"Heya everybody! Guess who's still alive? Me! And it's February 09, 2025! This is the day I can finally come home!"
I said it like I was announcing a flash sale, not a miracle.
I even made Rachel buy party poppers. Not one—three. I popped them myself, because if fate was going to take me out, it wasn't going to steal my confetti moment.
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
One of them shot straight into the backseat and scared the driver so badly he nearly invented a new traffic law on the spot.
I held my phone up in the car, filming the world rushing past the window like it was late for something important. Buildings. Trees. People walking dogs who clearly had no idea today was a historic event. I turned the camera toward Jessica.
She waved stiffly. "Don't zoom in on me. I didn't put on makeup."
"This is your makeup," I said solemnly. "Natural exhaustion. Very trendy."
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
When it was time to get off, my smile froze in place like an app that had crashed.
Because my legs didn't work anymore.
Jessica didn't say anything. She just moved, like she'd rehearsed this in her nightmares. She helped me into the wheelchair, adjusting the straps a little too carefully, like I might shatter if she breathed wrong.
Her eyes were shiny.
I hated that.
So I did the only logical thing.
"I challenge you to a race."
"What?"
"A race," I said. "Winner gets bragging rights and the last egg."
She opened her mouth to protest. I shoved the phone into her hands and wheeled myself forward.
I glanced back. "Come catch me! I've got four-wheel drive now. This thing is basically a luxury sports car."
"MAYA—"
Too late.
I zoomed down the sidewalk at a speed that was absolutely unsafe for someone whose bones had recently given up on life.
Rachel chased after me, half-laughing, half-panicking, holding the phone like a war correspondent.
I reached the rental apartment first.
Victory.
I shot her a dramatic glare. "My dear Rachel, if you're going to let me win, at least make it believable. 'Altitude sickness'? Seriously? You live on the third floor."
She was breathless when she reached me. She smiled—but didn't say a word.
That scared me more than anything else.
We didn't have much money left. Dinner was two bowls of pasta with eggs. No seasoning. No vegetables. Just carbs and hope.
We ate under the yellow lamp, knees almost touching, the room small enough that even silence felt crowded.
"Jessica," I said, twirling my fork, "do you remember the first time we met?"
She snorted. "Of course. You had snot running down your face. You were the messiest kid in the orphanage."
"That's all you remember?" I gasped. "What about how I heroically saved you?"
She laughed. "Saved me? Evan was crouching to pick something up. You screamed that he was lifting my skirt. Then you punched him. Then you cried. Then we all got punished with no dinner."
"I was brave," I muttered. "And misunderstood."
At the mention of Evan, my thoughts drifted, unfocused, like a radio losing signal.
Nineteen years.
That's how long we'd been side by side—sharing food, secrets, and the kind of silence only people who've survived together can sit in.
The clock clicked over to midnight.
Something inside me went very, very quiet.
I looked at Rachel for a long time, memorizing her face like I was studying for an exam I wouldn't get to retake.
"This year," I said softly, "marks twenty years since we met."
She nodded immediately. Too quickly. "Yes. And we'll have many more twenty years. You have to stay with me."
I smiled. "Okay."
It was a lie we both agreed to believe.
My eyelids grew heavy, like gravity had suddenly doubled. I leaned my head against her shoulder. It felt warm. Familiar. Safe.
"Rachel?" I murmured.
"Yes?"
"If I don't wake up… remember to delete the video where I screamed on the slide."
She laughed, but it broke halfway through.
"Also," I added, barely audible now, "don't let anyone say I wasn't happy. I was. I really was."
Her arms tightened around me.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, I wasn't afraid.