2 Chapter 1

The rain poured gently as I sat by the window of the restaurant where I'd just had lunch. *Damn it, this rain!* I thought, frustrated. It had been like this for a few minutes, even though the weather report had promised clear skies. I really wanted it to end quickly. I was already twenty minutes over my lunch break, and I couldn't help but feel upset.

As I stared out the window, I received a message from a co-worker. She mentioned that a new rookie, sent out to fetch some supplies, hadn't returned for about 45 minutes. Coincidentally, she was close to the restaurant where I was. Moments later, the rookie called me. We agreed to meet at the front of the restaurant once the rain stopped.

When we finally met, I asked her, "You're not from Tokyo, are you?"

"No, I'm from Hiroshima," she replied.

"Wow, that's quite far," I remarked.

"I can't believe I'm speaking with my great senpai!" she exclaimed.

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

"I heard you're the face of the accounting department," she said, showering me with praise.

We took the elevator and walked down the hallway, her words flowing nonstop. I nodded and offered half-hearted smiles, though I barely registered what she was saying. *Wow, she's super talkative,* I thought.

Then, suddenly, I felt a sharp headache. My head spun as if I were losing my balance. I leaned my left hand against the wall to steady myself.

"Senpai, are you okay?" she asked, concerned.

"I'm fine, no problem," I replied, forcing a smirk. I pointed her toward the marketing department and headed back to my office.

Sitting at my desk, I couldn't shake the thought that this wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Lately, I'd been experiencing intense migraines and, worse, hallucinations. *Should I call that idiot?* I wondered, picking up my phone.

He answered after the second ring, as usual.

"Yes, this is St. Andrew's Pizza Delivery. How may we help you?" he said in a mock commercial voice.

"It's me, idiot," I replied.

"I know. What's your problem?" he asked.

"Is that all you can say to your old-time best bud?" I shot back.

"Just kidding, long time no see, Natsu. How's it going?"

The guy on the other end was Andrew DiCaprio, a Mexican friend I'd met during college in Switzerland. Memories of our first encounter flooded my mind.

Back then, I was sprinting to my first lecture, determined not to be late even though I had 39 minutes to spare. I've always been punctual. But as I ran, I bumped into two thug-looking guys.

"Bro, look! It's an Asian babe!" one of them said, towering over my small frame.

"I'm sorry," I stammered, trembling in fear. *Someone, please save me,* I thought.

Just then, I noticed a guy approaching. I tried to make a cute face to grab his attention, but it seemed to annoy him instead. He gave me an unsettling look and muttered, "Escoria," before walking away.

*Wait, I know that word—it's Spanish for "scum." That motherfucker just called me scum!*

Furious, I threw a can at him. He turned around, and we started arguing, hurling insults at each other until we finally went our separate ways.

Later, as I wandered the campus looking for the medical department, I ran into him again.

"Do you know where I can find the medical department?" he asked in a surprisingly polite tone.

"I didn't know you could be this well-mannered, you bastard!" I snapped.

"Ah, it's you! Why would I ask for directions from a baby-faced girl?" he retorted.

"Baby-faced? Can you even read? I guess not, since you're too short to see it!"

Our arguments became a daily occurrence, but over time, we became friends.

Back in the present, I explained my recent health issues to Andrew—the headaches, hallucinations, and everything else.

"It sounds complicated. Maybe you should come over to my place tomorrow," he suggested.

The next morning, I arrived at his place early. As I reached for the doorknob, the hallucinations hit again. It felt like a whirlpool was spinning in front of the door. I covered my eyes with my left hand and shook my head vigorously until the illusion faded.

When I opened the door, I found Andrew with a lollipop in his mouth, gaming as usual.

"Yo, Chibi! You haven't changed a bit," he teased.

"Coming from you?" I replied with a frown.

I explained my symptoms again, and he took me to the neurology department. After an MRI scan, I had to leave for an urgent work matter. Hours later, Andrew called with the results.

"Hello, this is the damn restaurant. We're closed for today," he joked.

"Can you be serious for once? What does the report say?" I demanded.

"Are you sure you want to hear this over the phone?"

"What difference does it make? Just tell me!"

"Okay, sorry, ma'am. You've been diagnosed with second-stage glioblastoma."

"Glio-what? I don't understand," I said, confused.

"It's brain cancer," he explained.

The words hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything after that sounded muffled, like a scene from a movie.

"So, how much time do I have left?" I asked.

"Eight months, normally. Eleven with medication."

I sat there, stunned. *Damn it. It must have been the stress and unhealthy lifestyle I had in my twenties.*

"Stress isn't the main cause of cancer," Andrew interjected. "The cause of glioblastoma is still a mystery."

After the call, I couldn't stop thinking about how casually he'd asked me for $200 right after delivering such devastating news. *Typical Andrew,* I thought, recalling how he'd once asked to eat my chicken after I failed an exam.

That night, I couldn't bring myself to go to bed, so I slept on the couch.

The next morning, I woke up late and headed to Andrew's workplace. I found him sitting behind the hospital, smoking and drinking gin.

"Are you sure you're a medical professional? With your dyed hair and tattoos?" I teased.

"Leave me alone, baby girl. I'm about to reach the apex," he replied.

I took a sip of his gin, and it burned all the way down. He laughed.

"I want to propose something," I said.

"I'm dying soon, so I want to visit my dream countries and places. I don't want to go alone, so I'm thinking of bringing you along."

"Ma'am, I'm broke," he protested.

"Shut up! I'll pay half the plane fare. Do we have a deal?"

"Fine. I'll tender my leave letter. We'll meet at the airport on Monday at 1 PM. First stop: China."

Andrew was cunning, but I was glad to have struck a deal with him. Even though he'd have to pay for most things, I had nothing to lose. I was determined to enjoy the last months of my life and create great memories.