March 1st

January 11th. That’s the day my life split into “before” and “after.”

The MRI room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes your teeth want to chatter even if you’re not nervous. But I am. Dr. Vaheed sits across from me in the small consultation room, his hands folded like he’s trying to keep them from shaking. The scan images are still lit up on the monitor behind him, the black-and-white slices of my body that now mean something.

“It’s osteosarcoma,” he says.

Bone cancer.

I stared at the floor. I’m nineteen years old, quarterback for our local team, two offers from pro scouts already on the table. I can squat twice my body weight. I run drills until my lungs burn. I’ve never been sick a day in my life except for a stupid flu.

“How bad?” I ask, even though my gut already knows.

“We’ve found it in your right femur and there are metastases in your lungs.” His voice is steady, but can’t conceal the trace of regret. “We can discuss treatment—chemotherapy, radiation—but given the spread…” He pauses. “We’re looking at months, not years.”

Months.

I’ve heard the word “incurable” before, but it’s never been aimed at me. My first thought is football, how I’d never play again. Then my parents, who’d sit in the bleachers rain or shine. And then, out of nowhere, Joyce.

We’d gone to high school together. She was the girl everyone liked but didn’t really know. Smart, quiet but funny when she wanted to be. Long dark hair. Eyes that made you feel like she saw straight through you. I’d always noticed her, but I was the “sports guy” and she was in her own lane. We talked here and there, mostly in groups. After graduation, she went to college in Groveswood, and I stayed. I’ve never told her how I felt.

Now I can’t stop thinking about her.

The first week after the diagnosis, I try to wrap my head around the treatments Dr. Vaheed mentioned. Osteosarcoma this advanced usually starts with chemo to shrink the tumor, maybe surgery if it is still localized. But mine isn’t. The spots in my lungs mean surgery isn’t going to fix it. Even with aggressive chemo, survival is a coin toss. And that coin is tilted the wrong way.

I think about the side effects. Losing my hair, my muscle, the one thing my identity has always been tied to since I was twelve. For what? A few more painful months hooked up to IVs? I tell my parents I want to think about it. I’m not ready to tell them the truth, that I don’t want to die in a hospital bed.

By the second week, my focus has shifted. Every night, I lie in bed and think: What would I regret not doing? And every single time, the answer is the same—telling Joyce how I feel.

Not in a text. Not in some awkward DM after years of silence. In person.

Her birthday is coming. March 1st. “If I were impatient, I’d only celebrate once every four years.” I overheard she joked about it.

March 1st. I’ll make it my deadline. Tell her then. No chickening out.

The only problem is… I don’t have her number.

I ask around, message old teammates who might still be in touch with her. No luck. People from her circle have drifted off, just like I have. Then Sarah, Joyce’s childhood friend, comes to mind. She and I were lab partners once.

I hesitate before messaging her. How do you even start that?

Hey, weird question, do you still talk to Joyce?

She replies within minutes. Yeah, why?

Just wanna catch up with her. Maybe wish her a happy birthday.

There is a long pause. Long enough for me to think she’s figured out something’s wrong.

Then she sends it. A number. Just like that.

I stare at it for a full minute. My thumb hovers over the call button. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. But this isn’t the moment. I want to do it right. Make sure I can see her reaction, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles. So I save the number, close my phone, and wait.

February 10th. My leg aches all the time now. I used to ignore pain. Athletes are built to push through. But this isn’t the same. It’s deep, gnawing. Nights are the worst. I always wake up between 3 and 4 A.M., sweat cooling on my skin, the throb in my femur like a reminder ticking down.

Mom hovers more than usual. She thinks I’m still considering treatment. I catch her Googling “osteosarcoma survival rate” on her phone when she thinks I’m not looking. Dad stays quiet, like if he doesn’t talk about it, it isn’t real.

I start writing a letter to Joyce, just in case I can’t get the words out when I see her. It’s not fancy. Just honest. But every time I try to finish it, I rip it up. If I’m going to tell her, I want her looking right at me.

February 26th. I’ve been counting down for weeks. Every run I forced myself to finish despite the ache in my leg. Every time I caught myself short of breath walking up stairs, wondering how many more times I’d be able to do it.

Her birthday is in four days.

I sit on the edge of my bed, phone in my hand. The screen reflects my face back at me, thinner now, sharper around the jaw, dark circles under my eyes. The doctors have offered to start chemo anytime. I told them “after March.”

I take a deep breath and press her name.

“Hello?” My breath hitches when I hear her voice at the other end.

“Hey, Joyce. It’s me… Zach.”

Silent.

Then a sigh of relief escapes my lips as she finally replies, “Oh, hi! What’s up?”

I smile before I know it, imagining her cheerful expression as she tries not to be awkward.

“Not much. But you, on the other hand, your birthday is coming, isn’t it? Wanna meet up?”

Another silent.

“Sure,” she says at last.

That’s it. That’s all I want to hear.

March 1st, I will tell her everything.