I cried until my body felt empty, like every tear had drained something vital out of me. The sobs came in ugly, heaving waves—raw, ugly sounds I couldn't control. I hadn't cried like this since the first time the doctor said "one month," maybe not even then. Back then the shock had numbed me. This was different. This was grief for something I'd never had: the chance to feel wanted, touched, alive in my own skin before it all ended. And now even that had been taken away, three times over.
I curled into the corner of the couch, a soft caramel dress twisted around my legs, arms wrapped so tight around myself I could feel my ribs. The fairy lights blurred through tears into little halos of mockery. I felt like the embodiment of bad luck—pain personified, a walking shadow that ruined everything it brushed against. Eliot ran. Anderson ran.
My chest hurt—not just the tumor, but something deeper, sharper, like every rejection had carved another crack into whatever was left of me. I felt cursed. Ill-fated. A walking storm of bad luck The hope of one intimate moment felt like another cruel joke the universe was playing on me.
What was wrong with me? Why did my sickness make people flinch away from the most basic human thing?
But the girls did not stop. They were relentless, their determination fueled by a mix of love and desperation to give me this one experience before it was too late. No matter how much I pleaded for them to let it go, they kept pushing forward, convinced that they were doing the right thing for me.
"I want to go back to the hospital," I choked out between sobs. "Please. Just take me back. The walls there… that's all I have in this lifetime."
Isabella dropped to her knees in front of me so fast her knees hit the floor with a thud. She grabbed my hands, squeezing hard. "No. Blossom, no. Those lonely walls will hurt you more. You'll sit there staring at beeping machines. We're not letting you disappear into that place again."
Ayla crouched beside her, voice low and fierce. "We still have Liam. We'll go to his house right now. We'll beg if we have to. He's different. He's soft. He cares about you. He won't run like the others."
"Yes, yes," Camila said, already standing, keys jingling in her hand. "He's the last one. He's sweet. He'll say yes."
"No," I whispered, shaking my head so violently the room tilted. "Please don't. Don't beg anyone else for me. Atleast not for having sex, it feels disgusting just from hearing about it.
Besides, I can't—I can't take another rejection. I can't watch someone else look at me like I'm something to pity, something to be afraid of. Please."
But they weren't hearing me anymore. Their eyes had that same determined fire they'd worn when they first planned the dates, when they'd wheeled me out for fresh air, when they'd decorated the apartment like it was a celebration instead of a last wish.
Aveline squeezed my shoulder—gentle, steady. "We're doing this because we love you. Because you deserve what we can too. We'll be back soon."
They left. The apartment went quiet except for my ragged breathing and the soft drip of tears hitting the couch cushion.
I cried until my eyes swelled shut and my throat felt scraped raw. Time blurred. I didn't know how long they were gone—maybe two hours, maybe four.
After reaching Liam's house, the girls started convincing him, pouring out the details of my situation.
They were all trying whole heartedly to make him have sex with me, to help me lose my virginity in the little time I had left.
Liam was 19, a music guy—playful, shy but fun type, the kind of person who could light up a room with his easygoing charm when he wasn't hiding behind his guitar.
He handled the cancer details well initially, being a caring and sympathizing guy. He listened with genuine empathy as they explained my advanced cardiac angiosarcoma. About the tumor that coiled around the heart, already metastasized to the lungs. The prognosis of only one month to live, and how any stress could trigger a heavy stroke. His face softened with concern, and he nodded along, showing that he truly felt for me.
But when they got to the part about sex, everything changed.
The guy himself was so worried, nervous, and scared. He was still a virgin, young adult, still new to adulthood and inexperienced himself, never having been in a situation like this.
And now he is supposed to have sex with a girl who has advanced cardiac angiosarcoma, who was going to die soon, who was definitely also a virgin.
His cheeks flushed, and he shifted uncomfortably, his playful nature giving way to sheer anxiety. He stammered questions, trying to wrap his head around it, but the weight of it all pressed down on him.
