"Dr. Chen, do I need to avoid any foods for my illness?"
Ethan Cross's voice was tentative, almost pleading. His dark eyes carried a nervous anticipation as though he was bargaining with fate itself.
"I can stop eating hotpot, barbecue, milk tea, and cola," he added quickly, desperate to show he was willing to cooperate. "I'll even go to bed early, wake up early—no more staying up late."
Across from him sat Dr. Henry Chen, a man in his fifties with thinning hair and gold-rimmed glasses that reflected the sterile white light of the consultation room. Behind him hung a wall covered with commendation banners, tokens of gratitude from countless families he had helped. Those banners were supposed to represent hope and healing. Yet, for Ethan, they suddenly felt like silent witnesses of despair.
Dr. Chen leaned back slightly in his chair and sighed. "No," he said flatly. "Eat whatever you want."
The words landed like a thunderclap.
To Ethan, they weren't casual advice—they were a death sentence.
Deafening. Crushing. Irreversible.
His eyes dropped to the medical report Dr. Chen handed him. Lines of incomprehensible medical jargon swam before his eyes, but the meaning had already been summarized into eight devastating words:
Incurable disease. Beyond all remedy.
Ethan's lips trembled. "Dr. Chen… how much time do I have left?"
The physician removed his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose. His tone softened, but the truth remained merciless. "Three months at most. Try to look on the bright side, Ethan. Everyone has to face this day eventually."
Dr. Chen had been a doctor for decades. He had witnessed countless departures, seen families collapse in grief, and had trained himself to accept death as part of the profession. But when confronted with someone so young—an eighteen-year-old with his whole life ahead of him—his heart still ached.
For a moment, the silence in the consultation room seemed to stretch into eternity.
---
Ethan didn't remember leaving the hospital.
One moment he was sitting in that suffocating room, and the next he was wandering aimlessly down the crowded street, the diagnosis report crumpled in his sweaty hand. His mind was a blur, thoughts dissolving like mist.
He stumbled, knocking over several shared bicycles along the sidewalk. Passersby glanced at him, annoyed, but he didn't notice.
Eighteen years old.
The season of blooming peach blossoms should have been the start of his brightest years. Instead, his life was already ticking down like an hourglass.
Three months. Ninety days. Two thousand one hundred and sixty hours.
And Dr. Chen's "three months" might have been optimistic—it could be less.
In the blink of an eye, he would have to say goodbye to the world.
The thought clawed at his chest. Tears welled in his eyes and slid silently down his cheeks. He tried to suppress them, but grief overflowed, suffocating him.
His footsteps carried him past a wholesale market near the hospital. The air was filled with the sharp scent of cheap fabric and the loudspeaker's incessant chant:
"Loss-making clearance sale! Inventory liquidation! Everything must go!"
In the reflection of a shop window, Ethan caught sight of himself. The hospital gown still clung to his body, faintly stained with disinfectant. The sterile smell followed him like a curse.
He wanted it gone.
He wanted to rip away every trace of sickness clinging to him, as though doing so would slow down the footsteps of the Grim Reaper.
Self-deception? Probably. But it was all he had.
"Boss, how much for that shirt?" Ethan pointed at a ridiculous floral shirt hanging by the entrance.
It was a loud splash of colors—clashing reds, greens, yellows, and blues, like a palette overturned in a fit of chaos.
In the hospital, everything was pale, sterile, suffocating. Now, he craved color. Life. Anything but white walls and despair.
"Thirty yuan," the shopkeeper said, hesitating as he looked Ethan up and down. "But this style… doesn't really suit you."
Ethan pulled out the money without hesitation. "That's fine. I like it."
The moment he put on the shirt, he looked completely out of place—like a refined student who had accidentally stepped into a costume party. It was flamboyant, awkward, and utterly uncharacteristic of him.
But it was his rebellion.
---
Next, Ethan ducked into a bookstore. The scent of ink and paper calmed him somewhat. He ran his fingers along the spines of novels until he stopped at a complete five-volume set of Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils.
