10 as in the number of months that I was told I approximately had to live.

I had been having random jolts of pain for a few weeks. My girlfriend told me to go see a doctor and make sure that I was fine. I told her that I was. I told her that I did not need a doctor and that it was most likely the intense work that I did during the day. When in reality all that I did at work was sign papers and made sure that deliveries came on time.

I just wanted to reassure her. I hated it when she worried for me. What I hated more than hurting, was seeing others get hurt because of me.

I was shocked when the doctor told me. I was not sure if I should cry or just suck it up. What would crying do for me? Add a few more months. I had not expected it. Who would have, really?

Hey, you’re dying. Not really something that brightens someone’s day, is it?

This is not where my story starts, but rather the beginning of my end.

I hate having to live for ten more months deceiving everyone, because I don’t feel like telling the world about my misfortunes. It would feel like bragging from their standpoint, seeing that they still had many miserable years ahead of them. Me? I just have more than half a year.

Yes, bragging. Let me just put that way.

Maybe I should tell everyone. Brag about how I was going to leave the hell hole for good.

Brag.

Brag.

But I won’t do it.

Because I know that calling it bragging won’t change the fact that I would be dying and leaving everyone behind.

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