1 of 50 Songs and Chapters Dedicated to the Friend I Lost Too Soon

I'm dying and nobody knows why.

Technically, that's not the exact words that the doctor told me, but it's the truth, skipping over all the fluff, false expectation and hope of it all.

I know it is.

They might try to act like every time they swarm in in their blue uniforms or their uninviting, terrifying long white coats, that they're looking for answers in the blood under my skin or the pace of my heart beat, but they're not. Not anymore. They've given up because my case is far over their heads.

What my body is pulling off doesn't make sense, even to the ones with years of med school and college degrees spread across their wall, set up for people to gawk and awe at.

If they were to be blunt about it, they'd say the end of my lifetime is ticking down rapidly. They'd tell me that my life was already over and that I should be ready to close my eyes and sleep forever very very soon. That I had to let myself accept the idea of an end.

But they don't. Instead, they look at me and smile, and they ask me if I'm feeling any better. They up my dosage of morphine. They bring me warm blankets, green jello or banana pudding -- like my life or death scenario can be solved with a snack and some painkiller.

They act like I'm oblivious, and honestly, sometimes I am. Sometimes I really do let myself forget that this is my fate, and that everything I've ever wanted I would never be able to reach, because it's easier to do that.

It's probably easier for them too.

Whatever the case is though, every effort they made came tumbling down when my parents finally built up the courage to sit down on my bed side, where I was connected to wires from every direction, and say one phrase -- it only took one phrase, yes, a few words, for everything to click in the way I've been avoiding it to.

"Jaiva, what do you want the most in life?" They said to me.

And it hit me, suddenly, on a random Thursday, two weeks after I was admitted into the hospital that I was near to gone. That I was near to returning to dust.

My parents are the same people who raised me not to be spoiled, and to be contented with every little thing in life that I ever receive. There was never a time in my life that they asked me what I wanted. I received gifts occasionally. They didn't deprive me, but through their actions they taught me what was truly important.

A phrase like "what do you want most in life" was avoided at all cost, and not for bad reason, so when it came about casually in conversation, there wasn't a piece of me that doubted that something was wrong.

Something was definitely wrong.

Extremely wrong.

I couldn't help to think about what it was like to lose my childhood friend. When Aiden died, nobody could've expected it. It was out of nowhere -- one moment he was here, and the next he was gone, and there was no one who could manage to revive him.

It hasn't even been a month.

I didn't know that I'd have to learn that life is fragile and that time ticks by without your permission, until that happened, and I knew that that was going to give me a wound that'd never stop bleeding before my subconscious fully accepted that our last moment will always be our last moment.

It agonized me deeply to do the same thing to my parents. They didn't deserve to lose me, just as how I didn't deserve to lose him.

I know exactly what that feels like.

How could I actually leave them behind? How could my body actually give out when it still had them to live for? How could I go unconscious if that meant I'd be without the stories they tell of me growing up?

Like the day I was born, for example. They agreed on the name 'Jaiva' long before I was an embryo even, just because I'd be named after my grandmother on my mom's side, but when I was born and they saw me for the first time, they knew 'Shyne' has to be written somewhere on my birth certificate.

They claim that I was such a bundle of joy and that I had this sparkle in my eye that shined unlike any other child they've seen before. Of course, that's just parents being parents and it's not like I was truly the sight to look at, but the important thing is I made them happy. They struggled for some time in my beginning years, but they were happy.

They told me that one day, someone would realize that I was special and someone would realize what I was meant for, yet it seemed now that there was no time for that.

Well, Aiden did. Aiden adored me and our friendship, but he was gone. Now I was next, and all that time he was the only one who ever cared.

Maybe I should've never asked for more than that. Maybe I was too greedy and that's why I ended up here, unable to have the future I dreamed of.

Who would dare take their sunshine away? Why aren't I shining anymore? Why am I becoming so clouded and gray? Why can't I live up to my name?

I shook my head to attempt to clear the fog, but it didn't go away so easily. With a small, sad smile that barely curved my lips upwards being the most I could do, I tried to pretend I didn't realize the meaning behind their question.

"I don't want anything," I responded. "I just want both of you to be happy."

The two of them turned to look at one another when they heard that, and for a split second I could see the urge they had to burst into tears. The expression wasn't on their faces long, but I could tell -- they were trying to be strong for me, and it was so much worse knowing that because I've never seen them cry once in my life. I didn't want to accept I was the reason for their pain, even if I didn't do it on purpose.

"I know that's what you want, and you've done that. You always do that," my father answered, skimming the top of my hand. "But don't you think that one time you should do something for yourself? You've always been so self-sacrificing you should get something you want just once."

"Dad--," I tried to intervene into the sentimental aura of the atmosphere, but I didn't get the chance to finish. With my eyes on the verge of tears and my mother insisting, I couldn't get out the words to say I didn't want anything. That they shouldn't worry about me.

