AN: Yep, I'm awful and you're all allowed to hate me. Life has been so crazy hectic, and this story really did get brushed to the side in a heat of writer's block. Luckily for you, my writing buddy/kitten Abra had to have surgery yesterday, so I've spent the entirety of the day in my office with her as she sleeps off the drugs that still haven't passed through her teeny-tiny system, and decided to mix my attention between her, episodes of Cougar Town, and this story.

That being said, this begins the second part of the story, the aftermath of her situation. Watching people going through cancer is awful, but the hardest part for me has always been seeing them try to come back from it. It changes you drastically.

You can tell me off about my lack of scheduled attention to this story by hitting the review button down at the bottom!

PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN

I stare at myself in the small circle I've wiped in the fogged bathroom mirror, thankful for the blurred frame that hides my still slim body. In this moment, I am just a face; just short, cropped hair atop darkening skin. I let my fingers trace through the spikes that naturally appear on my head, the remnants of my shower cooling my palm.

"It's coming in red," I had squealed, bouncing into my mothers' room, "My hair is coming in red!"

Even after a month, the colour still seems strange to me. It's a refreshing change and, yet, it feels as though my past is trying to haunt me. I can't help but imagine that the colour of my bedroom before is trying to push its way out of my skull now. Of course, it's not the red the walls were, just a slight tint in what will always be brown, but the idea stays the same in my head - horribly sordid.

"Sofia?" Mami calls, "Come on, your breakfast is getting cold!"

Breakfast signals the beginning of the day, the final act we share before shepherding ourselves out the front door. Mom will go save little children, Mami will fix bones, and I will walk the hallways of my school for the first time since my diagnosis. I will travel through crowds of students, people who were once peers and who are now significantly ahead of me in their class completion. I will sit amongst kids younger than me, trying to decipher math equations I should've already learned and reading books I should've already reshelved. This is unlike anything I've ever had to do before.

I gag over the bathroom sink, the anxiety that has been looming over my head for the past week coming to life within my stomach. I don't want to do this. I don't want to be sick. I don't want to go to school. I don't want to eat breakfast with my mothers and pretend like everything is alright. Bile stings at the back of my throat, propelling me towards the toilet. I lift the lid just in time to spill my guts.

"Sofia?" Mami asks worriedly, throwing open the bathroom door, "Are you alright?"

"Please don't make me do this," I cry, "Please."

"I'm going to school!" I squealed, dancing around the confines of our apartment, "I am five years old and that means I'm going to kindergarten today!" I whooped with delight, grabbing onto the strings of the helium balloons that clung to the ceiling, forming a rainbow trail behind me.

"Sofia..." Mami tried to coax, setting a freshly iced birthday cake on the counter.

"I'm five!" I yelled again, "And I'm going to go read books and write my name and make friends and have recess and two plus two is four and -"

"Sofia," Momma attempted, "Come sit at the counter with me."

I complied, setting the balloons free so I could climb onto one of the high stools. "Is there snack time at kindergarten? Will I get to paint? Do they have blocks like at day care?"

"Slow down," Mami reprimanded, covering the cake so it could be set aside for after dinner.

"Sorry, Mami," I answered carefully, not truly taking in the weight on their faces. "I hope Daddy got me a backpack for my birthday so I can put my crayons in it. And Bunny. Bunny can I come to school, right?" I looked towards Momma expectantly.

"Sofia," she began softly, "I know we said you could go to kindergarten when you turned five -"

"And I'm five today!" I hollered, "One, two, three, four, five."

"But it's May, Sofia," Mami continued, speaking a little louder than Momma, making it a little more difficult for me to interrupt, "Kindergarten doesn't start until September."

"No," I answered quickly, "You said when I was five. I'm five now, I want to go to kindergarten."

"I'm sorry, Sofia," Momma whispered, stroking back my mane of dark curls.

"No," I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes, "I want to go to kindergarten."

"I know, baby," Mami sighed, rounding the island to wrap me in a hug.

"You lied," I sobbed into her chest, feeling Momma's hands stroking my back, "You said when I was five I could go." For months I had been envisioning the classroom walls, all the friends I would make, how smart I would be once I could go to school. I wanted to be a doctor, a teacher, someone who lived on the ocean floor. They had promised me that I could go to school when I turned five, just like they had (for years on end, as Mami had muttered under her breath).

Kisses pressed into my temple, belonging to both pink and crimson lips. "I'm sorry, baby girl," Momma whispered, making me cry even harder.

"I don't want to be five anymore," I hiccupped, "I want to be September."

"Sofia," Mami singsonged within the confines of the television screen. Toys littered the floor around her; blocks with letters, a walk 'n ride, a million different things bought surely for developmental purposes.

"Momma," an infant version of myself babbled, looking towards the camera operator. Little me clung to a couch cushion, wobbly legs supporting her tiny body.

"Come here, Sofia," Mami coaxed, the camera shot now entirely focused on my younger self.

The first step was uncertain, knees bending and straightening in a test of strength. Then one foot settled before the other, repeated again and again until 'I' grabbed hold of Mami's extended fingers. My mothers' cheers erupted from the television speakers, tiny, toothless, beaming baby smiling through the screen at me.

"Did you eat anything?" Mami asks as she enters the apartment, the door closing behind her with a startling bang.

I pause the video and lean over the back of the couch to look at her. "No," I confess, "I couldn't think of anything that would be enjoyable to relive."

She laughs in spite of herself, wandering over to set a brown paper bag - an image that sends me whirling back to the hospital cafeteria - on the coffee table. "Chicken noodle," she says before collapsing onto the cushions at my feet. "What are you watching?"

"My first steps," I say, colour rushing to my cheeks.

"Nice choice," she smiles, taking the remote from my hands, "But nothing tops the first potty video."

Instead of blushing furiously, as I always do when that awful - and filmed - memory is mentioned, I look at Mami sadly. "Do you ever wish I had never grown up?" I whisper.

She looks to me and, not for the first time, I feel as though I'm looking in a mirror. A much older, more certain mirror, but still a reflection I hope to emulate.

"Always," she answers softly, "I miss having our tiny little person climbing into our bed on Sunday morning. But I'd miss talking to you, if I went back in time now. I love the beautiful young woman you've turned out to be, just as much as I loved the beautiful little girl you were."

I crawl across the distance between us and into her arms, subconsciously thankful for the prematurity that, even at fifteen, has kept me small enough to fit in her lap. "I don't want to be responsible. I don't want to go to school and start over. I just want to stay a kid, right here with you and Momma taking care of me."

She kisses my head, gently voicing her understanding but, unfortunately, not her agreement.