Letting you go [COMPLETE]

Chapter 27

     

Unedited.

Deliberately shorter than the rest.

Where did all these votes come from?! Seriously . . . where?!

_________________       

  July 14th 2015.

The day I get the news. A day I'll never forget afterwards.

I'm at home, sitting on my bed, scrolling through photos of James and me on my phone, a week after being released from hospital. If there's one thing I hate about teenagers, it's the idea of taking a thousand photos of yourself on your phone, but as I scroll through them, I can't help but wish there was more.

There's some of us from the city. I hadn't taken any of them—James had clearly taken them without me knowing. I didn't even know about them until he sent them to me one night.

A few of them are photo shopped ones—ridiculous ones that make me laugh every time I see them. Two giraffes with both our heads replacing theirs. Other random ones.

Some of them are from the hospital. Despite how gaunt and ill I'd looked, he'd convinced me to take a photo with him. After that, one photo had turned into way too many. Of course, I'm not smiling in any of them. Until, four photos later, where I'm laughing at him. You can't see any of the faces he's pulling, the photos solely of me.

When the screen lands on one of the photos, I stare at it for a while, unable to flick to the next one.

It's one I haven't seen before.

And I can't help but smile.

If Rick was in here, he'd start making fun of me. But he's not. No one is but me. There's early morning light streaming through the window, the curtains pulled back.

In the silent solitude, I just stare at the photo, trying to pretend that I don't feel any butterflies whatsoever.

It's a simple photo—just James and I in the hospital. He sitting upright on the hospital bed, and I'm leaning against him, half asleep on his shoulder. He's winking in the picture, blue eyes alight. His thumb points to me, and he grins.

There, on his face are the words I'M IN LOVE WITH ALYSON ADAMS written on his forehead in permanent marker, an arrow pointing to me on his cheek.

It's then that I hear the phone ringing from somewhere else in the house. There's shuffling feet a second later, then I hear mum answer it.

After that, I don't pay any attention, returning my focus to the photo.

My bedroom door bursts open and I let my arm fall so it's resting on the bed. Then I glance at the open doorway. Through the awkward angle, I can make out a pair of jeans and a loose black shirt.

"Alyson," mum whispers quietly, from the doorway. "Phone's for you."

With a sigh, I sit up slowly. Remission doesn't mean that my faulty lung is going to miraculously mend itself, so I still need to use my oxygen machine daily and take all the medication. The good thing, however, is that the cancer will stop spreading and I'll be okay.

"Who is it?" I ask, sliding over to the edge of the bed and swinging my legs off the side.

Mum frowns. "James' mother."