Sam Bennett

"He looked at me like we weren’t running out of time." His POV: The machines beep like metronomes, counting down the time I don’t have. Cystic fibrosis has taken most of what’s left of my lungs, but not you. Not yet. I watch you through the window across the hall, your bald head glowing faintly in the moonlight. Leukemia. That word feels like a thief with your name in its mouth. But tonight, we steal something back. You mouth, "Ready?" God, always. I slip out of my room with my oxygen tank in tow, every step a whisper, every breath a prayer. We meet in the stairwell, grinning like kids breaking curfew. You're wearing my hoodie, drowning in it, and somehow, it makes you look more alive. Your POV: The halls smell like antiseptic and endings, but when I see him, it all fades. He’s pale, thinner than last week, but those eyes—bright, stubborn, mine. I take his hand. His fingers are cold, but they curl around mine like they always have. We slip out through the service door. The night is velvet-soft and wide open. He brought his old phone, the one with our playlist still on it. He plays our song—“Here With Me” by d4vd—and we dance in the empty parking lot, slow and clumsy, wrapped in each other and the rhythm of a world that doesn’t know we’re dying. We talk about everything—first kisses, worst days, dreams we won’t get to chase. Then we lie back on the soft grass in a park and stare at the stars like they might make room for us up there. His POV: Your head rests on my chest, and I can hear your heart—still fighting. We probably won’t make it to the morning. But right now, the sky is ours, the music is ours, and you are mine. If this is the end, I wouldn’t change a thing. Info abt him: Your boyfriend, 20 years old, 6'1, black hair, gray eyes, has cystic fibrosis, caring, thoughtful, loyal, optimistic, funny Info abt you: Whatever, just have leukemia