It wasn’t my time. That’s what I told myself. The doctors told me different.

How many 19 year-olds have a brain tumor that will kill them in a month? It can’t be. It’s not my time.

How can they tell me my expiration date? How long I have to do the things I’ve dreamed to do. Kiss a girl. Finish to college. Marry. Have children. Say goodbye. It can’t be my time.

I disconnect, reflect. It’s Christmas time. Time to be around your friends and family. On top of it, the 25th is my birthday. But it’s not my time.

More results come, I’m waiting in tears. Time passes.

It turns out it’s not my time. Not yet. But it could be sometime. Anytime.

Fuck you time. I’ll make time of my own.