5

I can't help but feel uneasy as we walk through the halls. The doctor's explanation seems too simple, too rehearsed. Something isn't adding up. Why did the girl on the roof tell me to run? And why does everyone seem so calm and collected about my unexpected survival? It's as if they're all in on a secret that I'm not privy to.

As we approach my room, I hesitate. Part of me wants to bolt and run, to find answers elsewhere. But the other part of me is too afraid to upset my family, to disrupt their grieving process. I feel stuck, trapped between two conflicting desires.

The doctor seems to sense my hesitation and squeezes my arm reassuringly. "It's going to be okay," he says, leading me into the room. "We'll make sure you're comfortable."

I nod mutely, taking in the scene before me. My family is gathered around the bed, their faces red and puffy from crying. My mother is holding my hand, her grip tight and desperate. My father is standing stoically by the window, his eyes fixed on the horizon. My siblings are huddled together in a corner, their faces buried in each other's shoulders.

For a moment, I forget all of my doubts and fears. All I can think about is how much I love them, how much I don't want to leave them. It's a familiar feeling, one that I've been grappling with for months. But now it's more urgent, more real. This could be my last chance to tell them how much they mean to me, to say goodbye properly.

As I look around the room, my eyes meet my sister's. She gives me a small smile, a glimmer of hope in the midst of all the sadness. And suddenly, I know what I have to do. I can't run. I can't leave them behind. Whatever is going on, I have to face it head-on. For their sake, if not for mine.

I take a deep breath and turn to the doctor. "Can you give us a moment alone, please?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady.

He hesitates, then nods. "Of course. I'll be back in a little while to check on you."

As he leaves the room, I turn to my family. They're all looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to say something. I clear my throat and speak, my voice ringing out loud and clear.

"I don't know what's going on," I say. "But I'm not ready to leave you yet. Not like this. So whatever happens next, I want you to know that I love you all. And I'm going to fight for us, for our family."

There's a stunned silence in the room, broken only by the sound of someone sniffling. Then my mother starts to cry, and my father turns to look at me with a mixture of pride and fear. My siblings rush over to hug me, and for a moment, I feel like we might actually make it through this.

But as I close my eyes and hold them close, a nagging thought lingers in the back of my mind. What if it's not just a mistake? What if there's something more sinister at play here? Only time will tell.