Chapter 55– Letters That Reached Too Late and Right on Time
The Fernandez mansion was asleep.
Or pretending to be.
Lights were off.
Hallways quiet.
Even chaos had finally gotten tired.
JJ sat alone near the window in her room, wrapped in Keifer's hoodie.
The oversized sleeves covered half her hands.
The smell of him still lingered faintly in the fabric.
And somehow—
that made everything harder tonight.
---
Her body still felt weak after the hospital incident.
Her head hurt slightly.
The dizziness hadn't completely stopped.
But none of that mattered the moment she noticed something near her desk.
Two envelopes.
India.
Her breath caught instantly.
---
The Letters
Her fingers trembled slightly while opening them.
Not because she was weak.
Because these letters—
these people—
were the only ones who knew her before she became "the dying girl."
Before hospitals.
Before pity.
Before fear.
---
The first envelope had Lyra's handwriting.
Messy.
Dramatic.
Very Lyra.
JJ smiled faintly before unfolding it.
And then she started reading.
---
"JJ,
First of all—how dare you.
You absolute idiot. You terrifying, stubborn, emotionally constipated little creature.
Do you know Care cried after reading your last letter? CARE. The same woman who once stared at a professor until HE apologized for existing.
You traumatized us both.
Congratulations.
Now listen carefully before I fly to Manila personally and slap you with a sandal.
You are NOT allowed to give up yet.
I started researching after your letter. Alex helped too—even though he pretends he was "just passing by" when he literally sat beside me for four hours reading medical journals like some secretly caring loser.
We found things, JJ.
Ancient treatment methods in India. Spiritual healing lines. Experimental therapies mixed with old neurological practices.
No guaranteed cure. No promises.
But cases exist.
Tiny miracles exist.
And if there is even one chance—ONE—we are dragging you here if necessary.
Also before you ask: yes, Alex is still in denial mode.
This idiot almost fought someone because they called me his girlfriend and then five minutes later got jealous because another guy held my umbrella.
Men are exhausting.
Care is worse.
Cole recently returned from abroad after handling legal matters for his family. They are fighting again daily on calls like divorced parents in love. Yesterday she threw a pillow at the phone because he called her "cute."
You would have laughed.
Actually no—you WOULD laugh because your evil soul enjoys suffering.
And JJ…
I'm scared.
There. I admitted it.
You're one of my people.
So don't disappear quietly.
Please.
I attached my phone number below because letters suddenly feel too slow for something this terrifying.
Call me whenever things get heavy. Even at 3AM. I'll answer.
And if I don't, Alex probably kidnapped my phone because he's dramatic.
I love you, idiot.
— Lyra"
---
JJ laughed softly at first.
Then suddenly covered her mouth because tears had already started falling.
Not loud crying.
The dangerous kind.
Silent.
---
She looked down.
At the phone number written hurriedly below.
Real.
Reachable.
Not just paper anymore.
---
Then she opened Care's letter.
Unlike Lyra's chaos—
Care's handwriting was neat.
Sharp.
Controlled.
But somehow the letter hurt more.
---
"JJ,
I rewrote this letter six times.
Every version sounded wrong.
Nothing feels correct after knowing someone you care about is running out of time.
I was angry first.
Then I realized anger only happens when fear becomes too big to carry properly.
So now I will say this clearly:
You are not facing this alone anymore.
Understand?
I mean it.
I researched every medical lead I could find. Cole helped too after he returned.
There are ancient neurological treatments here in India rarely discussed outside specific circles. Some are spiritual, some medical, some experimental combinations of both.
Most people dismiss them.
But some survived longer than expected.
Some improved.
And right now, "impossible" is not a word I'm willing to accept for you.
So listen carefully:
If things worsen there—come here.
No pride. No arguments. No stubborn independence.
Come to us.
We will figure it out together.
A strange thing happened after your letter.
Cole stopped arguing with me for one entire day.
Do you understand how terrifying that is?
I actually checked if he had a fever.
Then yesterday he annoyed me again, so balance has returned to the universe.
He said something I hated because it was true.
He said: "People who are loved that deeply don't disappear easily."
I wanted to disagree.
I couldn't.
And JJ…
I know you.
You are already planning how to leave without hurting everyone.
Don't.
That kind of disappearing destroys people more.
Stay angry. Stay loud. Stay difficult.
Stay.
My number is below.
Use it.
— Care"
---
By the end of the second letter—
JJ couldn't breathe properly anymore.
Not from illness.
Emotion.
Too much of it.
Her hands shook while holding the pages.
Because for the first time since diagnosis—
someone had given her something dangerous.
Hope.
---
And hope was terrifying.
Because hope meant imagining survival.
Imagining future.
Imagining staying.
Imagining Keifer smiling without fear again.
Percy becoming loud again.
Cin annoying her forever.
Aries relaxing.
Everyone breathing normally.
---
But another part of her—
the realistic part—
already knew what CJD usually becomes.
And that part whispered quietly:
Don't dream too much.
---
JJ looked at the numbers written at the bottom of both letters.
Then slowly hugged the papers against her chest.
And finally—
completely alone in her room—
she cried properly.
Not because she was dying.
But because for the first time in months—
she wanted desperately to live.