Celine had once attended a talk about living with terminal illness. It was offered as extra credit for her college course, even though it was entirely unrelated to her studies. They’d gone in a group; her companions loud and boisterous, empowered by their youth and assumed invincibility. As the talk had gone on, they’d all fallen silent. Celine had been silent from the start. Out of all of them, she was the only one with scars that attested to the fragility of their lives.
The lecturer had said one thing that had stuck with her. He’d said that there was always one last good day. One last of everything. One last kiss, one last car ride. One last smile. The problem that Celine had found, was that you couldn’t savour that last thing because sometimes it wasn’t immediately obvious that it was
