(Luna’s POV)

People say the world gets quieter when you’re about to give up.

They’re right.

The city was still alive that night — cars rushing, laughter echoing from bars, the wind humming through the bridge — but inside me, everything was silent. No heartbeat, no fear, no noise. Just a strange, heavy calm.

I leaned against the cold railing and looked down at the water below. The moon reflected there like a broken coin, trembling each time the current moved. I wondered if it would hurt — the fall, the final breath, the end. Maybe not. Maybe it would be quick.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

I had already wasted too many tears in a home that never heard them.

“Luna, you’re worthless.”

“Why can’t you be like your sister?”

“You’re such a burden.”

The voices replayed like a broken record. My mother’s sharp tone. My father’s silence. My classmates’ laughter behind my back. It all blended into one truth — that maybe the world would be better off without me.

And for once, I agreed.

I climbed the rail slowly, holding the edge for balance. The wind tugged at my hair like invisible fingers, whispering, just one step, it’ll be over.

Then a voice cut through the quiet.

“Hey! If you’re planning to jump, at least wait for me.”

I froze. My hands tightened around the railing.

I turned my head, and there he was — a stranger standing a few meters away. A boy around my age, wearing a hoodie and messy hair that looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t even shouting. He just… smiled.

“What?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He shrugged, walking closer with his hands in his pockets. “I said, wait for me. I might as well join. But I have a few things left to do first.”

I blinked, unsure if I heard him right. “You’re joking.”

“Kind of. But also not.” He stopped a few steps away, leaning on the railing beside me like we were just two friends watching the river. “You know, I’ve been wanting to see this view for a while. Never thought I’d find someone already claiming the spot.”

I didn’t reply. My chest tightened — not from fear, but from confusion. Who jokes like that?

He tilted his head, studying me. “You’re not really going to do it, are you?”

“What if I am?”

“Then at least tell me your name first.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because,” he said with a soft laugh, “if you disappear, someone should at least remember what to call the ghost.”

His words made me look at him properly. Under the streetlights, his skin looked pale — too pale — but his eyes… they were alive. Brown, bright, almost golden under the night sky.

“Luna,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

He grinned. “Luna. Like the moon. Figures.”

“And you?” I asked quietly.

“Elior,” he said. “Means ‘my God is my light.’ But honestly, I think it’s ironic.”

I stared at him. “You’re weird.”

“I get that a lot.”

Silence stretched between us. The wind carried the scent of rain. I looked down again, the dark water calling me, but somehow it felt harder now — like he had broken the rhythm of my thoughts.

“Why are you here?” I asked finally.

He smiled faintly. “Same reason as you. I was thinking about endings.”

I frowned. “You don’t look like someone who’d want to die.”

He chuckled, bitterly this time. “That’s funny, because I don’t want to. I actually want to live more than anyone.”

I turned to him, confused. “Then why—”

“I have cancer,” he said, cutting me off, his tone soft but steady. “Stage four. They said I have about a year, maybe less. Depends on luck, I guess.”

My heart dropped. I didn’t know what to say.

He looked at the water and smiled again — the saddest smile I’d ever seen. “So yeah, I came here to remind myself that I’m not afraid yet. I don’t want to jump. I want to live. Every damn second. But I figured, if someone else doesn’t want their life anymore…” He turned to me, eyes glinting. “Maybe I could borrow it.”

“Borrow it?” I repeated, stunned.

“Yeah. You live, but you do the things I wish I could. You breathe for me, laugh for me, travel, mess up, fall in love — all the stupid things people take for granted. Sounds like a fair deal, doesn’t it?”

Something inside me cracked. I’d spent years wanting to vanish, and now someone who was vanishing was asking me to live.

I looked at him again, searching for a trace of mockery, but there was none. Just truth. Just warmth.

“You’re insane,” I whispered.

“Maybe,” he said, smiling wider. “But I think I just saved you.”

The rain began to fall then — small drops that landed softly on our faces. He looked up and spread his arms, letting it soak his hoodie.

“I love the rain,” he said. “It reminds me I’m still here.”

Without realizing it, I stepped down from the railing. The cold pavement under my shoes felt heavier than before, but also… real.

Elior noticed and gave a quiet laugh. “Guess that’s a start.”

I crossed my arms, trying to hide the shaking in my hands. “You’re not going to tell anyone about this, are you?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Your secret’s safe. But only if you promise to meet me here again tomorrow. Same time.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m adding something new to my bucket list,” he said. “Teach someone how to want to live again.”

For the first time in months, I didn’t know what to say.

He waved, backing away slowly. “Goodnight, Luna. Don’t die tonight, okay? I’d be pretty disappointed.”

And just like that, he walked off into the rain — that boy who smiled at death like it was just another passing stranger.

