Rachael Lippincott

But I look across the pond at Will again, the boy I love, who has B. cepacia and will never get the opportunity in front of me.

I have to choose now.

New lungs?

Or Will?

I look up at him and he smiles at me so wide that it’s not even a contest.

Will was right. Do I want to spend all my time left swimming upstream?

I push off him and try to spin, throwing my arms out, my face turned toward the starry sky. Twirling around and around on the slick ice, I hear his voice.

“God, I love you.”