Emma's POV
As I walked into the cafe, everything was off. The old comforting cheer of the Hometown Café felt subdued, the golden light that splashed in through the windows a now weary, golden glow against the long stretching heavy shadows on the wooden tables. I was in my usual spot, sketchbook open and untouched, my coffee cooling, and I remember feeling something like terror. My fingers traced random circles on the page, mind elsewhere, ensnared in the very sentences Dr. Carter had just uttered.
Terminal. Limited time. Make arrangements.
The words echoed in my head, each one a stone that fell into the bottom of my stomach. I'd felt it coming – felt it in the way my body was failing me more and more every day – but hearing it out loud was another matter. It was real now, undeniable. A timeline I couldn't escape.
I glanced around the café, at the strangers I had sketched hundreds of times. The fedora man was back, sipping his espresso like he had all the time in the world. A young couple laughed over pastries, brushy hands but casual, like they'd never worried a care. There was life as if nothing had gone inside my heart.
There was a cough that bubbled up, sharp, impatient. I pressed my scarf to my mouth and spoke through it, but the pain sat in my chest. I was tired, bone tired, soul weary tired. But I couldn't let it show. Not here. Not now.
The doorbell jangled and I heard Alex open the door, saw him enter, guitar case bouncing off his shoulder. And he just looked me straight in the eye and that wicked half-grin of his tugged up one side of him mouth, driving back some of the darkness inside of my soul. He didn't know — couldn't know — what I had just found. And I wasn't ready to tell him.
"Hullo, artist girl," he said, dropping into the other chair opposite me. "You look deep in thought. Sketching something new?"
I shut my sketchbook with a cold smile. "Just… daydreaming, I guess."
He leaned forward and glanced at the screen, fascinated. "About Paris?"
I laughed, but it was a small laugh. "Maybe. Or maybe just the next cup of coffee."
Alex chuckled, but his eyes remained on me, like he could somehow sense that something was shutting down. "You okay? You're a bit … quiet today."
I shrugged, waving it away. "Yeah, just tired. Late night."
He didn't sound convinced, but he didn't question it. "Well, I have something that might cheer you up. I have a gig tonight — more people, actual stage lights, that kind of thing. You should come."
I was rising to the challenge, and a sparkle of interest pierced the gloom of talking portals. "Really? Where?"
"It's at The Blue Note, down there. Not fancy, but it's better than here.'" He smiled, and he truly was contagious. There are other people, but I would really like you to come. "Maybe I'll even play that song you like."
This time, I smiled for real. "The one with the girl in blue?"
"That's the one." He winked, and for a sliver of a second, I forgot the doctor's words, the ticking clock. It was just Alex and me, two people at a table with a dream for that moment.
"I'll go with you," I said, my voice more steady than I felt.
"Good." He reached across the table, his hand touched mine and a jolt of warmth shot up my arm. His contact was light, but it anchored me, yanking me up from the edge of the chasm I'd been looking into all morning.
We sat there in comfortable silence for a while, drinking coffee, the whir of the cafe surrounding us like an old blanket. I couldn't help but see Alex's hands, rough and calloused from years of guitar playing, a mark of his dedication. I even became small to my own hands, grubby with charcoal and paint, and they also had stories to tell.
"What inspires you, Emma?" "Alex? Alex said, his voice timid. "What inspires you to pick up a pencil and draw?
I thought for a second, my finger trailing around the mouth of my cup. "It's the little things, I think. The way light lands on a face, or the shape of a smile. Moments that feel… alive. I want to write about them before they become obsolete."
He nodded without looking away. "Music is kinda what I treat that like. It's like you're trying to hold onto something you cannot hold onto, that this thing is going to be lost if you don't grab it."
"That's it!" I declared and was again impressed by how instinctual his grasp of things turned out to be. "It's how to make the temporary last a tiny bit longer."
Alex smiled then, but it was a sad smile, one where a shadow reflected back that looked much like mine. "Yeah. I get that."
I had wanted to ask him about that shadow, about the pain I sensed was lurking behind his music, but before I got the chance a wave of exhaustion overcame me. My vision blacked out for a second and I clung to the edge of the table begging it to stop.
"Emma?" Alex's voice was sharp and he sounded worried. "You okay?"
I nodded, my head was heavy. "Just… a little dizzy. Perhaps I should eat something."
He didn't look convinced. "Let's get some air. Come on."
He threw his arms about me, and I went lifting from my feet. We walked out into the icy late afternoon air and the hush and rumble of traffic and distant voices. Alex led me to a bench, a strong arm around my shoulders.
We were sitting next to each other, and I pushed against him as I tried to get some of his warmth. He didn't say a word, just held onto me, and for a brief moment I let myself imagine what my life might look like: a world where I could be with him, untethered from the weight of what was about to happen.
But reality lurched back into the room, stony gray and unforgiving. I could not avoid it forever. But sitting here with Alex, I could feel that brittle hope stirring inside of me, whispering that maybe, just maybe, I could have it — one last exploit, one last dream.
"Alex, I hissed, just slightly above the city noise. "What if … I did go to Paris. What if I took that chance?"
He glanced up at me, eyes a little wide with surprise and something more hopeful, perhaps. "Then I'd say go for it. And if you want company, I'm there."
I laughed, but not without a tinge of sorrow. "You'd give up everything to go with me, huh?"
"In one second," he told me, deadpan. "Emma, time is too short to wait for."
His words were like a gut punch to me. As it turns out, he had no idea just how right he was. I glanced, and as if my throat had closed, I nodded. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's time."
We sat in silence, awash in the sights of the passing world, our hands locked together on the bench, fingers intertwined, being pelted by the drizzle. I had no promises to offer him, or me for that matter — no assurances — but for the first time in forever, I felt a comforting spark of hope. Some semblance of courage.