It was not as dramatic as it sounds. I make it sound like we were watching a soapie when all of a sudden our phones beeped with the latest trending news. Which, in the current situation, was my impending death.

I invited my parents over to dinner and asked my girlfriend to cook the meal that my parents liked so much. She easily agreed, seeing that some previous nights before I was crying like a five-year-old who had lost his teddy. She also probably sensed that it was important to me.

I started it nicely, trying to make the impact as subtle as ever.

We all know that someday we will die. It is inevitable. I mean, grandma is dead, the two dogs are dead, grandpa also. It’s just not something that we can prevent from happening.

By then, I had three confused faces staring at me, trying to understand what I was saying.

Most people will live a long life before that time comes. Some others will have their lives cut short. Like me.

And then the tears started. Questions about what was wrong, about when it started, about if I was sure. No one believed me until I told them exactly what the doctor had told me.

I just replaced the ten months with two.

It had taken me eight months to tell them.

What a despicable person I am.