I met her by the sea the day that I became an alien. I sat in a cold room and waited. It was unbearable, I was hot and sweaty. I thought I was dying; maybe I was. Babies crying, noises that I couldn't define—everything was muddled up.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably only ten minutes, a man with a white coat led me into a white room. He might’ve been a doctor, to be frank, I don't remember. Much of that day was reduced to blurry faces and the knowledge that I should have known their names but didn’t.

I have forgotten. The details. The pain. Though what I recall is the chill of the seat he told me to sit in. How it was colder than the one I’d waited in, how very silent it was, enough for me to notice myself too much. Unable to hide from peering eyes that were mine, I realized I wanted the noise back. I wanted everything back. I wanted my life back. Yet, they took it.

They took it the moment they told me it was over.

I recall observing his rough hands clasped together as he announced my fall to me, his words devoid of emotion as if I'd jump onto his desk and strangle him—beg them to reconsider my situation—if he were to show the slightest sentiment.

“You have two months.” The words hit me, yet, not quickly enough. It wasn't like a slap to the face where you find your ears ringing and yourself at loss for what to say. It was like a dream, something imaginary. You hear the facts, you nod, you thank them for their time, they apologize, ask questions, if they can do anything, but you politely turn them down as you thank them again, and then you're outside, the cold wind whipping at your face, and a leaf flies past you, a pack of young children walk, too, and you think, At least they have the rest of their lives ahead of them. And that's when you fully realize the predicament you’ve found yourself in, because now you know you don't have time, it's over, it's the end of the line for you and nobody cares, they're all strolling in the streets, laughing, complaining, looking at everyone but you, and you want to scream, Don't you all care that I'm dying? I'm dying! It's over! The clock is ticking and you don't care!

Don't you see that I'm dying?

I didn't scream. I didn't do anything actually. I only walked on, toward a place; though I wasn't sure of where that would be just yet, I would find something, somewhere, eventually.