I had cancer. And Carl—my boyfriend of seven years—ditched me at the hospital to play fake boyfriend for his so-called best friend, just so she could dodge her parents' marriage pressure.
When the results came in, I broke down. Clutching the report, I sobbed as I called him.
"Carl, I... I..." My voice cracked.
I didn't even know how to say it.
I thought he'd comfort me. Instead, his voice came sharp through the phone.
"Can you not? Mia's just a friend. What's so wrong about me helping her?—do you have to be so dramatic? I already promised to marry you this month. What more do you want?"
"Yara, just let Carl pretend to be my boyfriend, okay? Do me this favor. You're so beautiful, understanding, and kind—you wouldn't say no, right?"
My skin was clammy, cold sweat dripping down my back from the pain. I didn't even have the energy to lift my head, let alone respond to Mia Drake.
She must've been gloating. Carl always chose her over me. Every. Single. Time. In this twisted love triangle, I'd already lost.
"Yara, I'm just helping Mia this once. Her mom's on her case. Just stay put, finish your checkup. Call me when you get the results."
Carl acted like he couldn't see my pain, his tone carrying a hint of impatience.
"Okay." Sitting outside the exam room, I ducked my head, forcing out the word. My throat burned, but I swallowed the sob clawing its way up. I would not cry. Too bad my tears had other plans, slipping down, darkening my pant leg.
My blind eye throbbed.
As they turned to leave, Mia's voice carried back to me.
"Carl, you don't think Yara's faking it just to get your attention, do you? Why doesn't she trust me? We're best buddies! If I had to pick someone, it definitely wouldn't be you."
"Enough already. You want my help or not?"
Their laughter hit like a slap, sharp and merciless. My heart twisted, tight and aching.
The long wait was over.
My hands shook as I gripped the diagnosis report.
'Late-stage breast cancer.' The words echoed in my head, cracking something deep inside me.
I lost it. Right there in the hospital lobby, I broke down, sobbing so hard my whole body trembled.
With shaking fingers, I dug my phone out of my bag and called Carl.
"Carl, I... I..."
My voice wavered. How was I supposed to say the words that decided my fate?
"Be good, Yara. I'm talking to Mia's parents right now. Just text me the results."
Click.
A sharp pain knifed through my chest. I froze, then redialed.
I had no one else. I needed him. Needed his voice, his warmth—something to hold onto before the fear swallowed me whole.
This time, he sighed, already annoyed.
"Can you not? Mia's just a friend. What's so wrong about me helping her? I already promised to marry you—what more do you want?"
I stood there, listening as he scolded me. Then—another click.
Breathing hurt. The weight of strangers' stares pressed in on me, suffocating.
I somehow made it back to our apartment. The empty space felt unbearable.
And finally, I broke. I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.
For the first time, I truly got it—tomorrow or an accident, you never know which will come first.
But maybe... dying wouldn't be so bad.
At least then, Carl wouldn't have to deal with me anymore.
When Carl called, my swollen eyes flicked to the time—almost eleven.
The phone buzzed in my hand, fresh tears splashing onto the screen.
Three calls. I didn't pick up.
Surprisingly, the fourth was from Mia.
I was about to shut off my phone when Carl's message popped up:
[Stop messing around. I'm not coming back tonight. Stay safe. Your condition isn't serious, right?]
A bitter laugh slipped out.
I replied: [Not serious at all. Have fun. I'm going to sleep.]
He sent a goodnight emoji. That was it.
When did we become like this?
We were both orphans, clinging to each other, trying to survive. I used to believe we'd get our fairy-tale ending.
Then Mia showed up.
She called herself a friend. But the way she looked at Carl? It was the way I did.
Did he really not see it?
At 1 AM, my screen lit up. A message from Mia.
[Sorry, Yara. My parents insisted Carl and I share a room. Hope you don't mind. Nothing happened, really.]
A photo followed.
Carl, asleep on a makeshift bed beside hers. His lips, though, had a faint trace of lipstick.
Mia always swore she didn't like him. But every move she made screamed otherwise—a clear challenge, a silent claim.
Back in high school, our duo became a trio.
Mia was loud, fearless, slipping into Carl's world like she belonged there. She did everything the guys did.
Carl studied sports. So did she.
And suddenly, he couldn't stop talking about her.
How loyal she was. How she wasn't like other girls.
They got detention together. Skipped class to hit internet cafés. Fought side by side.
Carl never ran out of things to say about her.
I'd ask, careful, hesitant, "Do you like her?"
He'd laugh—loud, dismissive—like I'd just told the dumbest joke.
When he finally stopped, he said, "Mia's just a tomboy. I'd never go for someone like her. The only one I like is—"
He never finished.
Just stared at me, eyes burning, unwavering.
My heart pounded.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her.
After that, Mia started dressing up.
And once she did—she was stunning.
That radiant smile... impossible to ignore.
I remembered her once telling another girl, casual, smug—
"If I went after Carl, he'd definitely fall for me. I mean, look at me. So much better than that half-blind girl next to him. But I won't rush. I'll let him come to me on his own."
