A Pack of Light

NORMAL IS A LIE

Episode 2: Normal is a Lie

ONE MONTH AGO..

I walked out of the hospital building with sunlight stinging my eyes. It was brighter than I remembered—like the world had kept on turning without me, forgetting I once mattered in it. The taxi ride was quiet. I stared at my reflection in the window, tracing the outline of my jaw with my fingers. I’d lost weight. My bones looked more honest now.

The doctor's voice still echoed in my head. “No signs of recurrence. You're cleared for now. But recovery is more than just surviving, Isabelle. You have to live, too.”

Live.

The word landed like a dare.

Outside, people laughed. Cars honked. A man crossed the street with a bouquet in hand. I remembered the last time someone brought me flowers. My mother, wilted roses she swore were fresh.

I clutched the envelope of prescriptions and follow-up notes tighter. I was free. Or something like it.

My phone rang as I stepped into the elevator. Mama.

“Anak!” her voice sparkled. “Kumusta? Tapos na ‘yung check-up mo?”

I smiled even though she couldn’t see me. “Oo. Cleared na raw ako, Ma.”

I heard her sniffle. “Salamat sa Diyos… Anak, this is the best news. Maybe now, you can finally go back to school, back to your friends, back to normal.”

Normal.

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Maybe.”

Dad’s voice appeared in the background. “Tell her we’ll come visit next week!”

“I will, Pa. Ingat kayo.”

“We’re so proud of you, Isabelle,” Mama said. “This nightmare is over.”

I wanted to believe her. I really did.

The door to my apartment creaked like an old man stretching after sleep. I stepped inside and was hit by the scent of abandonment—dust, wood, and something faintly sour. It had been a month since I last saw this place. The walls felt taller, the corners darker.

My bed still wore the soft grey blanket I had folded like a ritual before leaving for the hospital. My desk was draped in a white cloth to keep it clean, but I could already see dust clinging to its edges like forgotten promises. On top of it sat a small pile of beanies—bonnets I used to hide the shame of my bare scalp.

I picked one up, mustard yellow, and pressed it to my chest.

I remembered crying in front of the mirror the first time I wore it. Crying harder when I got used to it.

My breath caught.

I opened the windows wide, letting in the light. I walked around slowly, touching things as if I were making sure they still belonged to me. The photo frame on my nightstand, the cactus that had surprisingly survived, the coldness of the floor beneath my socks.

This was mine. My little world.

And yet I felt like a guest in it.

I lay on the bed without sheets, staring at the ceiling when my phone buzzed. Marco Gutierrez.

I blinked at the name.

Marco: Heard you’re finally out. Can I come visit?

Marco: Promise I won’t stay long. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I hadn’t spoken to him since before chemo started. Back then, he’d been charming in a way that made girls blush and professors look the other way. He used to compliment me on my music, even though he probably never listened.

Still, I remembered the way his eyes softened when I said no to his first invitation. Not insulted. Just... curious. Persistent.

Maybe he saw something in me. Or maybe he just wanted to be seen with the girl who’d come back from the dead.

I typed back slowly.

Me: Sure. Tomorrow afternoon?

His reply came almost instantly.

Marco: You got it. I’ll bring coffee and cake. Or whatever you want.

I placed the phone on my chest and closed my eyes. The sun had started to lower, casting golden shadows over the clutter I hadn’t touched. I should’ve cleaned. Should’ve unpacked. Should’ve taken a shower. But I couldn’t move.

The doctor had said I was healthy. My parents said I was lucky. My classmates posted "Welcome back!" comments on my last photo.

And still, I felt like a hollowed-out version of the girl they used to know.

I got up and opened my closet, dragging out an old notebook from my college days. Music sheets—blank ones—tumbled out. I used to fill these with melodies. Piano lines, chords, even lyrics I never sang out loud.

But the music had stopped when the hair fell out. When the blood tests blurred. When I started smelling like disinfectant instead of perfume.

I flipped to a clean page.

And for the first time in months, I picked up a pen.

Maybe tomorrow, I’d wear something nice. Comb my hair—what little had grown. Maybe I’d even put on eyeliner and pretend my eyes still had light in them.

Maybe I’d let Marco talk and laugh and pretend I hadn’t seen the way people look at me now.

Maybe I’d believe I could want things again. Like music. Like closeness. Like touch that didn’t feel like a medical procedure.

I glanced at the yellow bonnet on my desk.

Maybe, just maybe, I was ready to start living again.