AN: I know. It's been a year. I left this piece completely unresolved, and that was never fair. I've received a lot of messages - most nice, but many very unkind - about the ending of this story.

I never thought this piece through, I just wrote. There was no planning. I was barely out of high school when I started this, I had no understanding of this disease beyond watching a classmate go through treatment for the better part of our grade 12 year. It was horrible to watch, and I began this story as a way to cope.

That being said, this got more fantastical the more I worked on it. I grew to hate it. Every idea I had felt stupid, and it just kept taking Sofia through these horrible circumstances over and over again. I don't want to believe that life is like that.

I come back to this a year later with a conclusion, pieced together from what I did like of what I created, and one I hope we all deserve from this life. We should never, ever give up, no matter the circumstances.

Thank you for taking this journey with me. Let's keep living.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The nightmares return with a vengeance. Darkened operating rooms, rusted scalpels, looks of fear on all the faces that I know and love. I whimper in my sleep, tossing and turning in my big, comfy bed. I still hear the scratch of plastic sheets, the beeps of machines, the itch beneath my skin of an IV. I wake up heaving more often than not, crying out for someone. Anyone.

Cory visits after a week, tugging at my hands limply in an effort to rouse me from my blankets. "Let's go cause trouble," she pleads. We used to borrow my momma's heelies, used to sneak into the morgue at the hospital, pretended we were paparazzi. Childish, all of it.

I don't know how I relate anymore.

"I love you, Cory," I swear, closing my eyes tighter. "I hope you know that."

"I love you, too," she whispers, giving in and climbing into the bed beside me. She curls around me, grasping my hands between us. "What's so scary?" she asks.

Everything.

"I thought it was supposed to be scarier in the hospital. With the cancer and the chemo and the surgeries..."

"Me too," I answer. "But that was what I had to do. I had to do all of that."

She shakes her head. "This is what you have to do. Living is what all of that was for. You have to live, Sofia. You have to."

I open my eyes slowly, shuffling my head backwards on the pillow so I can really look at her. Her bright green eyes are brimming with tears.

"I don't want to live without you," she murmurs.

That night, I wake up coughing, struggling for breath. It hurts deep inside me, ripping apart my chest in its fury. I gasp for air I can't seem to find, my head getting heavier with every second.

My momma rushes to my side, her voice soothing, but I can't seem to make out her face with the pressure behind my eyes. My room blurs, growing dark and twisting around me.

I cough even more, falling.

From reality.

From consciousness.

"Steroids!" someone yells, their voice faraway.

I don't want to be a body builder.

"Chest infection?"

Mami? Momma?

"Oh, Sofia," she whispered, stroking my face, "You look just like your mami."

"Why don't I look like you, Momma?" I asked, voice thick with the innocent sound of childhood.

"Well, Mami and Daddy got to make the outside of you, and I get to help make what's inside of you."

"Like love?"

"Yea, like love."

"That's what I feel when I look at you, Momma. Like someone's blowing bubbles in my chest. Is that you, inside me?"

"Always, baby girl."

I can hear my father yelling, somewhere far away. Past the hums of... a machine? The walls feel tight around me. Maybe a CT, taking pictures of my insides.

"A week... Didn't think?"

"...Not helping!"

"...You are?"

"Steroids... Lungs recover..."

"...Wake up?"

"Mami?" That tiny, little voice again. My voice, years ago.

"You're supposed to be sleeping, Baby, it's late." She sat down on the edge of my bed, adjusting my covers around me.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"Do you think about me, when you're fixing bones?"

"All the time."

"What do you think about?"

"Hmmm..." she thought for a moment. "Your beautiful, big brown eyes and how I love it when you smile. I think about whether you're being good or not. How much I love you, and how I can't wait to see you when I get home."

"I love you, Mami."

"How much?"

"As much as the sky."

"I love you as much as the universe, Sofia."

"Please, Sofia," someone whispers against my cheek, their breath warm. My hand is warm, too, like it's being held. "I know it's hard, but please just open your eyes. I want to see your beautiful eyes."

Another voice joins in. Mami? "I love you, Sofia." As much as the sky. As much as the universe. "Please open your eyes. I know this is hard. It's scary, all of this. But it's almost over."

Lips meet my cheek, fluttering my eyes. Sounds begin at the back of my throat, trying to make words but just coming out as groans.

"Sofia?"

"How much?" I finally manage, my throat aching with the effort. "Do you love me?"

"As much as the universe," Mami laughs, Momma peppering kisses all across my face. "We love you as much as the universe."

I walk into school a month later, fully recovered and holding tight to my best friend's hand. My hair has grown quickly, now a dark brown - almost - pixie cut. People exclaim loudly, amazed to see me. Excited. Outgoing. Kids.

I've chosen to be a kid again. Cancer, however loudly it has echoed in my life, will not steal my childhood. I've chosen to be stupid, to make mistakes. To keep on living. It's not supposed to be the scary part.

I won't let anyone have to live without me; not when I don't want to live without them.

Cory talks excitedly about dances, about spending our next Summer camping and swimming and wreaking havoc on the neighbourhood. I'm a year and a half behind her in my education, but it doesn't seem like such a burden anymore. I know I'm smart enough. I know I have support: amazing, remarkable people willing to help me move past all of this. I'll be sixteen soon.

And sure, maybe I was given a death sentence at fourteen, but I'm alive. I fought. I'm stronger than any disease. Stronger than a near fatal chest infection - an infection that was the kick in the ass I needed to keep going. To never give up.

In two months, I'll return to the hospital. It's not the place I grew up anymore, full of laughter and happiness. But it's not a monster, either. I can still see the cancer brooding beneath the surface of the bricks, lurking through the oncology ward, but in two months it'll be the start of my new life.

In two months, a doctor will tell us that the cancer is gone. That we won the fight.

That we can go on living.

I can't wait.