Jenna Kossel was a girl Jim had known from the hospital. Stage-whatever cancer—one of those terrifying medical words that sounds like it comes with its own doomsday clock. Doctors gave her six months, give or take a miracle or a medical breakthrough. She had hair that did its best to rebel against chemo, and a smile that could punch you right in the guilt if you were feeling sorry for yourself.
Jenna used to be the kind of person who made hospital food look slightly less tragic. She laughed at everything, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. But somewhere along the way, the disease started winning. Her light got dimmer. The jokes got quieter. She started looking more like a question mark than an exclamation point.
Jim, in the meantime, had his own front-row seat to mortality. He liked watching Jenna—no, not in a weird stalkery way. It was more like emotional Wi-Fi. Just being around her made things suck less. Sometimes he thought about talking to her. Starting something. But his own expiration date was looming like a Netflix show he didn't have time to finish.
Now, though? Now he had life. And, plot twist, cosmic sword-fighting powers.
Jenna still didn't have many people. Just one close friend, Max Donman, a professional smartmouth with asthma and a talent for pretending he wasn't terrified of death.
Jim felt like the universe had handed him a really weird, metaphysical punch card.
So maybe, just maybe—he could use this second shot to do something good.
Like finally talk to Jenna.
Or at least stop staring at her like some kind of tragic rom-com ghost.
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Gloria was behind the wheel, driving her sons like she did everything else in life—smooth, focused, and with a slight air of "if I don't do it, it won't get done right."
Jim and Matt were in the back seat, both glued to their phones like classic emotionally unavailable
teenagers.
Gloria was on mom duty, hospital first, drop off Jim for checkups—then swing by school to dump Matt back into the education system.
Jim felt fine, all things considered. Still under hospital watch, of course. Like some rare museum piece that looked stable but needed constant dusting.
The car hummed along peacefully until "James Slevann,"
Gloria said, slicing through the silence like a mom-shaped missile.
Jim looked up, eyes lifting toward the rearview mirror.
There it was. That look. The classic Mom Look. The one that made you feel like you'd been caught doing something you hadn't even done yet.
Their eyes locked—and that's when it hit.
Boom.
A wave. A vision. Like binge-watching a highlight reel from his mom's last ten minutes. Grocery aisle. A spilled jar of marinara. That poor cashier who didn't bag the eggs right.
But then it kept going, he saw forward. The next ten minutes. Gloria on the phone, laughing. A near-miss with a squirrel. She was fine—but it was weird. He shouldn't be able to see any of that. Jim blinked like he had just brain-buffered real-time psychic Wi-Fi.
Then he looked at Matt.
And instantly regretted it.
A different vision. Matt. A girl. A bathroom. Hands. Lips. Way too much lip. Romantic PG-13 chaos.
Jim gagged audibly.
Matt, still scrolling, looked up. "What?"
"Nothing," Jim said, face stuck somewhere between horrified and betrayed. "You're gross."
"Okay, what?"
"Brush your hands before touching me again."
Thankfully, they arrived at the hospital before Jim could blurt anything regrettable about bathroom acrobatics.
He got out of the car, still slightly stunned from the Vision Fest.
"Love you, Jim," Gloria said gently, always wrapping every departure in affection, just in case the universe was listening.
"I know, Ma," Jim replied, walking off like a guy who had just seen too much.
Jim wandered the hospital halls after his checkup, walking the same path he always did. Not because he had to, but because he passed by that room. Jenna's room.
It was part of his unofficial post-checkup ritual. Quick glance through the glass, hopefully catch her laughing with Max. Watch her smile. Then pretend he didn't just spend five minutes emotionally fanboying from behind a vending machine.
Jenna Kossel.
Stunning even in a hospital gown, which should be impossible. She had that bright, defiant kind of energy. Like the world might be ending, but she was gonna laugh anyway.
But today?
No Max. No jokes.
Just Jenna. Sitting alone on the edge of the bed, wrapped in the pale blue cotton sadness of hospital linen. She looked up—and boom. Eye contact. That smile.
But Jim saw it. Behind the smile.
A flicker. Like a veil dropped.
He didn't just see her, he saw through her. Ten minutes into the past. Ten minutes ahead.
She'd been crying. Silently, soul-deep crying.
And somehow, she was still smiling.
She tilted her head, then motioned him in with a casual little wave, like Come on, stalker boy. You're already staring, might as well commit.
Jim blinked, panicked for a second, then walked in like a robot impersonating confidence. He sat beside her on the bed, not too close, not too far.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," she replied. "Are you a stalker?"
Jim chuckled, already blushing. "No, not really."
She raised an eyebrow. "Max says you always look at me."
Jim internally screamed.
"He says maybe you wanna sleep with me."
"God!" Jim nearly fell off the bed. "Sleep with you?!"
She grinned. "Relax, I'm not offended. Just dying. We get to say weird stuff, it's one of the perks."
Jim was frozen, halfway between laughing and melting.
She tilted her head again, playfully. "You're looking good lately, by the way. Got that weird glow. Did you survive death or something?"
Jim shrugged, like "Yeah, actually, but also... thanks?"
Then came the question.
"Have you ever had sex?"
Jim blinked like a rebooting computer. "What?"
"Not a surprising question from a dying girl, is it?" Jenna said, folding her arms and giving him that grin again, half teasing, half something else.
Jim looked down. "No, I haven't. You?"
She snorted. "Only if we're counting that time I kissed Greg Palmer in second grade and declared us married. So… no."
Then she stood, brushing imaginary dust from her hospital gown and walking a slow, thoughtful circle around the room.
"Would you?" she asked, suddenly serious.
"Would me… what?" Jim replied, brain buffering hard.
She turned back, expression unreadable.
"To be continued," she said with a wink.
Jim almost passed out.
Jim was the shy type of guy, especially around beautiful girls. And Jenna Kossel? She wasn't just beautiful. She was hospital-gown-stunning, which was basically sorcery.
They ended up talking for over two hours. About everything. Life, death, snacks that tasted like regret, the philosophical weight of TikTok, even the finer points of whether life-after had decent Wi-Fi. Some conversations got way too personal for Jim's comfort zone—he was basically sweating existential dread halfway through—but somehow, he loved it.
Jenna had that effect. Like she skipped the small talk and went straight for the soul, and made you laugh while she did it.
When Jim finally left the hospital, something felt… different. Lighter, maybe. Or heavier in a good way. Like his heart had grown muscles.
He walked out into the parking lot and realized something weird:
For the first time in years, he wasn't just surviving, dude was living.
Maybe life wasn't about ticking off years.
Maybe life was six months to live.
Maybe life was Jenna.
And maybe, just maybe—he was in real, honest-to-chaos trouble.