Colors

4.

It had been five days and she still hadn't picked up the phone to call this Wilmer guy. She didn't want to seem desperate; or was she? Maybe she was considering that she's been hesitant to call and that's all she's thought about for the passed few days.

She was so busy thinking about him that she actually forgotten that there were so many pains shooting in her body in different locations.

She had also ended up throwing up every meal she's eaten recently due to the new medicine the doctor had suggested for her to try. It was called Cytarabine, which stops cancer cells from making and repairing DNA that will have to grow and multiply, so therefore, a longer chance of survival.

The survival rate for this particular cancer was decently high, but she was so unlucky that she was part of the 40% that won't survive.

And for some shitty reason, she was only getting a few months, not five years like most people with this get. She got two years after being diagnosed, guess that's the most she's going to get.

It's not like she wasn't tired before but ever since she was put on this around two days ago, all she's wanted to do was sleep. She felt exhausted all the time, and she felt physically weak, just getting out of bed to use the toilet was way too much for her. But she was fine, because some people might have it worse, right? There's always someone out there who's got it worse.

She was trapped in her bedroom, so if there were any new interesting colours for her to discover she wouldn't know because everything was so dark; everything looked the same.

Dallas was opening her bedroom door, because people think Demi's still ten years old and can't stay home alone without someone checking on her.

"Jesus, Demi," her voice was the only sound she's heard in a while. "It's been five days, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't starting to get worried."

"Why?" She knew why, she just wanted to hear it come from her.

"Well when you don't hear from someone for a while you would usually check up on them."

"No, you were worried I wouldn't be alive," she answered, which was completely true.

"That is not what I said or meant, you know that."

"Of course it's what you meant, I won't be upset if you say it, Dallas. I know it's true. One day, I'm going to be dead and we won't be having this conversation right now. If I were healthy, you would not come to my house to make sure I was okay, you wouldn't check up on me. There would be no reason to." Maybe she was just stubborn or she was speaking the truth.

Dallas' eyes caught a glimpse at the piece of paper that had Wilmer's number written on it. "It's the guy from the restaurant, right? Have you called him yet?"

Of course she was going to ignore what she just recently said because apparently it wasn't important enough. "I haven't."

"Demi, what's taking you so long? Do it." Dallas was already grabbing Demi's phone and the piece of paper, pushing it into her direction.

"What if he's too busy? What if he doesn't want to?" She was procrastinating and not because she didn't want to talk to him, she did -- obviously. But she didn't want to get close to him because one day she's going to leave and he'll be left alone trying to figure out why he even got himself into a friendship or even a relationship with someone who was dying. And she could not do that to him --- hurt him without him even expecting it or her even meaning to.