The house is dark and still, but I can’t sleep.

I'm curled up in my usual position, knees tucked to my chest, blanket twisted around my legs from hours of restless tossing. The glow from my phone paints weird shadows on my bedroom walls.

Everything looks different in the dark, even the familiar corners of my room where I've spent way too many sleepless nights like this one.

My chest aches. Not the sharp, scary kind that sends Mom running for my meds, but the deep, hollow kind that makes it hard to breathe even when your lungs are working fine.

The doctors can't fix this kind of pain—believe me, I've asked.

Seventeen years. That's how long I've been dealing with this mess. Sometimes I try to remember what it felt like before, when my biggest worry was whether Danny liked me back in fourth grade (he didn't), or if I'd make the volleyball team in eight grade  (also didn't, but that worked out for the best, considering).

Now those memories feel like they belong to someone else—some other Jamie who didn't know how quickly everything could change.

Only nineteen days away.

It’s like a countdown to an ending I can’t predict.

My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with an unexpected notification. I almost drop it on my face in surprise.

Rowan: Hey, you up?

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the message. We've known each other for barely a day, and I should probably just ignore her and try to sleep like a normal person. That's what Mom would say—rest, always rest. But something about Rowan feels too impossible to ignore, like a song you can't get out of your head.

Me: Yeah. What’s up?

The typing bubbles appear almost instantly.

Rowan: Can’t sleep. Was thinking about today.

Me: Thinking about how you blackmailed me for my phone number?

Rowan: Don’t be so dramatic. It’s called strategic friendship acquisition. I'm very professional about these things.

I snort softly, the sound peculiarly loud in my quiet room. Of course she'd have a name for it. Rowan seems like the type of person who can justify anything if she tries hard enough.

Rowan: So… you looked pretty stressed earlier. Everything okay?

I freeze, fingers hovering over the screen. The question catches me off guard—not because it's invasive, but because it's genuine. Part of me wants to brush it off with a joke, keep things light and superficial like I do with everyone else. But the question hangs there, waiting for a real answer. And for some reason, in the safety of the darkness and the distance between our screens, I feel like I can trust her.

Me: I’m having surgery in 19 days.

A pause. Then:

Rowan: Surgery? What kind?

Me: Heart.

Another pause. Longer this time. I watch the seconds tick by, wondering if I've said too much too soon. Most people don't know how to handle this kind of information—they either get weird and awkward or start treating me like I'm made of glass. But then her response appears.

Rowan: Are you scared?

The question slices through me like a blade of truth. I stare at the screen, heart pounding like it's trying to escape from my ribs. I could lie. I could pretend I'm fine, like I've been doing for months with my mom, my doctors, everyone who looks at me with those pitying eyes.

Me: Terrified.

The bubble pops up again.

Rowan: Can I ask… how serious is it?

Me: If it goes well, I’ll be okay. If it doesn’t…

I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence. But I don’t need to. Rowan gets it.

Rowan: Jamie.

There’s so much weight in just my name. More than anyone’s ever put into it before. I feel like I can hear her voice breaking.

Rowan: That sucks. But If you’ve only got 19 days until surgery, we need to make them count.

Me: How?

Rowan: We can make a bucket list.

I blink.

Me: A bucket list?

Why do I sound so dumb?

Rowan: Yep. All the stuff you’ve ever wanted to do but never had the guts to try. Or the stuff everyone told you was too dangerous or stupid or whatever."

Me: Like what?

Rowan: Like TP’ing a house at midnight.

I laugh out loud, the sound surprising me. It echoes in my room, and I quickly clamp a hand over my mouth, hoping I haven't woken Mom.

Me: Seriously?

Rowan: Dead serious. Also, skinny-dipping. You ever tried it?

My face heats up.

Me: NO.

Rowan: Well, it’s going on the list.

Me: I’m not doing that.

Rowan: We’ll see.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop smiling.

Rowan: What else have you always wanted to do?

I pause, thinking. There are so many things I've pushed aside, labeled as "too risky" or "not for people like me." But with Rowan's eager anticipation on the other end, I feel brave enough to voice one

Me: Ride a motorcycle.

Rowan: That one’s easy. I’ve got a bike.

Me: Won’t my mom kill me?

Rowan: Your mom doesn’t have to know. Live a little, Jamie.

Live a little.

The words sit heavy in my chest. I’ve spent so much time waiting— waiting for my heart to stop hurting, waiting for the future I might not even have.

Maybe Rowan’s right. Maybe I need to stop waiting.

Rowan: Come on. Throw me something big.

Me: I’ve never kissed anyone.

There. I've said it. The most embarrassing truth of my seventeen years of existence.

I half expect Rowan to tease me, but her response comes quickly, without judgment.

Rowan: Okay. That’s going on the list.

Me: It’s not that simple.

Rowan: Sure it is. We’ll find someone for you to kiss.

Me: Not just anyone.

Another pause.

Rowan: You’ll know when it’s right. Trust me.

Something about the way she says it makes my heart trip over itself.

Rowan: Alright, what about skydiving?

Me: Absolutely not.

Rowan: Bungee jumping?

Me: NO.

Rowan: You’re no fun.

Me: I have a heart condition!.

Rowan: Fair.

The conversation turns silly after that. Rowan suggests things like dyeing my hair purple ("It works for me!") or spray-painting graffiti on the convenience store ("Just think of it as contributing to the arts program."). I counter with things like baking a cake from scratch and having a movie marathon of all the horror films I've never been allowed to watch because my heart would skip and wouldn't go back to normal.

For every ridiculous suggestion she throws out, I feel lighter. Like all the fear and tension in my chest is being replaced with something warmer, something reckless and alive. Something that feels suspiciously like hope.

Rowan: Jamie?

Me: Yeah?

Rowan: You know you’re not alone, right?

The words hit me like a jolt.

Me: Why are you being so nice to me?

Rowan: Because I want to be.

It’s simple. Honest.

Rowan: Look, if this is going to be the last 19 days of your life before surgery, I’m going to make sure you live them. Sitting in bed all day and being a pity party won't change anything.

I don’t know what to say to that. No one’s ever offered me anything like this before—not even my mom.

Rowan: Deal?

I take a deep breath.

Me: Deal.

The conversation tapers off after that, but I don’t feel the same crushing weight I did before. I feel… okay.

As I close my eyes, I imagine what the next 19 days might look like. Wild. Unpredictable. Full of Rowan’s stupid, ridiculous ideas.

And for once, that doesn’t scare me. It excites me.

My phone buzzes one last time.

Rowan: "Sweet dreams, Jamie. Tomorrow, we start living."

∆∆∆∆

It's giving caring neighbor!!