge, Luhan, that I thought you’d be treated by chemotherapy,” he sighed, him only starting. He held his temples while he paced around, unfollowing Luhan’s expectant gaze. “What do you mean? So from the very start, was it a false hope?” Luhan had stood up already, fists balling and chest heaving.

“No, of course not, Luhan. But you had gotten weaker, and—“

“Wasn’t the remission of bone-marrow transplant enough?”

His father sighed, fully understanding Luhan’s situation. Luhan knew well he was being overpowered by his emotions. By then, he was on his knees upon hearing his prognosis. A year. It rang like a cacophonic rhythm – unpleasant and unforgivable.  “Luhan, listen. You know well there isn’t any cure for this, so what I need you to do is pull yourself together, undergo another transplant and hold on.”

“Hold on?”

Hold on. A year. What was he to do? What about his plans, your and his plans? Was he being selfish as he wrung himself to the ground, on his knees, tears sprawling down on his cheeks?

“Dad.”

The air was thick and silence hovered around them. Luhan wept, and wept, as he looked up at his Dad, barely a doctor whom he thought he entrusted the cure to his life. “I was going to propose, Dad.” He languidly sat against the cold bricked wall of his father’s office; and his doctor, no, his father’s face fell in despondency. “I’m sorry, son, I really am. I’m speaking as your father right now, not your doctor – If I could give you the transplant any sooner, I would; I’d really find your match again. If I could treat you now, I would. But I’m not your doctor. I’m your father so I can’t, there are processes to undergo, and I’m telling you, Luhan, just hold on.”