Under so much pleading from the girls, though—their insistent voices, their teary eyes, their promises that it would mean the world to me—he finally agreed.
"Okay," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm ready to be gentle and follow her lead for intimacy."
He tried to sound reassuring, but there was a tremor in his words that betrayed his fear.
And the girls were very happy, beaming with relief as if they'd just won a major victory. They practically dragged him back to me, their faces lit up with triumphant smiles.
When I saw the main door open,
Isabella practically bounced on her toes. "He said yes, Blossom. He's ready. He's right outside in the hallway."
The other girls stepped inside.
Liam stepped in behind them. He looked smaller than before—shoulders hunched inside his oversized hoodie, hands buried deep in the pockets, hair falling over his eyes like a curtain. When he lifted his head to meet my gaze, his smile was thin, forced, trembling at the edges. He tried to hide it by ducking his chin again almost immediately, but I saw it: the discomfort, the unease, the way his whole body screamed that he wanted to be anywhere else.
I thought that too—it was clearly too much for him. Maybe he felt pressured because of me, pressured about doing something wrong and ruining what little time I had left. And probably thinking that I'd be dead, after a month he fucks me, adding this morbid layer to the whole thing that made it impossible to ignore.
The girls ushered us into the bedroom like we were fragile artifacts. The fairy lights were still glowing, the bed made with fresh white sheets, the little bedside table stocked exactly like before: a neat row of condoms, a bottle of lube, a glass of water, my pill organizer, even a clean towel folded in perfect thirds. Liam's eyes flicked toward it once—quick, panicked—and then skittered away so fast you'd think it had burned him.
The door closed with a soft, final click.
We stood there. Me near the foot of the bed, him closer to the door. The silence was so thick it pressed against my eardrums.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I… I'm really nervous," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "I've never… done this. With anyone."
"Me neither," I managed, staring at the carpet so hard I could count the threads.
More silence. Neither of us moved. Minutes dragged on. We were wasting time—both too terrified to start, both waiting for the other to make the impossible first move.
Outside the door I could picture the girls—ears glued to the wood, holding their breath, waiting for some sound that meant everything was okay.
He tried to come close, taking hesitant steps toward me, but his nervousness was palpable, maybe even more than mine. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and he kept swallowing hard, like he was fighting an internal battle.
I wasn't a girl who would make the first move; it was impossible for me, my shyness and inexperience holding me back completely. So we wasted a lot of time doing nothing, just standing there in silence, the minutes stretching out eternally.
Finally Liam took one hesitant step closer. His hand lifted—slow, trembling—then gently, barely, brushed my cheek. He leaned in and pressed the lightest kiss there. My face flushed hot. It felt sweet. Careful. Safe.
Then he tried for my lips.
It was awkward—noses bumping, mouths not quite aligning. I My lips froze; I had no idea what to do with them. His lips were warm but trembling.
During the awkward kiss, I noticed he barely touched me with his hands—they hovered uncertainly, as if he was afraid to make contact.
When we pulled apart, a thin string of saliva connected us for a horrible second before it broke. I wiped my mouth instinctively, mortified. He looked just as embarrassed, cheeks flaming.
He swallowed hard. Fingers shaking, he started unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric parted slowly, revealing a slim, nervous chest that rose and fell too fast.
He seemed to want to touch my breast next, his eyes flicking there briefly, but I could see his hands trembling like my heart did, pounding erratically in my chest.
Overwhelmed, he decided to do something he thought was safer— he went for his pants. Belt buckle clinked. Zipper rasped down. He pulled his pants down slowly.
The suddenness of it caught me off guard; I was really shocked and shy to see a boy just pulling his pants down in front of me like that, exposing himself in this vulnerable way.
Then, nervously, he pulled down his boxer, and I was shocked to see a real dick in front of me for the first time.
A real penis—long enough, but completely soft, hanging limp between his legs. No hardness. No sign of arousal. Nothing. No sign of want.
