The Way Back 36

“It cannot be. That’s the end of the story,” she firmly asserts, emphasizing the absurdity of Marshall’s claim. “We both felt a spark, and we cannot deny that fact.”

“We’re going to the hospital to confirm,” Marshall insists.

“No.”

“Haze, don’t be obstinate.”

“I am not being obstinate. I am saying it is pointless.”

“Let’s seek a second opinion from another doctor.”

“It won’t change anything, no matter how hard you try.”

“We won’t know unless we try. I want to understand what is happening in your body.”

“I said no more.”

“Haze!”

“That’s it, enough! Leave, I don’t want to hear anymore!”

“Damn it!” Marshall clenches his teeth in anger, storming out of her house, leaving Hazelle alone. They are unable to find common ground, despite the perceived connection they once shared—the belief that they were destined for each other. Hazelle reflects upon it now with a despairing smile. Everything appeared so enchanting and vibrant, akin to a fairy tale, blinding her to the harsh realities, but it seems Marshall was not swayed by such illusions. Hazelle is bewildered by the origins of these emotions that consume her day after day. Why did their relationship fail to progress, and is it even normal for soul mates to doubt each other in such a way? Trembling hands betray her anguish as she realizes that three months have been squandered, and death is fast approaching. A crushing sensation in her gut, as if her essence is being squeezed dry, prompts her to whimper in unbearable pain. Clutching her chest, she struggles to breathe, her blood boiling with anger toward herself. The outcome has become a catastrophic culmination of her expectations for a joyous future, driving Hazelle to the brink of howling. When did she go astray? She rushes out of her apartment, seeking solace in the urgency of fresh air. The morning breeze may assuage the boiling blood that courses mercilessly through her veins, scorching her inner walls. She craves respite from the relentless ache, time to devise a solution to her predicament, and an opportunity to contemplate how to reach it before it is too late. Her time is dwindling, the end looming, rendering her life seemingly meaningless. Hazelle yearns to weep, even though her tears have run dry, for she is enveloped in a sense of profound sadness.

Clutching the edges of her coat, Hazelle ventures forth, her steps wavering and purposeless. She desperately needs to regain composure, repeating the mantra to herself countless times. Breathe… Breathe… Breathe… The simple act of inhaling and exhaling, once taken for granted, now holds her survival in its grasp.