The Girl Who Forgot How to Breathe

(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.

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