It was my last day in this world, and I wanted him to spend it with me, even if it was just for a brief moment. I messaged him on Instagram and waited anxiously for his reply. I also requested to follow him.
Two hours passed without an answer. I didn’t want to die while I was outside, so I returned home. The maids had left the house to do some grocery shopping, leaving the house empty and quiet.
I started preparing a feast for dinner. At the same time, I prayed my brothers would return. I didn’t receive any messages or notifications that my follow request had been approved.
I sat down and looked at myself in a handheld mirror. I watched as the numbers above my head slowly counted down. I had three hours to go.
I wanted them to be with me on my last day in this life; I wanted to know how they would react when I died. Maybe they would be pleasantly surprised—no one cared about my life or death, after all. They were my family, but they despised me with every fiber of their being.
I brought the food to the table and waited. Some oil had splashed onto my hand while cooking, and it hurt. It didn’t take away from my excitement, though.
I realized something was wrong with me. I was so excited that I couldn’t help trembling.
There were two hours to go. I remained in my seat and stared fixedly at the door. Then, I picked up my phone and called Gary with trembling hands. “Gary.”
He’d answered my call but didn’t say anything. I asked, “Can you guys come home to have a meal with me? I’m going to die.”
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