[5]

There was a blue lily beside my bed, resting in a small, crystal-clear vase that seemed far too delicate for the fading flower. Its petals were curling at the edges, slowly losing its color. I stared at it when there’s no one around—if it spoke to me... that time was slipping through my fingers. No matter how hard I tried to hold on to life, it kept withering, just like that flower. I couldn’t help but think of what Carter said earlier, about how we see things differently, about how every detail tells a story depending on who’s looking. But no other story comes to my mind... every time I see the flowers.

Carter sat across from me, his focus entirely on his own painting of the lily. We had decided, though it was my plan initially, to compete on who can draw the flowers better. But while Carter’s strokes were soft and muted, mine were bold, defiant. The lily on my paper was alive, vivid, and bursting with color. As if I could keep it from fading. As if I could stop time itself.

The room was quiet except for the faint sound of brushes scratching against the paper. I could sense Carter watching me out of the corner of his eye. His presence was steady, but there was something distant in his gaze—like he was seeing the flower’s inevitable death, while I was determined to ignore it.

“Jim,” Carter’s voice was the first to break the silence, low and careful, pulling me from my thoughts. “The flower… you’ve made it too bright. Too colorful. It’s already started to wither.”

I paused, glancing at his painting. His strokes were like his usual, and the lily he had drawn looked as though it had already wilted, pale and drained of life. A part of me felt frustrated, like he didn’t understand what I was trying to do—what I was trying to hold on to. His painting accepted the flower’s death. Mine resisted it.

“I see that it’s withering,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even, though there was a tremor of resistance there. “But what’s wrong with bright colors?”

Carter sighed, setting his brush down for a moment. He looked from the flower to me, his gaze heavy with that same thought he often carried. “That’s the point, Jim. When you’re painting, it’s not just about making something beautiful—it’s about capturing what is. Right now, that flower isn’t as alive as you’re painting it.”

“To you, maybe,” I said, turning back to my painting, my grip tightening around the brush. “But to me, the flower still seems just fine. Maybe it’s not as bright to your eyes, but to mine… it’s still holding on.”

The words came out sharper than I intended, and I could see the flicker of something—disappointment? sadness?—in Carter’s eyes. His expression softened, and he exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh of accepting things he didn’t want to. “Paint it how you want, then,” he said softly, his voice losing its edge. “I shouldn’t be so forceful.”

But his words didn’t make me feel better. I knew he wasn’t just talking about the flower. There was something deeper in his tone, something that mirrored the quiet despair I’d been carrying. I didn’t know if I was trying to paint the lily alive because I needed to believe it could be saved, or if I was just trying to defy the inevitable. Either way, the brightness of my colors felt like a fight I wasn’t ready to lose.

Carter placed his brush down and reached into his bag, pulling out a bundle of apples wrapped in a napkin. “Want some?” he asked, his tone lighter now, like he was trying to break the tension.

I nodded, but my focus was still on the painting in front of me. As Carter sliced the apples, the soft crunch of the knife against the fruit filled the silence. I added a few final strokes to the flower, blending the bright blues and whites of the petals. The colors were vibrant, a rebellion against the reality that the flower in front of me was fading.

I wanted it to be more than it was.

I wanted me to be more than I was.

The silence between us stretched on, comfortable, for a while. But then, without warning, Carter spoke again, his voice quieter this time, like he was unsure if he should say the words out loud.

“So, Jim… why are you here, exactly? In the hospital, I mean.” He hesitated, as if he’d been holding the question back for too long. “I remember the first day you said you’d been admitted for two months. So I presumed your condition was serious, but… I never knew how to ask.”

I froze, the brush hovering over the painting. His question hung in the air, heavy and intrusive, and suddenly, I couldn’t focus on the painting anymore. I set the brush down carefully, my hands trembling slightly. How could I explain everything to him when I wasn’t even sure how to explain it to myself?

I forced a small smile, trying to brush off the question. “Relax,” I said, but even I could hear the strain in my voice. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

But it was. Carter was staring at me, waiting for an answer, and I knew I couldn’t lie to him. Not entirely. His way of seeing things—of noticing details—meant he’d see right through me.

“I have a terminal illness,” I finally admitted, my voice low, the words tasting bitter as they left my mouth. “It’s called biliary atresia. It’s a rare liver disease… my liver’s failing. If I don’t get surgery soon, things… won’t go well.”

Carter had stopped cutting the apples. His hands rested on the table, his eyes fixed on me, and this time, the silence felt almost unbearable. I could see it in his face—the realization, the pieces falling into place. Maybe now he understood why I kept painting the flower as if it were still alive.

“I need a major surgery,” I continued. “My life… it depends on it. But the doctors have said that after the operation, I’ll become just fine. So, I’m stuck here, waiting.”

The words were like stones, each one heavier than the last. I could feel the weight of it all pressing down on me—the uncertainty, the fear, the sense that my life was slipping away faster than I could grasp it.

Carter finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “When’s the operation?”

“End of the year,” I said, but my voice cracked like a record skipping. “Sometime in December.”

I could feel the walls closing in, the room too small, too stifling. My chest tightened, and I looked down at the painting in front of me. The bright, defiant blues of the lily suddenly felt ridiculous. Mocking. Without thinking, I ripped the paper off, crumpling it in my hands. The colors twisted into a ball of paper, crushed and useless.

Carter looked pained. “Jim… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Life isn’t fair, is it? But you know...” I cut him off. The tension inside me, the frustration, the hopelessness—it all bubbled to the surface. “““If you really put up a fight, something will break down and make way.”””

My hands clenched the torn painting. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes. The bright colors I had clung to, the false hope I had painted, felt like a lie now.

There was a moment, just a flicker, where I saw something in Carter’s eyes—fear. It was quick, like a shadow crossing his face, but it was there. He masked it with a smile, as he always did, but I could see it for what it was. Carter stood slowly, setting the apples aside, his movements careful, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry, Jim,” he said quietly. “I’ll… leave for today.”

I didn’t say anything. The room was too quiet, too full of things we weren’t saying. I kept staring at the crumpled lily in my hands, its bright colors now twisted and ruined. The same feeling gnawed at me—the sense that everything was slipping away, that no matter how much I tried to paint over reality, I couldn’t escape it.

As the door clicked shut, I looked down at the crushed painting in my hands. The vibrant colors hadn’t changed. They stayed bright, defiant, even as the weight of reality pressed down on me. I squeezed the paper harder, but the colors stayed.

And for the first time, I didn’t find comfort in them. For the first time, the bright colors only reminded me that life wasn’t something I could control. The flower was still wilting. Just like me.