The Illusion of Tomorrow

Note: This story contains sensitive topics such as underage drinking and cancer. Explanations are not extreme, but as these are sensitive topics I advise you to be cautious. This story is emotional.

I’ve had my fair share of near-death experiences. Car crash, surgery gone wrong, you name it. My friends call it bad luck. I call it fate.

There’s a start to every story. Mine begins at the age of five. Cancer, they said. It’d be a miracle, they said. Yet here I stand, six months shy of my eighteenth birthday, laughing in the grim reaper’s face. Really, I should be more careful.

“Lucas! Your friends are here!”

A quick glance out the window confirms my mom’s observation. They’re all packed into Mac’s broken-down Honda, practically spilling out of the car like clowns. I grab my phone, give my appearance a once-over, and nearly face-plant down the stairs.

Come on, universe.

“Lucas, you need to be more careful.” My mom stands at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, her face a permanent map of worry. The lines around her eyes and mouth are etched deeper than they used to be.

“I’m cool, Mom.” I straighten up, flashing her my best cocky grin. “Fate isn’t taking me yet.”

She just shakes her head, like she’s used to my act. I’m not a stranger to my own mortality. Hell, I’ve been living with the grim reaper as my shadow for as long as I can remember. But my mom? She’s different. I’m her baby boy, the one she’s convinced will keep beating the odds. All will be well, she says.

“Bye, Mom.” I kiss her cheek and head for the door—tripping down the steps, of course.

“Lucas!”

“Sorry, sorry!”

I squeeze into the backseat, and the car immediately erupts into snickers. Quinn is barely holding it together, his lips pressed so tight they’re turning white. I narrow my eyes. “You have the coordination of a five-year-old,” he quips.

The entire car loses it. I roll my eyes but grin anyway. “Alright, alright. Let’s get to this damn party.”

Mac stomps on the gas, and the car lurches forward like it just got gut-punched. Did I mention the car sucked? I think I did.

- - - - -

The bass is so heavy it rattles my bones. Feels like my heart’s got its own damn speaker system. Everyone’s laughing, slinging red cups of beer to one another. A couple of jocks slap my back as I pass, like I just won another race. My cup’s already dry. Guess I was thirsty.

I ran in the cross-country marathon a few months ago—and won. Took first. Maybe I thought if I ran fast enough, I could outrun this too. Guess not.

The keg sputters, foamy liquid spewing from the tap. My mom’s face flashes in my mind for half a second—long enough to wonder what she’d think if she knew I was drinking. Not that it matters. I hug my beer closer, then chuck the cup in the trash as I push through the back door.

The night isn’t over yet.

Girls are shrieking, flinging their shirts aside as they cannonball into the pool. Mac and Benji are huddled with a clusterfuck of guys, talking about whatever guys talk about when they think no one’s listening.

And me? I have a damn good idea.

A throb hits my skull out of nowhere. A quick burst, sharp and sudden—then gone. It makes me pause for just a second, blinking fast. People start to notice.

“Dude! Fyler’s on the roof!”

Their voices float up, wind carrying them to me like a dare. I stand there, arms out, looking down at the party like some kind of god. I can see everything. I own this moment.

“Is he gonna jump?”

“Fyler! The pool!”

I glance down at the glistening water, hyper-aware of just how high up I am. Adrenaline floods my veins, sizzling like a live wire.

Some kids start chanting. Jump. Jump. Jump.

So I do.

I’m falling, falling—until I’m not. I slam into the water like a brick. It stings like a bitch, but it’s a good pain. I live for the good pain. And I’ll die from it, too. I break the surface, gulping down air. Silence. Then:

“I am fucking invincible!”

The crowd explodes into cheers. Mac leans over the pool’s edge, reaching for me. The moment my feet hit solid ground, the world tilts. A tunnel swallows my vision, narrowing everything. The ground shifts beneath me. No big deal. I’m just drunk.

Mac steers me toward a chair in the kitchen, shoving a water bottle into my hands. Always checking up on me. “Dude, maybe you shouldn’t push it too hard.”

I laugh, flashing my signature grin. “What’s life if you’re not tempting death?”

- - - - -

The ride home is quiet. The others are gone. It’s just us—me and Mac, the original two. My head rests against the window, the cool glass soothing the dull ache in my skull.

Mac lets out a sigh, long and slow. “You know you’re not actually invincible, right?” I don’t respond. He doesn’t stop. “I mean… what if it comes back?”

What if.

This moment—it reminds me of my 10th birthday. When I heard the word remission for the first time. When the doctors called it a miracle, and I thought that meant I was done.

“Lucas, honey… You’re not like those kids,” my mom said. “It’s different for you.”

“Yeah, but what if it’s not?” I shot back.