I guess they were so persistent because they knew the result of my condition more than I did.

"Listen to him, Jai," my mom exclaimed, pushing the aura back into sadness and emotion. "Accept a gift from us one time. Just once. It's what we want to do."

It's what we want to do, because it's the last time we'll ever be able to do it.

No, they didn't say it, but it's what they meant and if they thought I didn't know that they were greatly mistaken. They can't fool me.

I've observed their faces every single day since the day I was born. I know what sadness looks like on them. I know what happiness looks like, anger, fear, disgust, panic -- and this?

This was their way of saying goodbye. It was their way of bidding a permanent farewell, and it was accepting that they would have to bury their "little girl".

I could hardly stand to look at it.

"I--," my wince brought me to an involuntary pause. A burn grew stronger in my throat with a fire that could wipe out an entire forest, and I knew any moment now I wouldn't be able to hold it in. I'd be breaking down.

But not yet, I thought to myself. They're being strong for me. I need to be strong for them too.

And I spoke up to finish, attempting to wash the burn down with saliva. "I don't want anything that you can possibly give me. Neither of you should worry about that. I want the success from everything I've lived for. I want accomplishments. I want my voice to be heard, but you can't do that for me. I have to do that on my own."

I hoped that would be enough to distract them for their plan for a gift. It was probably to make them feel better, but to me it was putting a bandaid on a wound in need of stitches. After all, what am I going to do with physical things when I'm -- gone? I want to make a mark on this world, and I can't. That's what this was telling me.

Or so I thought.

"Let us help you," my mom chimed in, more cheerily than any of us have been able to be thus far. The blue in the atmosphere began to shift to this bright yellow when she talked, though it was still a run down and faded type of happiness. For what this was, that was technically plenty passed the expectations.

"Yeah. Tell us about it. No matter how impossible you think it is, let us try, Jaiva," my father added on, brightening the dullness a bit more.

My shoulders released a tension I didn't notice they had, but I bit my lip, hesitating to respond. Both of them knew I was a writer, and that I've had a dream to make it big as an author or as a screenwriter for the Hollywood movies. They supported me heavily for that even when I failed over and over to get my big break, but there was a thing about it that they didn't know.

Writing is my life. I fell in love with it at the beginning because I admired how everything that stemmed from it made me feel. How it's a creative writer that made your heart swell, and that turned into what it is now -- I rely on it for everything. It contains my excitement, my downfalls, my highs and my lows, and as of recently, the pain in my heavy yet empty heart when Aiden died.

I didn't think I'd admit it out loud, but with the way things were becoming having shame wasn't worth it anymore. I'll be silenced soon anyway.

"I wrote a book for Aiden. About the times we had together and what it felt like to lose him," I said it slow in the beginning, until it came pouring out like a heavy rain. "I want it to be published. I want people to remember him the same way that I remember him. I want people to know the impact he made on my life. I can't let him be forgotten so easily. I don't care if I am, but he can't be."

There was silence. Not because they didn't know how to act or what to say, but because they took one look at me and they knew I wasn't done. They could see that I held back on saying more, and that I reminded myself that what I was asking for was already a lot, yet they wanted to show it wasn't. They wanted me to continue.

I cleared my throat.

"And--," I trailed off, repeating my longshot desire in my head. "I want Jewee Kyler to illustrate it. He's from that television series, Pulseless Heart that Aiden was into and that he told me about. For such a dark show I found out that actor illustrates children's books and that duality-- I like it a lot. It reminds me of Aiden, and to connect to that, I wrote a sad story, but I want the drawings to be innocent, cute and memorable to show his duality too."

One tear fell down my cheek, and it's that one tear that ruined what I vowed to myself: to stay strong for them. Oddly, it made my cheeks flush red and in the new quiet, I found myself rambling.

"But I know it's too much. It's not possible, probably, right? And what am I gonna say to the Jewee Kyler, anyway? I wouldn't know how to face him if I had the chance to and he's probably busy anyway living the celebrity life he wouldn't have time for me and why would someone like him illustrate my book. I mean it doesn't amount to very much and--."

"Jaiva," my mom tried to intervene but I couldn't get myself to stop.

"Just getting my book published is already a lot to ask for. Maybe I haven't been able to get the opportunity for a reason. Maybe I'm just not good at writing and I wasn't meant to do it. It's meant to be a hobby and nothing more than that. Don't you think? I should stop expecting that I deserve that stuff--."

"Jaiva."

"I understand that it's not very likely. I still have to improve on so much and there are so many out there that want the same thing I do and that are so much more skilled than I am and so maybe I--."

"Jaiva!" My mom slightly yelled it this time, her hand interlocked in my fingers. "You are wonderful with words. That's your gift and you deserve to use it in a way the world can hear. We'll see what we can do, okay? You get yourself well rested and we'll look into it as much as we can."

And then as if we planned it, all three of us exploded into sobs.

Turns out, our way of being strong for each other was being weak together.