A/N: This picks up approximately two years after the season four finale. Most of the basic storylines are the same; I've changed a few small things, that's all. I think it'll make sense, but if you have questions, you can always ask and I'll be happy to clarify. I realize that this chapter is very short, but it's just the prologue and I have the next chapter written in its entirety. Should I be starting another story right now? Well, no. But I am. So let me know what you think!

Prologue

"Change alone is eternal, perpetual, immortal."

-- Arthur Schopenhauer

Things change.

One second you're eight years old glaring at Nathan Scott, who's always chasing you around the schoolyard, the next you're looking into your father's grief-stricken eyes as he solemnly tells you that mommy's in the hospital and she might not be okay.

One minute you're pushing the shirt off the arms of the most beautiful boy you've ever seen, kissing him feverishly, the next you're running scared because it's too much and it's too soon.

One hour you're staring out the window of a car, watching the world race by while your broken heart keeps on thumping in your chest, the next he's all sweaty and victorious and he looks like he's having an epiphany as he says that it's you, and he's talking about his dreams and your dreams and it feels like you always wanted it to when he kisses you under a shower of multi-coloured confetti.

One day you're so enamoured with him that you just lie there all day listening to his slow, lazy voice read you the words of Harper Lee's famous novel, kissing him under the shade of the trees in his backyard and whispering his name like a prayer and not resisting in the least as he tugs the soft, cotton material of your shirt up over your head, the next you're skipping down your home's walkway to get your mail and you find a letter that offers you a job that you know you've got to take, and when he shows up moments later to find you staring at it in shock, he wraps you up in a big hug from behind and kisses your neck and whispers that you have to go, and you realize that you're going to be leaving him.

One week you're on a road trip to see a concert and it's just days of driving along bumpy roads, staring up at the stars, making love in the backseat of your car, promising forever to one another because you can't imagine any other way to live, the next you're back home and returning to reality

One month you're goofing around with all your best friends on a basketball court by the river, still flying high of just-graduated bliss, the next you're fetching coffee for snobby, stupid record execs and only dreaming of your hometown.

One year you're talking to him late into the night, whispering how much you love him and how much you miss him and how much you want him, and the next he's not yours to love or miss or want anymore, even though a lot of the time you still do.

One second you're just standing there idly sorting through papers that rest on your small, insignificant desk, the next your knee are giving out and you're collapsing on the floor, steeped in so much pain that you can't even tell exactly what hurts, and everything's a blur of oh my Gods and paramedics and wishing there was someone here to hold your hand and pain, pain, pain. One minute you're lying there in a ball of agony, the next a man with kind eyes has his hand on your wrist and is hastily asking you questions. One hour you're lying on a cot with an IV stuck in your arm, looking away while a nurse draws blood, the next you're no longer in so much pain and sitting with a doctor who's asking question after question. One day you're stuck in the hospital for eight hours only to return home exhausted and scared and teary-eyed, the next you're returning to get some more tests done. One week you spend nearly every day in and out of this lab or that lab while people constantly demand samples of every fluids your body's got, and there are tubes down your throat and under your nose and you're throwing up dye from x-rays and scopes and who knows what else, the next you're returning to the hospital after another sleepless night because they've promised that they'll finally have your diagnosis. And when you finally sift through all the medical terms and decipher the message in the doctor's regretful eyes, you ask bluntly you long you've got, and the answer horrifies you a little bit because it comes in months, not even close to a year.

All you can do is listen, just barely, to your treatment options, while you stare at the floor and fight back tears born of anger and grief, thinking of all you once wanted and all you don't have and all you'll never get, contemplating how very easily things change.