"Yeah?"
"Say the words: I am going to be okay."
I hesitate for a second.
"I am going to be okay," I whisper, and something unclenches behind my ribs.
"Louder."
"I am going to be okay."
"Yeah, you are," Tess's voice goes tender in a way almost no one ever hears. Only me. "I am so proud of you, Sophie. I am so proud to be your sister. Text me if you need me. If you start to spiral, call. I don't care what time it is here."
"Thank you, Tess," I say, my voice wobbling.
"Anytime. Now go get your pretty floral stationery and weaponize it. Future Sophie is waiting for her kick-ass list."
I take the now mushy, lukewarm bag of bananas and toss them in the trash. I then go over to my small secretary desk and pull open the drawer, sliding out the box of my extra-pretty, special-occasion stationery—the cream with pretty gold florals on the edges. I pick the top sheet and lay it on the table, grab my favorite pen, the shimmery dark blue one, and I write a letter to my future self.
Dear Sophie,
Paul cheated. Right now, it feels like a meteor just crashed through the ceiling and ripped a hole straight through the middle of my life. This morning he was here, and now he's not. That's his choice, and he has to live with it. And I hope he can. Or not, Tess is plotting his demise as I write this, and I'm not really inclined to stop her.
I keep forgetting how to breathe and then remembering,because I still have Tess. We'll always have Tess. She told me to write this letter to you because we love making lists. So, when you read this in a year, because of who we are, you will have accomplished the following:
You are going to live.
You are going to have survived chemotherapy, surgery, and radiation.
You are going to endure—and no, not just endure: you are not writing this year off. You will have had a life during the hard parts, not just after.
So, here is the plan for us right now:
1) We are going to kick cancer's ass.
We will show up to every chemotherapy appointment and read, nap, and relax. We will stay hydrated, let people help, wear those cute little hats when we go bald, and forgive the mirror on bad days.
2) Build and rebuild.
Not literal things, but build a support network. Say yes to new opportunities and offers of friendship. All of our friends right now are more Paul's friends, so we will make our own.
3) Buy things.
Silly little knick-knacks that make the apartment mine, not ours: a ridiculous mug, that ceramic lighthouse you've been eyeing, a page-weight shaped like a cat. Maybe get a cat? We've always wanted one. New soft towels. Fresh sheets. A new lamp that throws warm light. Donate the old couple-things to every thrift store in town with a firm thank you and goodbye.
4) Grow the library.
Happy-ever-afters only. If it ends well, it comes home with us and sits pretty on our shelves. I'll buy us one of those fancy library stamps with our name on it and annotate where a sentence catches my breath.
5) Work gently.
Laptop, fuzzy socks, soft deadlines. Let "good enough for today" be enough for today. Don't kill yourself working. It’s not worth it.
I hesitate before I write the next point, glancing over at the graduation picture on the wall—me and Paul in our regalia, beaming at the camera. The various pictures of us through the years decorate the walls, the bookshelves, and the entryway table.
Us.
Our mark is all over this apartment, like it's closing in on me, a reminder that while love can warm and soothe and comfort, it can also sting and burn and stab and carve and tear.