The books were heavy in his hands, their weight strangely reassuring.
On his way back, he passed a milk tea shop. Without thinking, he ordered the seasonal special: taro ball boba. The sweetness contrasted sharply with the bitterness in his chest.
By the time he returned to school, the bell had just rung for recess. Students filled the playground, their laughter echoing across the campus.
At the gate, however, the security guard frowned and stopped him.
Although uniforms weren't mandatory, the school forbade "strange" clothing. And Ethan, in his floral shirt, looked like a walking carnival.
Only after he flashed his student ID and showed a leave slip signed by his homeroom teacher did the guard reluctantly let him through.
The man muttered as Ethan walked past, "Kids these days, so unruly… what a sight."
Ethan's chest tightened at the words.
The guard didn't know. He didn't know that this "unruly student" had been top of the grade for two years straight. That he had been named a "Three Good Student" and "Outstanding Student Cadre" by the city.
None of that mattered anymore.
Three months later, all those accolades would scatter like dust.
---
When Ethan walked into Class 9, all conversation stopped.
Students turned, whispering.
"Oh my god, what's wrong with him? He actually dressed like that?"
"If the dean sees him, he's getting a three-thousand-word reflection essay, minimum."
"Didn't he take sick leave yesterday? He must be really ill!"
Ethan ignored the murmurs. He headed straight to his desk, took a deep breath, and placed the taro ball boba on the table in front of the girl sitting ahead of him.
"Lila, I'm sorry I stood you up yesterday," he said softly. "I bought you milk tea to apologize."
Lila Hart—his closest friend, the campus goddess.
Her phoenix-shaped eyes and porcelain skin made her the dream of countless boys. She had no shortage of admirers, but she had never shown interest in any of them. With Ethan, though, she was different. Gentle. Warm.
They had grown up sitting in front of and behind each other, sharing everyday moments, laughter, and the kind of quiet companionship that words could never fully capture.
Yesterday, she had asked him to see a movie with her. But instead of going, Ethan had been at the hospital receiving his death sentence.
"Why didn't you reply to my messages?" she asked, a hint of reproach in her voice.
Ethan pulled out his phone and winced. Dozens of unread notifications. Among them, three from her:
"Ethan, I heard from Ryan you took leave to go to the hospital."
"Are you okay? We can see the movie another time."
"If you don't reply, I'm not talking to you anymore!"
Beneath the playful scolding, her concern was clear.
Ethan's nose stung. He forced down the tears. "I'm fine, Lila. If you take a sip of milk tea, will you forgive me?"
She hesitated, then lifted the cup and sipped. The sweetness spread across her tongue. She raised her chin. "I was just thirsty. Don't think I've forgiven you yet."
Ethan smiled faintly, but it was strained.
Just then, Ryan Lee—a tall, thin boy with endless energy—strode into the classroom. He plopped down beside Ethan and stared.
"Son, what the hell are you wearing? You trying to get Old Zhang to kill you?"
Ryan and Ethan often jokingly called each other "father" and "son." Today, Ryan looked at his best friend in disbelief. Ethan Cross, the class monitor, model student, the one teachers trusted the most—was sitting there in a shirt loud enough to blind someone.
"Went to the hospital, felt like changing things up," Ethan muttered casually.
Ryan laughed, shaking his head. "Good taste, though. Throw in a big gold chain, and you'll be unstoppable."
Ethan slid the heavy set of novels onto Ryan's desk. "This is for you."
Ryan's eyes widened. He was a martial arts junkie, always sneaking wuxia books under his desk. Seeing the complete set, he practically glowed with joy.
"You're the best, son! Did you win the lottery or something?"
Ethan forced a grin. "Your birthday's in eight months, remember? Just… an early present."
Lila laughed at the exchange, her eyes sparkling. For a moment, the classroom felt warm again, filled with the simple joy of friendship.
Ethan, however, felt a wave of sorrow crash inside him.
I don't want to leave you two.
But the countdown had already begun.