A wave of panic washed over me—I couldn't tell why exactly, maybe the reality of it all hitting me at once, or the intimacy feeling too raw and exposed.
He wrapped his hand around it, started stroking—slow at first, then faster, harder. Eyes squeezed shut. Jaw clenched. Desperate.
"Get ready," he muttered, voice tight and strained. "I'm trying."
I felt sick. Guilty. This wasn't desire. This was pressure. Fear. Obligation. I could see it in every tense line of his body—the way his shoulders hunched, the way his breathing came too fast, the way his hand moved mechanically instead of hungrily.
Still, I reached under my fluffy skirt, hooked my fingers in my panties, and slid them down my thighs.
Maybe this was what he was asking for. He wanted to complete it anyways.
Liam kept palming himself, trying desperately to get hard. His face was flushed with effort and frustration, his breaths coming in short gasps.
I felt really awkward and kinda guilty, thinking I'm making him do all this forcefully when he possibly doesn't want it. The room felt suffocating with our shared discomfort.
He was feeling all this pressure—his first time with a dying virgin girl who had only one month to live, with cancer related to her heart that could cause her a heavy stroke anytime. He felt pressured, worried, scared, and overwhelmed by empathy towards me, everything except actual desire. The sympathy was there from the start, but it drowned out any chance of arousal.
I watched his face—brows knit, lips pressed thin. No pleasure. Just strain. Panic.
Minutes passed. His breathing grew ragged—not from excitement, but from fear.
Finally he stopped. Hand fell away. Head bowed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I can't. I want to—I really do—but I'm so fucking scared. Scared I'll hurt you. Scared your heart will give out right there. Scared I'll be the reason. And… I've never done this. I'm a virgin too. Everything—the cancer, the one month left, the fact that you're dying—it's too much. I feel sick with worry. Empathy. Guilt. Pressure. Everything except… want. I'm so sorry."
I felt guilty and undesired, like I was the root of the problem, my condition making me unappealing in every way.
Tears burned my eyes. "I'm sorry for troubling you ," I said, voice small, it's all my fault. "
Liam was embarrassed, his face red as he tried to reassure me, stammering, "It's not your fault. Really, it's me."
But I knew this wasn't right. The whole thing felt tainted, forced. I asked him to get dressed, my voice soft but firm, wanting to end the misery for both of us.
He wore his clothes quickly, buttoning up with still-trembling hands.
He tried to console me further, reaching out hesitantly, but I shook my head and said, "Thanks for your kindness for coming to have sex with a dying girl." The words tasted bitter, highlighting the pity rather than passion.
He felt somewhat sympathetic like he had been feeling from the beginning, not desires—just a deep well of compassion that couldn't bridge the gap to intimacy.
When he opened the door the girls were right there, clustered like anxious birds.
"What happened?" Camila demanded.
Liam looked at the floor. "She… she doesn't want it."
"What?!"
They rushed in. Liam slipped past them and left without looking back.
I sat on the edge of the bed, skirt still hiked, panties forgotten on the floor, tears sliding silently down my cheeks.
Isabella dropped beside me first. "Blossom, what—"
"He couldn't," I whispered. "Because of me. Because I'm sick. Because I'm dying. He felt sorry for me. Not attracted. It's my fault."
"No," Ayla said immediately, fierce and protective. "It was his nerves. His pressure. His fear. Not you."
Camila hugged me from the other side. "We'll try again. We'll—"
"No." My voice cracked. "Please. No more."
Aveline knelt in front of me, gentle. "This isn't on you. You're not undesirable. You're beautiful. You're wanted. He just… couldn't handle the weight of it all. That's his failure, not yours."
Isabella stroked my hair. "We'll find another way. We won't stop until you get what you deserve. This was his problem, Blossom. Don't punish yourself thinking it's yours."
But I knew.
Deep down, in the hollow place where hope used to live, I knew.
The problem was me.
Always me.
The countdown was all I could hear now.