I stood there for a long time after he was gone, my heart pounding for reasons I couldn’t explain.

Maybe it was guilt.

Maybe it was confusion.

Or maybe — just maybe — it was the first sign that I didn’t really want to die after all.

(Elior’s POV)

I’ve always liked the night.

It hides the things people don’t want to see — the scars, the tubes, the pale faces that doctors call “miracles” just because they’re still breathing.

I don’t feel like a miracle.

I feel like a countdown.

Every morning I wake up, I check if I can still stand, if my lungs can still pull in air without burning. I smile at my reflection, even when I look like I’ve been fighting a war inside my own body — because if I stop smiling, I’ll remember that I’m dying.

And I don’t want to remember. Not yet.

So I go out. I wander. I do the things normal people waste time avoiding — stare at sunsets, talk to strangers, laugh too loud in public, and eat disgusting amounts of ice cream.

But that night, on the bridge, I found something… different.

A girl who wasn’t fighting to live — she was fighting to end it.

I don’t know what made me speak to her. Maybe it was the way her body leaned forward like she’d already made peace with the fall. Maybe it was because I saw myself there — not the dying me, but the version of me before I learned how to appreciate life.

Or maybe, if I’m honest, I was just lonely.

When she told me her name — Luna — I thought, of course it is. She looked like the kind of girl who belonged to the moon: distant, beautiful, cold light over quiet sadness.

And for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about hospitals or test results or the next appointment. I was thinking about her.

She didn’t look surprised when I told her about my cancer. Most people panic, apologize, or change the topic. But she just looked at me like she understood what it felt like to be tired — not physically, but soul-deep tired.

When she stepped down from the railing, I felt something shift.

Like maybe I’d done something right, even for just one night.

Now, here I am again, the next evening, standing on that same bridge, waiting.

Maybe she won’t come. Maybe she’s already gone.

But I still came. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned since the diagnosis, it’s this: never waste a second of maybe.

The sky is painted orange and purple, the kind of sunset that makes even pain look poetic. I lean against the railing, feeling the cool metal under my palms, and smile at the thought of her expression last night — the disbelief, the quiet anger, the way her voice trembled when she said, “You’re insane.”

Yeah, maybe I am.

But at least insanity keeps me alive.

“Waiting for someone?” a quiet voice says behind me.

I turn, and there she is.

Luna. Wearing the same black jacket, her hair tied messily, eyes downcast like she’s not sure if coming back was a mistake.

I grin. “Took you long enough.”

“I wasn’t planning to come,” she mutters.

“But you did.” I tilt my head. “That’s a start.”

She walks closer, hesitating before standing beside me. The silence that follows isn’t awkward — it’s… heavy. Real. Like both of us are holding pieces of something fragile we don’t want to break.

“So,” I say, glancing at her, “did you survive the night?”

She glares at me. “That’s not funny.”

I laugh anyway. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Her shoulders relax a little. She looks down at the river, her reflection shimmering like smoke. “You really don’t care that you’re dying, do you?”

“Of course I care,” I answer softly. “That’s why I’m living so hard.”

She looks at me, confusion in her eyes. “How can you sound so okay about it?”

“I’m not,” I admit. “Some days I’m terrified. Some days I want to scream, throw things, ask the universe why it picked me. But then I remember — I still have today. And that’s more than a lot of people get.”

She stays quiet. The wind plays with her hair.

“You said something last night,” she says finally. “About borrowing my life.”

I smile. “You remember that?”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?” she asks, crossing her arms.

“I don’t,” I say, looking back at the water. “You do. I just want to help you see what’s worth keeping.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “You really think someone like me can learn that?”

“Someone like you?” I raise a brow. “What does that mean?”

She hesitates, then whispers, “Someone who’s already given up.”

I shake my head. “You’re talking to the guy whose body’s giving up every day. If I can still laugh, you can at least try.”

She doesn’t reply, but I see something flicker in her eyes — something small, like a spark under all that ash.

I take a deep breath and smile. “Let’s make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Yeah.” I hold out my hand. “You meet me every evening. No skipping, no excuses. Each night, we’ll do one thing from my list.”

“Your list?”

“My bucket list,” I say proudly. “Things I want to do before…” I pause. “Before I can’t.”

She stares at my hand like it’s dangerous. “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll keep coming here until you say yes.”

Her lips twitch, almost forming a smile — almost. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But I’m dying, so I get a free pass.”

She rolls her eyes, but her hand moves. Slowly, she takes mine. Her skin is cold, fragile, but real.

“Fine,” she says softly. “Just don’t make me do anything stupid.”

I grin. “Luna, everything worth doing is at least a little stupid.”

She laughs — barely, but it’s there.

