The Days We Borrowed

Everything in the kitchen looked painfully alive that morning.

The pancakes sizzled softly on the stove. Sunlight spilled through the windows in warm golden streaks. My mother hummed under her breath as if the world had never once broken her heart.

And then there was me.

My oxygen cylinder rolled behind me with its usual quiet rattle, reminding everyone that I did not belong in beautiful mornings like this.

“My name is Violet,” I said once to a boy in middle school.

He laughed and told me I should’ve been named Grey instead.

I think that was the moment I stopped trying to look colorful.

The weather outside was perfect—the kind of clear blue sky that mocked people like me. In the kitchen, the smell of pancakes wrapped around the house warmly while my mother flipped them with the rhythmic shuck-shuck of the spatula, acting as if this were just another Tuesday.

I sat at the table, pushing cold toast around my plate while the yolk of my half-boiled egg broke into a yellow puddle.

Everything was perfect.

Except for me.

She fussed over me, constantly treating me like a glass ornament that might shatter is she breathed too hard.

"Is something wrong, honey?" she asked, hovering near my shoulder.

"No, Mama," I said, trying to force a softness into my voice. I pulled my oversized hoodie tighter, trying to hide the plastic tubing of the oxygen tank that clung to me like a needy shadow.

This was my life: a pair of failing lungs and a body that felt like a house with the lights flickering out.

"Are you done? We should probably get moving for the hospital," she said.

I wasn't done, but the food felt like lead in my stomach. "Yeah," I whispered. "Let’s go."

The hospital always smelled the same a sharp, aggressive scent of lemon bleach trying to hide the smell of sickness. Dr. Miller didn't look up from her clipboard when we walked in. She was a woman of data and charts, a permanent resident of the Dull Place.

"Hello, Violet. How are we feeling today?"

"Good," I lied.

She didn't hear the lie; she was too busy checking my vitals. My mom started her usual interrogation, asking about white blood cell counts and lung capacity percentages. I tuned them out. I looked out the small, square window at the sky. It was still perfect. It felt unfair.

"We need to run some new tests," Dr. Miller said, finally looking at me with that clinical pity I hated. "The cancer is being stubborn."

I watched my mom’s face change colors, a pale shade of fear washing over her. We walked out of the office and into the waiting hall, which was crowded with people staring at the floor or their phones. I grabbed a seat in the corner, my oxygen cylinder clanking against the plastic chair.

Then, the seat beside me creaked.

A guy, maybe nineteen or twenty, slumped into the chair. He had headphones draped around his neck and didn't look like he belonged here. He didn't have the "hospital gray" skin or the hollow eyes. He was devastatingly handsome, and he was staring right at me.

I resisted the urge to glare back. "Feel free to look," I snapped, my voice defensive.

The hospital light was always fluorescent and cold, but sitting next to him, the air felt a little warmer, like the sun had found a way through the concrete walls.

"I am," he said, his voice surprisingly warm. "I love to stare at beautiful people."

I let out a short, accidental laugh. Who says that to a girl with tubes in her nose and a tank at her feet?

"You're a bit of a weirdo," I muttered, looking away.

"I prefer the term unique," he said. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a second. "I'm Julian, in case you were going to ask."

"I wasn't."

"Liars go to the hospital, Violet Rivera," he teased, opening one eye.

"How do you know my name?"

"The nurse called it out five minutes ago. I have ears, too." He met my gaze, his expression turning curious. "So, why so gloomy? It’s a nice day."

I glanced down at the tank. "Would you be 'colorful' if you had Stage 4 lungs and a cylinder clinging to you like a backpack?"

Julian didn't look away. Instead, he slowly pushed up his right sleeve. My breath caught. Beneath the fabric was a prosthetic arm cold, silent metal where skin should be.

"I have a prosthetic arm and a spreading infection that might take the other one," he said, his tone incredibly casual. "I could cry about it, but the nurses here already have enough puddles to mop up."

The silence between us stretched out, but for once, it wasn't awkward. It was the kind of silence where you realize the person next to you actually gets it.

A tiny tug started at the corner of my mouth. A real smile. It felt weird on my face, like a muscle I hadn't used in years.

"Since we’re both stuck in this waiting room anyway," Julian said, standing up and offering me his left hand the warm, human one. "Do you want to do something better than staring at that hand-washing poster?"

"Like what?"

"I have five dollars, a prosthetic arm, and a very strong craving for a bag of chips. Let's go find the vending machine. You coming?"

I looked at his hand, then back at the "Dull Place" around me.

"Absolutely," I said.

He led me to a beat-up motorcycle in the parking lot.

"No way," I said, shaking my head. "Julian, I have a tank."

"Then we’ll go off with a bang," he grinned. He took my oxygen tank and strapped it to the side of the seat with a rope, moving fast like he’d practiced it. "Come on, Violet. Hop in."

I climbed on, gripping his waist to stay stable. The engine roared, and for the first time in a long time, my heart was racing because I was excited, not because I was sick. We sped through the city, dodging cars like it was a game.

He stopped on a bridge as the sun began to set. We leaned our elbows on the cold metal rail, watching the city lights start to glow like tiny flashlights below us.

While we waited for the engine to warm up, his human hand Distractedly tightened a loose screw on the bike’s mirror. He didn't even look at it; his fingers just knew how to make things right again.

"So, Violet," Julian said. "Tell me about you."

"You've seen my chart," I sighed. "Stage 4 Lung cancer, and lung failure. The tank. That’s it."

Julian rolled his eyes. "I didn't ask for your medical history, sparky. I mean you. What do you do? Hobbies? Do you like weird music?"

I blinked. No one had asked me that in years. "I... I used to play the piano. And I like old movies. The ones where people wear big hats and talk too fast."

"Old movies, huh?" Julian grinned. "I bet you critique the acting."

"Maybe a little," I admitted. "What about you? Besides riding death-traps?"

"I build things," he said, tapping his metal arm against the rail with a dull clink. "I like taking stuff that's broken and making it do something else."

He dropped me off at my driveway later. My mom was waiting on the porch, but she didn't look angry. She actually looked hopeful.

Julian handed me my tank and waited until I reached the door. "Text me when your mom stops yelling," he said with a wave before driving away.

Inside, my dad was sipping coffee. He looked me in the eyes, his face serious.

"I know how you feel, Violet," he said quietly. "But you can't just go a motorcycle ride with a stranger and You're a grenade, and you can't just fall in love."

I didn't cry. I didn't say a word. I just turned and walked toward my room, the sound of my oxygen tank clicking against the floor behind me.

My dad was wrong about one thing. It wasn't Julian’s heart I was worried about breaking. It was mine.

—Warmly Adrian Hale.