The Last Goodbye at Palmetto

Mara pressed her palm against the cool glass of the hospital window, watching the palm trees sway in the wind outside. Three years of treatment, three years of pretending everything would be fine. Now, even her hair had stopped growing back.

"You don't have to bear this alone," Hannah said from the doorway, holding two coffees. Her fox-red curls were tucked behind her ears, the way she always wore them when she was nervous.

Mara turned. They'd been friends since college, since the night Hannah had found her crying outside a frat party and walked her home instead of going inside. That was the thing about Hannah—she never walked away.

"I'm not alone," Mara said. "I'm just... tired."

Hannah set the coffees on the nightstand. "The doctor said the scans looked promising."

"The doctor says a lot of things. He said the same thing six months ago. Then he said it again three months ago." Mara gestured to the empty chair. "Sit. Please."

Hannah hesitated, then sat. "I talked to your sister. She's coming in from Chicago."

"Don't."

"Mara—"

"She hasn't visited in two years, Hannah. Two years. Now that I'm actually dying, suddenly she cares?" Mara's voice cracked. "That's not friendship. That's guilt tourism."

The room went silent. Outside, a car horn blared, distant and muffled.

"You're going to be fine," Hannah said softly.

Mara laughed, a dry sound. "You always were a terrible liar. Remember when you broke my grandmother's vase senior year? Told her the cat did it. She didn't even own a cat."

"She believed me."

"She was ninety and half-blind." Mara's expression softened. "That's what I love about you, though. You try. Even when it's hopeless."

"It's not hopeless."

Mara reached out, her hand hovering over Hannah's. "I need you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"When I'm gone, don't let people tell you how to grieve. Don't let my sister turn my funeral into a performance. Take my journals, burn them, and scatter the ashes somewhere wild. Somewhere with foxes and deer and actual trees, not these palm trees that look like someone's idea of paradise."

Hannah's eyes filled. "I can't—"

"You can. You're the strongest person I know." Mara squeezed her hand. "You were my friend when I didn't deserve one. You're the only one I trust to do this right."

Outside, the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and burning orange. The palm trees cast long, thin shadows across the room like reaching fingers.

"Okay," Hannah whispered. "I promise."

Mara closed her eyes, finally letting herself breathe. "Good. Now tell me about that guy you've been seeing. The one you think I don't know about."

Hannah laughed through her tears. "How did you—"

"I'm dying, not blind, Han. Now spill."

As Hannah began to talk, Mara thought about how strange it was—that in the end, all that really mattered were the people who stayed when everyone else walked away. The ones who could bear witness to your life without turning away.