A sound so small, yet it echoes louder than the river below.

And in that moment, I know I’m not the only one who’s trying to survive something invisible.

---

Later, as we walk away from the bridge, she asks, “What’s first on your list?”

I glance up at the stars just beginning to appear. “Number one,” I say, smiling, “watch the sunrise with someone who still doesn’t believe in tomorrow.”

She doesn’t answer, but I see the corner of her mouth lift — just enough to tell me that maybe, just maybe, she’ll show up again when the sun rises.

Elior’s POV

The hospital smells like bleach and fear.

I’ve been here so often that the nurses know my favorite drink, the doctor calls me “kiddo,” and the receptionist waves like we’re old friends. I smile back every time — mostly because it’s easier than letting them see how tired I am.

Dr. Navarro flips through my file, his brows furrowed. “Your blood counts are dropping again, Elior. You’ve been pushing yourself too much.”

I shrug. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He sighs. “You need rest.”

Rest. The one word I hate more than terminal.

Rest means staying still. It means waiting. It means dying quietly.

And I don’t plan to die quietly.

“I can rest when I’m gone,” I joke.

The doctor doesn’t laugh. He never does.

After the check-up, I sit by the window in the waiting area, staring at the sunlight painting gold over the glass. My phone vibrates — a text from an unknown number.

> Unknown: I came.

Unknown: The sunrise was okay.

Unknown: Don’t get too proud.

I smile instantly.

Luna.

Last night, she said she didn’t know if she’d show up. But she did. She actually came to watch the sunrise.

I reply:

> Me: Okay? Just okay? You’re breaking my heart.

Luna: It was too bright.

Me: That’s the point of the sun, Luna.

Luna: You’re annoying.

Me: And you texted me first.

She doesn’t reply after that, but it’s enough.

That one simple exchange makes the hospital feel less like a cage and more like a pause.

I spend the afternoon painting — badly. My room’s full of messy canvases: sunsets, oceans, faces I can’t quite finish. Lately, they’ve all started to look like her.

Luna Reyes, the girl who once wanted to die but now watches the sunrise because a dying boy asked her to.

It’s funny how life works. I’m running out of time, and she’s learning to use hers.

Maybe that’s the deal we didn’t say out loud — I teach her to live, and she teaches me to hope.

---

Luna’s POV

The sound of my mother yelling is the first thing I hear when I wake up.

It’s not new. It’s just… routine.

“Luna! Did you forget to wash the dishes again?”

I stare at the ceiling, the same crack I’ve been counting for years splitting across the paint. I could answer. I could apologize. But I don’t.

Silence is safer.

When she storms into my room, I sit up slowly, expression blank. She keeps shouting, words sharp and familiar — worthless, lazy, useless.

I’ve heard them all before. They don’t cut anymore. They just bruise quietly.

When she leaves, slamming the door, I sit there for a moment — then check my phone.

One unread message.

> Elior: You still owe me a smile today.

I almost laugh.

It’s ridiculous — a message that simple making my chest feel a little lighter.

At school, people still whisper. They always have. I’ve learned to move through hallways like a ghost, unseen and unheard.

But today, something small changes.

When I sit by the window, I look outside — and for a second, the sky looks different. Brighter. Not because it changed, but because I’m starting to notice it again.

It’s weird how someone I barely know can do that.

Elior, with his messy hair and terrible jokes.

Elior, who’s dying but talks about life like it’s a miracle.

I think about the way he smiled last night when the sun came up — like he’d been waiting for it his whole life. I’d been too busy squinting from the light, but he looked… peaceful.

Later that night, I go to the bridge again.

He’s already there, leaning against the railing with two cups of instant noodles.

“You’re late,” he says. “I was about to eat both.”

I raise a brow. “You texted me just to make me walk here for noodles?”

“Correction,” he says, handing me one. “For sunset noodles. It’s on the list.”

I can’t help it — I laugh. Just a little.

He grins like it’s the best sound he’s heard all day.

We eat in silence, watching the sun melt into the river. The sky burns orange, then fades into purple.

“Pretty, right?” he says.

I nod. “Yeah. It is.”

He doesn’t talk after that. He just watches the sky like it’s something sacred.

And I realize — he’s not afraid of dying. He’s afraid of leaving before he finishes feeling everything.

When I walk home later, my mother’s voice doesn’t sting as much.

The darkness in my room doesn’t feel as heavy.

I think of Elior’s bucket list — the way he said it like a promise to himself.

Maybe I can make one too.

Not for dying.

For staying.

---

That night, before I sleep, I text him first.

> Luna: What’s next on your list?

A few seconds later, his reply comes.

> Elior: Teach you how to laugh until your stomach hurts.

For the first time in years, I smile — really smile.