21/10/2025
One hundred and thirty-five days.
That’s how long we’ve been living inside this fight — breathing through every fear, waiting for every test as if it could change everything.
Now there are only four days left.
Four days until the “smart drug” treatment ends.
Four more mornings of IV bags and whispered prayers.
And then… a pause.
Before the next chapter begins.
Soon, they’ll test him again — searching for leukemia cells.
But I already know the answer.
There won’t be any.
There can’t be any.
This week, I met a new mother in the ward.
Her son was just diagnosed.
Her voice trembled as she asked, “How long? When will he get better?”
I wanted to give her hope, but the truth is — no one ever really knows.
So I told her the only thing I’ve learned here:
“Every child with leukemia writes their own book. Welcome to ours.”
As I watched her walk away, I saw myself months ago — terrified, sleepless, desperate for certainty.
But now, after everything, I’ve learned that strength doesn’t come from answers.
It comes from continuing — one breath, one prayer, one sunrise at a time.
These last days feel sacred.
Like a farewell to the pain, and a quiet welcome to healing.
Inside him, I imagine tiny battles being won — darkness fading, light taking its place.
Maybe that’s what hope really is:
Not the end of fear, but its transformation.
Not the disappearance of pain, but the beginning of peace.
We’re still here.
Still fighting.
Still believing.
And though leukemia doesn’t know it yet —
He’s already winning.
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