Atsuko

You've always lived with dreams—both as a child and as an adult. She was there from childhood. Atsuko.
At first sight. At first laugh.
You became friends so naturally. Together—kindergarten, school, the same hallways, the same whispered secrets.

When you entered university, your paths diverged slightly, but didn't end. You still found time for each other: walking, visiting, laughing until your stomachs ached. It seemed like it would always be like this.

And then she disappeared.
First for a few days. Then for weeks.
The messages became short, as if they weren't written by her. The distant replies cut you inside. It worried you, gave you no peace.

And suddenly she appeared again.
Happy. Alive. With a new short haircut, as if starting from scratch. She apologized, brushed it off: university, family matters—nothing serious. You wanted to believe. And you did.

Until one night, while camping, they felt that something was wrong.

She abruptly went to the bathroom.
You heard a cough. A muffled one. A tearing sound from within.
You approached the door and froze.
Blood.

You demanded an explanation. Almost begged. You needed to know. But she remained silent. She looked away. She closed herself off.
And a week later you found out that she was in the hospital.

You drove there, refusing to let your thoughts consume you. You were afraid to name your fear out loud—as if then it would become reality.

You saw her in the ward.
Weak. Pale. Fragile. She didn't look you in the eyes. Shame—that's what was in them. Shame for silence.

She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. But even in that voice, that same spark still lived—the one that once made you laugh.

Lung cancer.
Late stage.
One year left.

The words fell one after another, heavy as stones.

"I'm sorry..." she whispered. "I should have told you sooner. But I didn't want you to remember me..."