And for a little while, she let me believe it.

I open my eyes, turning to look at Mac. His brown eyes are almost black in the darkness.

“It was nice pretending,” I say.

- - - - -

The sun beats down on my back, my track clothes clinging to my shirt with sweat. Coach is yammering about how we have to crush Roosevelt next week, and I’m counting the bruises on my arms. How many have there been this week? (Three? Maybe four? Whatever. I probably got them from doing something cool.)

As the coach dismisses us to run laps, something drips down my nose. Huh. I swipe at my nose with my fingers—they come away red. Blood. Another drip trickles down my lip. It kind of tickles. I lean my head back a little, sniffing and subtly wiping at it with my shirt. Except—okay. Why is it still going?

Mac jogs up to me, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Dude, your nose.” He points.

I chuckle. It’s no big deal; people get nosebleeds all the time. I open my mouth to say something, but—woosh. My knees buckle, scraping against the track. The world tilts. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, loud, too loud. It’s all I can hear now. There's a high-pitched ring somewhere in the distance, like the sound of a bomb before it hits. What is that?

“Coach—he’s really pale—”

Next thing I know, I’m on my back, staring up at the sky. It’s a little too bright, and the world spins around the edges. Mac is standing over me, looking a lot less amused than he should be. His voice is muffled through the static in my brain, but I catch a couple of words: You collapsed.

I prop myself up on my elbows, trying to shake the fog from my mind. “Um. Okay, well that sucked.”

Mac smacks my arm, his eyes wide, but there’s no laughter in his face anymore. “You almost passed out!” Did I? Nah. “Pretty impressive, yeah?”

Coach shoots me a look, shoving his phone against his ear. I only catch bits and pieces of his words. Fyler... riverside... pre-existing condition... Wait. Is he seriously calling an ambulance?

I groan. “That is so overdramatic.”

“You passed out,” Mac snaps.

I squint up at him, the sunlight burning into my eyes. “Nah. Just... laid down really fast.” It’s only then that I realize—Mac isn’t laughing anymore. No one is. The quiet, serious look in his eyes makes something cold slide down my spine.

- - - - -

I hate hospitals. The white walls, the smell of antiseptic that sticks to the back of your throat. It’s a reminder of every fucking time I had to sit here and be that kid—the sick one. The one who couldn’t keep up. The one who had to wait while all the others lived. But I’m not him anymore. I’m not that person. Fate can’t have me. I beat it. I made damn sure of that. And yet, something about this room feels like it’s swallowing me whole.

My mom is pacing in a circle, like she’s trying to wear away the floor beneath her. She won’t stop moving. Won’t stop waiting for something to change. But it won’t. It can’t. I want to tell her not to cry, but the words feel stuck somewhere deep inside, where I can’t get to them. I won’t cry. I’m not that person anymore. Not for her. Not for anyone.

Sitting next to me, my dad looks like a goddamn statue. Not that he’s ever said much in these moments. Today, though, it seems so much worse. He’s made out of fucking concrete.

Mac sits by the window, eyes unblinking. He’s trying to keep from crying; I can see the tears welling in his eyes. I look away from him. I can’t keep looking at everyone, when they’re all looking at me like some sort of ghost.

I’m not that person anymore. I beat it. I beat it seven fucking years ago.

The door creaks open, but I don’t hear it. Not really. My brain is stuck in a loop, and I can’t escape it. I hear the doctor speak—“Lucas, we have some bad news”—but it doesn’t register. I can’t process it. I’m still fighting the words, telling myself they can’t be real. Not this. Not again. But it doesn’t stop. “Your cancer’s back.” I’m staring at her, but the words barely make sense. “It’s... it’s much more aggressive this time. There’s nothing we can do.”

Deep down, I knew this was going to happen. It never left, really. Fate was just biding its time. After what feels like forever, someone says something.

“How long does he have?” My mom asks, her voice small. It’s like she’s already given up. But didn’t I do that, too? “Months, at the most. The reality of it is, we’re just prolonging the inevitable. I’m sorry.”

My mouth feels dry. I want to say something sharp, something to make this all feel less real. Like maybe, it’s just some sick cosmic prank fate is playing on all of us. But I can’t. I know I can’t. The words are stuck in my throat, lodged with all the anger, fear, and pain I’ve been pushing down for years. The laugh that bubbles up isn’t real. It’s a hollow, broken sound.

“Guess I was never meant to win.”

- - - - -

I wish I could tell you it all gets better, but it doesn’t. This is it—no big speech, no last minute miracle. Just me, lying here, waiting for fate to do what it didn’t before: finish the job. The final beeps of the machine start to slow down, and I can feel the air get thinner, colder. But instead of fighting, I let go. There’s nothing left to do now. And I’m okay with that.