Its seven o'clock in the morning and I'm sitting on the roof.
There's something beautiful and sentimental about the sunrise, rays of lemony shade drop down on the river ahead.
I could use all the peaceful mornings, I could get- the ones that numbered now.
I remember the exact moment when the doctor told us that there was nothing he could do for me because the cancer had spread to my brain. It was a slow dripping faucet kind of thing; my mind went blank, no thoughts coming in.
When the doctor spoke those words, my mother cried her eyes out in the middle of the hospital. She hugged me tight. I think my dad was crying too, although the last time I saw him cry was when I was seven, and his sister had died in a horrible car crash.
As mom had her initial reaction, my own mind went blank, not letting me feel anything. The doctor told us that he was going to send me home.
For a moment, the statement was freeing, and then reality hit me hard. After two years of being in and out of the hospital, I was being released to die a quiet death.
The way doctor described it, it seemed peaceful, my own bed, my own room, slipping away in my sleep, like I'm some old lady who's had the fortune of existing an entire lifetime. It was then, that I realised that life was getting the better of me.
And so, now I have a plan.
I close my eyes and wish to whoever is up there to please just give me this one summer to get everything marked off my bucket list. Then whoever takes people away from earth can take me.
Not a minute sooner.