The night before my first chemotherapy treatment, I almost skipped prom because I couldn’t face the pity in everyone’s eyes.
Just two weeks earlier, my biggest problem had been finding silver heels to match the emerald-green dress hanging in my closet. I had a Pinterest board full of prom ideas, makeup tutorials saved, and dreams of a perfect senior night.
Then everything changed.
“Stage 3.”
The doctor’s words echoed endlessly in my mind.
Aggressive. Immediate treatment. Chemotherapy starts Friday morning.
I was only 17. I was supposed to be worrying about graduation, college applications, and whether my crush would ask me to dance. Instead, I was learning about treatment plans, side effects, and survival rates.
The hardest part was watching my hair fall out. Every brushstroke left strands behind. Every shower felt like a nightmare. I cried constantly.
My mom tried to stay positive. My dad tried to be strong. Neither could hide their fear.
By Wednesday night, I made my decision.
I wasn’t going to prom.
No stares. No whispers. No sympathy.
But Leo, the boy I’d secretly loved for years, refused to let me disappear.
“You deserve this night, Elena,” he said. “Trust me.”
I had no idea that by the end of prom, Leo would step onto the stage, shave his head in front of the entire school, and reveal a secret that would change my future forever.