Archive of Our Own ^beta

He knows he doesn't have time, but he does homework and hangs out with friends. He goes to school and does sports.

He knows he shouldn't be moving, it only worsens him, but he does it anyway. He runs with his friends and searches for their future together.

He knows he should be accommodating, for it, but he isn't. He hates it; hates it for everything it represents. So, he tries to ignore it.

He knows he should be fighting it, but he gave up long ago. He accepts the losses and the pain. He turns away any help.

He knows that his family, his friends are concerned, but he continues hiding. Hiding it. They won't know, at least until the end.

He knows that the doctors are crying, trying to give help. Help he doesn't need or want.

He knows his teachers, and his classmates are concerned. He doesn't want to listen. He can't write steadily. He can't do anything correctly anymore. He can hear them collaborating, but he continues with his secret-keeping.

He knows the doctors want to tell. Tell everyone. He stops them. He doesn't want anyone to know. It’s bad enough that they know.

He knows he’s young. Too young. He knows that this sort of thing shouldn't happen to him. But it did, and it’s not fixable.

He knows that his body, his personality, his being, is dying, disintegrating, falling apart slowly. He pales in comparison to everyone else. But he layers on the masks letting no one see.

He knows he should be genuine. But he can’t. They are so… bright. They are so excited. They are about to leave the shelter of childhood and enter the true world. He won't make it. He won't hope to make it. It isn't worth it.

He knows why this happened. He knows that without treatment he has no chance of surviving. He knows what he should be doing with this sickness. But he tells the doctors to give up on him.

He knows with the clock ticking he needs to write. Write one last thing, before it kills him. And he writes, writes to everyone and no one. He pauses occasionally and wonders if anyone will bother to read it, and then continues. He writes, draws sketches, all in his life, putting it on paper, and then in an envelope.
He knows the doctors are even more concerned than before. He wasn't supposed to get this bad so fast. They won't let him leave the painfully white walls surrounding him. They keep their eyes on him, afraid he’ll disappear with a snap of their fingers.

He knows he’s dead. He woke up with his life’s blood on his pillow, accompanied by his lungs laying in chunks. He quietly accepts it. Damaged body he leaves, leaves everything hoping no one would notice. But they do.

His thoughts, his writing, his life is published for all, to show everyone.

He knows in an echo his life, his family, friends will try. Try to do better. Try to achieve for him.