The next few days passed like falling leaves—slow, then all at once.
Leyah stayed in the hospital. Her strength faded more with each morning, like someone dimming the light from within. But every time Harvey visited, she smiled.
Not out of denial.
But because she was choosing how her story would end.
---
They finished number seven in her room.
7. Write a letter to the future.
She wrote slowly, fingers trembling slightly, the words pouring from her like a river that had always known its course.
When she was done, she sealed it, labeled it:
To the person I used to be afraid to be.
She handed it to Harvey. "Keep it for me."
"I will."
---
Number eight took more work.
8. Apologize to Dad.
Her father arrived that weekend. A quiet man, tired and aging, who had spent more time running from grief than facing it.
Harvey gave them space.
Leyah told him she was sorry for shutting him out.
He cried harder than she'd ever seen him cry. Not because of the apology.
But because she was forgiving him without asking for anything in return.
---
That night, Harvey found her staring at the moon through the hospital window.
"It's so slow," she said.
"What is?"
"The moon. It doesn't rush, even when the night is ending."
He sat beside her. "Maybe it knows there's no need to hurry."
She leaned her head on his shoulder again.
"I'm scared, Harvey."
"I know."
"But I'm glad I met you again. Even if it's just for one last summer."
---
She tapped number nine with her nail.
9. Make someone fall in love with me.
She turned to him, half a smile on her lips. "Did I?"
He looked at her, throat tight, eyes burning.
"You didn't have to try."
She checked it off with a soft laugh and wrote:
—He didn't run when he could have. He stayed.
---
That left only one more.
10. Watch the sunrise with someone I love.