Page 128 of Fighting Fate
As they play, Harper leans in, her voice a hushed revelation. "They're my cousins."
Her words jolt me. Cousins? My mind races, trying to piece together this unexpected twist in Harper's story.
Seeing Harper's cousins, both battling cancer just like her, weighs heavily on me. This girl, already locked in her own fight for survival, now bears witness to her family enduring the same.
I try to refocus on Harper, but it's fucking hard. Her usual aura of strength has dimmed under this new burden. It's as if a dense, heavy cloud has descended upon us, the earlier energy now overshadowed by a tangible sense of shared struggle.
Her gaze holds a resilience that goes beyond her tough exterior, a silent declaration of, "Yes, life's tough, but we're tougher."
We stand there, wordlessly sharing a bond. Cancer, family, the intricate web of it all—we're both navigating these choppy waters. Our shared understanding speaks volumes.
"The doctors say they might make it to ten, but after this year..." Harper says, her voice trailing off. She shrugs, a fleeting sigh escaping her. For a moment, she drops her guard, but just as quickly, she's back to her strong self. It's heartbreaking, this facade she's forced to maintain. If only I could shoulder her pain, fight her battles for her.
Running my fingers through my hair, a pang of realization hits me. Here I am, wishing I could fight for Harper, yet I've been avoiding my own battles.
She leads us to the end of the hall, stopping outside the last room. My eyes land on the glass window, emblazoned with "Harper" in rainbow-bold letters. This is her world.
Her window is adorned with doodles, stickers, and mementos of her journey. Among the cheerful display, a collage of Polaroid photos catches my eye. Each snapshot, featuring Harper with family, friends, and even Kinsley, tells a story beyond these hospital walls. It reminds me of the collage in my own truck, a collection of meaningful moments. It's as if fate guided me here today.
I'm drawn to the photos of us—our first meeting, our subsequent visits. Harper wanted to capture each day, not just for herself, but to share these memories with the world.
Her eyes meet mine, shining with gratitude. "Remember how I said I wanted to capture every day?" she asks, her voice filled with pride.
I nod silently, struggling to keep my composure.
"Well, it wasn't just for me," she continues, a bittersweet chuckle escaping her. "When I got my lymphoma diagnosis, the doctor gave me a bleak prognosis. It hit hard, but I decided if my time was short, I wanted to make each day count, not just for me but for my parents, too."
A lone tear traces Harper's cheek. "These photos, the people in them—they're what keep me fighting. They're daily reminders of the love and friendships I'm blessed with, including ours, Miles."
Her words stir something profound in me, rendering me speechless. My truck, the photos within it, the reasons behind them—Harper and I, we're reflections of each other, sharing similar struggles in our unique ways. Fate, I realize, played a role in bringing us together. Initially, I questioned it, but sometimes embracing fate is more meaningful than fighting it.
Harper's hand rests over her heart, a gesture that speaks volumes. "Things have gotten worse recently. The cancer's spreading, and now, I'm down to less than a year," she reveals. "Maybe God's given me this time for a reason," she muses, holding a picture of us. "Perhaps to see you again, or to spend more time with my family." She puts the photo back, her resilience shining through. "I've fought every day, and I'll keep fighting."
Her quick movement to hide her emotions catches me off guard. How does such a young soul manage such composure?
Harper's gaze returns to the window as she concludes. "I wanted to show you the battles we face here. We're all fighters, making the most of each day. Unlike some of us, you have the luxury to look beyond just a week."
"Me?" I respond, taken aback and slightly bewildered.
"Yes, you," she affirms, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
"What do you mean?" I urge her to elaborate.
After a brief pause, Harper confesses, "I saw your treatment plan."
Surprise registers clearly on my face.
"I-I accidentally found it while looking for my own records," she explains. "Miles, you've got a chance to stand up to this. You can have your dreams, repair things with Milli. Football might be out of reach, but there are other ways to stay connected. School can be on your terms."
Her words strike me with the intensity of a revelation. Harper, facing her own daunting challenges, is encouraging me to confront mine. It's a stirring call to action, urging me to face the battles I've been avoiding.
"Thanks, Harp," I murmur. If she can face her challenges with such fearlessness, then maybe, just maybe, I can find the strength to confront mine as well.
Meeting her gaze, I see a look of deep accomplishment in her eyes, as if she's understanding the significance of her actions for the first time. It's a moment brimming with joy and pride, and it's almost overwhelming to witness.
Harper isn't finished yet. She looks at me, her young voice earnest. "I know it's super hard," she says. "But you get to pick how you deal with it. You can let it be the boss of you, or you can be your own boss, even with it around. Fight for the life you want, Miles. You're not just a passenger in your fate."
Whether I'm ready to face the uncertainties of my future or not, Harper's insight rings clear: I can meet this challenge head-on.