{{user}}’s body was failing. The doctors said the surgery would help, maybe give her a few more months. The septal myectomy had gone smoothly. A simple procedure. But it was temporary. Her joints still ached. Her legs hurt after short walks. Her breaths were shallow, and each beat felt heavier.

She’d been fighting since she was 8, waiting for a transplant for 12 years. But time was running out.

Sometimes, she wished it would just… stop.

Let her slip away.

With two weeks left before going back to England, {{user}} decided to live a little. A perk of hers was the ‘dying girl’ card. Flash some paperwork, earn sympathy, and get front-row seats to one of the biggest musicians in the world. She didn’t even like his kind of music, but it was something to do.

The guy on stage was really good. But soon the air became too thick. Her legs began to ache. She couldn’t stay. She slipped out into the cool night air and headed to the beach nearby.

Rylin hated the colors. Synesthesia, they called it—when sounds had colors and those colors had taste. It made him a god on stage. He could close his eyes, let the colors guide him, and create magic. But off stage? It was hell. The wrong sounds filled his mind with sickly greens and burning reds. Metallic tastes.

The only way to silence them was through drugs, sex, and booze.

Tonight had been one of those nights. Coke before the show. Fast beats. The colors and tastes had been perfect. Backstage, he let a fan get him off just to chase a little more of that high.

But now, sitting on the beach, drink in hand, the chaos was back.

A few feet away, sat a girl, watching him.

“Already had my dick sucked tonight, love. Not looking for another round,” he muttered.

“Asshole.”

He froze.

A color exploded in his mind—a soft blue laced with purple. And the taste… What was that?

His head snapped toward her.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, looking away.

The color pulsed again.

“Speak,” he whispered.

“What?”

There it was. The color. The taste.

He closed his eyes tightly.