Flan had long since memorized the cracks in the ceiling tiles.
Twelve in the left corner. Five intersecting above the TV. One shaped like a sword, if you tilted your head just right. It was the closest he'd ever come to seeing one in real life.
A sharp beep echoed through the hospital room. The IV drip clicked and a monitor hummed. Machines buzzed and whirred and beeped in perfect rhythm, like a lullaby he could never fall asleep to.
He didn't mind, really. This was just life. For him, at least.
Outside the window, the world moved like it always did. Kids in uniform strolled by the sidewalk, some dragging their bags, others laughing in loud bursts. One of them had pink socks… his sister's favorite color.
He smiled faintly.
"I wonder if she ever confessed to that crush," he murmured. His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the sound of the air purifier. "Probably still chickening out…"
He couldn't blame her. She was only twelve but still braver than he'd ever been.
His body ached. Every second, it was there, like his bones were too heavy, like his blood stung whenever it moved. But he was used to pain. Pain was background noise now.
His parents, however, had never really gotten used to this.
Lately, they'd been acting strange. His mom kept leaving the room to cry in the hallway. His dad had been spacing out more, eyes bloodshot and red. They tried to smile in front of him…but he could tell they were preparing for something.
Then, one day, his father sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands together like he could wring the words out of them.
"Son," he began, voice trembling. "There's… we've done everything. We tried…your mother and I…we looked for help, for loans, insurance loopholes…"
The words hung in the air like smoke. "Life support too expensive..." " Insurance cancelled..." "One month at most."
Flan's mind went blank, he couldn't seem to piece it all together until his father paused.
"I'm sorry, son."
Just that… three words. Like a death sentence passed without trial.
And yet, he didn't flinch. Because deep down, some part of him had already known.
He'd seen it in the way the doctors stopped making eye contact. In the quiet tension between his parents. In how no one talked about "next year" anymore.
Maybe he'd been pretending, just like they had.
Maybe they all needed to.
His mother broke into sobs beside him, clutching his arm like she could keep him from drifting away. His father lowered his head and wept, whispering "my boy, my boy" over and over again.
And him?
He just stared at the ceiling. No anger or panic, heck not even grief. Just a strange weight being lifted.
For the first time in years, he could finally see the end.
And it was quiet.
*
The week that followed felt like one long, awkward goodbye.
Cousins he didn't recognize came bearing gifts he didn't need. Aunts and uncles held his hands like they were trying to memorize the shape of them. Some cried others gave awkward pats on the shoulder. Most just whispered things they thought dying people wanted to hear.
He smiled when he had to. Nodded when he needed to.
But the only visitors that mattered were his parents and siblings. His little sister, Ana, came almost every day after school, even when her eyes were puffy from crying. She brought him dumb things like folded paper flowers and a new playlist she made just for him.
She never said "goodbye." Not once. She just kept talking like they had time. Like they always would.
And maybe that's what kept him from breaking down those final weeks.
Just her.
*
The last few days felt cold. Not just his body, but the world itself. Like even the universe had decided to stop pretending.
He tried to find comfort in the old ways. He rewatched his favorite anime. Listened to the OSTs that used to make him cry. Imagined himself as the protagonist. Reincarnated… reborn. Running across grassy fields with a sword in his hand and a second chance in his lungs.
It was dumb, but a kid was allowed to wish.
*
The night he died was quiet.
No machines or monitors. Just him, the blanket tucked up to his chest, and the dull hum of the flourescent lights overhead.
His father had fallen asleep in the chair beside him. His mother had stepped out. It was just Ana, curled up on the side of the bed, her hand wrapped gently around his.
He could feel his time coming. Like a final jolt of energy... his brain's futile last attempt at saving him
He stared at Ana, he wanted to tell her he loved her. But his body hurt too much to speak.
'I don't need to tell her,' he realized, calming down. After all, she already knew.
The last thing he felt wasn't pain or fear. It was warmth... just her hand in his.
He smiled. And then…
Darkness.