When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone unfamiliar staring back at me. It was like a ghost version of myself, with pale skin and sharp bones peeking through. My blonde hair, which used to be thick and luscious, now looked like a mere shadow, barely covering my scalp. The volunteer shirt I wore hung loosely on my body, and my khaki pants sagged around my ankles, disappearing into my worn-out hiking boots.
I pulled my beanie down over my bald head, struggling with the clasp on my favorite watch, a gift from Pops for my sixteenth birthday. It felt too loose, like it didn’t belong on my wrist.
I sent a text to Noelle, too early to call. “Can you skip work? Need help @ the shelter.” My stomach growled, the idea of food almost as unappealing as the chemo in my veins.
Noelle’s response came
