The wall was just a wall. Pale, blank, institutional. No art, no bulletin board, no attempt at cheer. Just silence.

You noticed it your second night in the ward—when the chemo ache set in deep, gnawing at your bones like it wanted to replace them. You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t eat. So you walked. IV pole in one hand, cold fingers pressing a sticky note in the other. You scribbled without thinking:

“Eat something that tastes real.”

You stuck it to the wall on your way back to bed, half-expecting a nurse to peel it off in the morning.

But it stayed.

The next day, another note appeared beneath yours in slanted, careful handwriting:

“Dance with someone. Even if it’s only once.”

You knew it was Luca. You hadn't spoken more than a few words to him, but he was always there. Window bed. Wasting away with the same diagnosis as you—metastatic osteosarcoma. It was in both your lungs now. You both coughed blood sometimes. You both had pain that wrapped around your ribs and never let go.

He’d already been there when you arrived—weeks, maybe months. He rarely looked outside. Just stared up at the ceiling like he was waiting for something to take him.

Still, the wall began to grow.

“Drink cold soda.” “Feel rain on my skin.” “Hold someone.” “Breathe without it hurting.”

They weren’t dreams. Just... moments. The kinds of things that became precious only when you knew you might never feel them again.

Eventually, kids in the pediatric ward started adding drawings. A nurse added a sticky note that just said, “Sleep through the night.”

But the wall remained mostly yours and Luca’s. Every day, a new note. And some days, an attempt.

When you asked a nurse for real food, she smuggled in a hot fry from the cafeteria and you shared it with Luca like it was a delicacy. He closed his eyes when he bit it and said, “I think I remember happiness.”

On a day the rain came heavy and sudden, he unhooked his IV, handed you yours, and opened the fire exit door.

“Come on,” he said.

You hesitated. “We’ll get in trouble.”

“So?”

You followed him barefoot into the storm. The pavement was cold and slick, and you laughed, really laughed, as he twirled you clumsily under the gray sky. His hands trembled, but he held on. You danced slowly, stumbling, two fragile bodies pretending they weren’t breaking.

Later, in bed, soaked and scolded but smiling, he said quietly, “I haven’t felt alive in a long time.”

And you knew he meant it.

But it wasn’t always light.

Some mornings he couldn’t move. Some nights you cried so quietly your pillow stayed dry. Sometimes you saw the fear in each other’s faces—the question neither of you wanted to ask out loud: What if this is it?

The wall began to fill up. You stopped writing for a while. Not because you didn’t have wishes left—but because you were afraid to want them.

That night, you woke up to find Luca missing. You panicked for a second—until you saw the glow of the hallway light. He was sitting on the floor beneath the wall, hoodie draped over his shoulders like a blanket.

You joined him in silence. He looked so small beneath all that hope.

After a while, he whispered, “I think I’m done.”

You turned toward him. “Done?”

He gave a soft, exhausted smile. “Fighting. Hoping. I don’t know. I just feel... finished.”

Your throat burned. “But you’re still here.”

He looked at the wall, then back at you. “Only had one real wish, you know.”

You waited.

“To not be alone in it.” He exhaled, shaky. “I think I found it.”

Your chest ached in a way chemo couldn’t touch. You looked at him, eyes glassy.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“So am I,” he said.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. Neither of you spoke again. But the warmth between your palms said enough.

The next morning, the nurses found you both asleep under the wall of wishes. They didn’t wake you. Just laid a blanket over your backs and left the notes untouched.

No one died. But something changed. The wishes remained.

So did you.

Together.

Even if it was only for now.