The slight vibration of a car when it's moving. The setting sun's gleaming rays. The cool wind of the air conditioner.
Juno had never paid them much mind, but today, it was as if every mundane thing in the world mesmerized him.
A man and a woman were arguing in the front seat, but their voices were drowned out by the world around Juno.
He felt the car slowing down, the slight force pressing him against his seatbelt. Outside, on the sidewalk, people were going about their day—uncaring and unbothered. A lucky few held each other's hands.
This prompted Juno to look at his own. He raised his right hand, the forefinger slightly crooked from years of holding a pen, day and night, locked away in his room.
While others lived their lives, he lived someone else's—the people sitting in front.
As they argued about what to do with his life without asking him what he wanted, a wave of nausea rose from his stomach. He quickly covered his mouth with one hand and tightened his abdomen.
"STOP," he demanded.
The pair fell silent.
"What? Why?" asked the man driving, confused.
The woman looked back at Juno and knew immediately. "He's gonna vomit. Stop the car," she said urgently.
"What? I can't stop in the middle of the highway," the man replied.
"Just stop on the side!" she snapped, her voice full of frustration.
Sensing the change in tone, the man carefully changed lanes, turned on the hazard lights, and slowly came to a stop by the roadside.
Juno unbuckled his seatbelt and stumbled out, hand over his mouth. Outside, he doubled over and threw up. His eyes watered; he gasped for breath.
The woman got out with a water bottle and handed it to him. Juno took it and drank as she gently patted his back.
The man stepped out too, but stayed by the car. Other drivers passing by gave them looks that he tried to ignore.
Just as Juno finished drinking, a truck going well over the speed limit approached with a loud, obnoxious growl.
The truck slowed slightly as it passed. The passenger-side window rolled down, and a fat man leaned out and hurled a paper cup filled with soda at Juno.
"Go back to your country!" he shouted.
The cup landed near Juno, some of the sticky liquid splashing onto him. The truck sped off.
Juno just stood there, staring. The farther the truck got, the more overwhelmed he became.
It felt like the whole world hated him.
"Are you okay?" the man asked, still standing a few steps away. His voice was full of concern. He took a step toward Juno.
"Okay?" The word stabbed Juno, snapping something inside him.
"I am not fucking okay. I am dying… I'm gonna die. Do you understand what that means? I have cancer. How can I be okay? Tell me—do I look fucking okay to you?"
Slap!
Warmth spread across his cheek as his face turned. He looked at the woman who had slapped him. Her eyes were filled with tears. Juno had never seen her like this.
"Don't talk to your father like that," she said, her voice trembling.
Juno bit his lower lip and walked past her to the car, slamming the door shut behind him.
The rest of the ride home was silent. No one said a word.
When they arrived, Juno got out quickly and hurried to his room, head hung low, eyes on the verge of flooding.
He slammed the door behind him. The wind from it ruffled the blinds by his bed.
He threw himself onto the bed, burying his face in the pillows.
"Aaah—" anger-filled noises escaped, turning into muffled cries.
Outside, his mother stood by his door, reaching for the knob.
His father stopped her, shaking his head.
She turned to hug him, sobbing into his shoulder as he patted her head.
Juno's tears joined theirs.
"Why us?" she whispered to her husband—and to the world. "Why our boy?"
But no one answered. Not her husband. Not the world.
Juno didn't move for hours. But the sobbing stopped. His eyes had run dry, leaving behind only a stuffy nose.
Knock. Knock. The sound echoed from the door.
"It's dinner time, honey," said his mother.
"I'm not hungry," Juno replied.
Silence.
"Alright. I'll leave some food by your door, in case you get hungry."
She opened the door, placed a plate down, and left without looking at him. She couldn't bear it.
Some time passed. Juno sat up slowly on his bed. His eyes and nose were red, the pillow stained with tears.
He stared at a dent in the wall.
A memory surfaced—he and his cousin were play-fighting when his elbow smashed into the plaster. They tried to hide it, but got caught.
A small smile formed on his face, only to fade as he realized he hadn't spoken to that cousin in years.
His eyes shifted to a photo on his desk.
An RV stood in the background, with a man and a woman flanking a boy holding a tiny fish.
The boy's smile was broad, proudly showing off his catch.
Juno stared at that photo, whispering to himself, "Two years..."
His mind drifted back to a few hours earlier:
"Juno has glioblastoma multiforme. It's a grade IV astrocytoma—GBM for short. I won't sugarcoat it. The chances of survival are 5–20%, even with chemo. 20% live for 12 months. Only 5% go past 2 years."
He couldn't remember being happier than in that photo—free, unburdened.
Right then, he made a decision:
He wouldn't spend the rest of his days in misery—going to chemo and cancer support groups.
He stood up, walked to his wardrobe, and grabbed some clothes.
Behind them, on a small slab, were his savings—years of part-time jobs. $8,000. He stuffed the money into his pocket.
Then he noticed the sandwich left for him.
Like a barbarian, he stuffed it into his mouth. A few gulps later, the bread got stuck in his throat.
He pounded his chest, to no effect. He grabbed a water bottle and chugged. Relief.
He let out a deep sigh and finished the sandwich. Leaving the plate on his bed, he walked out.
The hallway was dark, except for the light spilling from his room.
The door to his parents' bedroom was closed, lights off. Juno exhaled in relief.
He tiptoed to the front door.
Next to it, keys hung on a rack. He turned on his phone flashlight, rummaging through them.
"Found it," he muttered.
He unlocked the door and stepped outside.
Above, heavy clouds loomed, moonlight peeking through and casting a silver glow.
His eyes focused on the old camper van at the far end of the driveway, separate from the garage.
He slowly opened the van door—it let out a grotesque creak.
His dad had always said it needed grease.
The inside smelled musty. Juno covered his mouth with his shirt and made his way to the driver's seat.
He tossed his stuff onto the passenger side and jammed the key into the ignition.
"One shot," he whispered. "Just one shot."
He turned the key.
The engine coughed like a dying pig—grrk—grrrk—then silence.
He tried again. Nothing.
The house lights flicked on. His heart raced.
He tried again. Still nothing. Then he looked at the fuel gauge: LOW.
"Fuck. I'm fucking stupid," he muttered.
The van hadn't been used in over a year. Of course it had no fuel.
The front door burst open. His father stepped out, gun in hand. His mother followed close behind.
"Get out of my house!" his father shouted, aiming at the van.
The inside was dark—they couldn't see who was inside.
But Juno didn't move.
He turned the key one last time—with everything he had.
Vrrrmmm! The engine roared. The inside lights flickered on.
His parents' eyes widened as they saw him.
His father lowered the gun. "What are you doing, son?" he asked, voice softening.
Juno rolled down the window.
"What I should've done a long time ago," he said calmly.
He shifted the gear into reverse.
As the van backed up, everything inside clattered and shifted.
He aligned it with the road and looked at his parents, still frozen in place. He hesitated—there was a force coercing him to look at his parents but he didn't. Then he drove off.
As he pressed the accelerator it felt liberating why couldn't he do this before was the thought as he smiled. Then a chuckle escaped which turned into laughter.
Crack!. Something broke with a mettalic clang.
Juno tried to steer—but the wheel didn't respond.
The next moments were too fast to process.
The van veered off course, barreling toward a house wall.
Juno raised his hands instinctively—then—
Nothing.
There was no crash.
No van.
No sound.
Just… nothing.
As if it had never existed.