As the life is slowly draining out of me, I remember my first time ever smoking a cigarette for real. It was the day of Hazel Graces funeral. I smoked the whole package that night. I sat by her grave and talked to her while lightning one cigarette after the other. After that night I continued to smoke one package a day.

Three month have passed since the day of Hazel Graces funeral. 92 days, 92 packages of cigarettes, 1.748 cigarettes.

I remember coming home after smoking the first package. My parents had been waiting up for me and, of course, the smelled the smoke immediately. I didn't get in trouble though. My mom stayed calm and just asked: "Did you smoke?"

I answered: "Yes."

"Why? I thought it was a metaphor..."

I just said: "Metaphors are for people who are trying to say something. I don't have anything to say anymore."

"But you don't have to start smoking the cigarettes for real. Just stop buying them. You don't even enjoy them, do you? You always said just the smell of cigarettes makes you want to throw up."

I said nothing after that. I didn't want to tell her the truth, though I suspected that had guessed what I was doing. I wasn't smoking to enjoy, I was smoking to die.

Two months later I was admitted to the hospital because the cancer had returned, worse this time. The doctors gave me another month, maybe two.

Now, one month later, I am lying in my hospital bed and reading the last six pages of "An Imperial Affliction" one last time. I've read it at least four times over the course of the past few weeks. It reminds me of her and how she died, in the middle of her life, in the middle of a sentence. I won't die like that. I will die at the end of my life, even after it, for my life was over the moment her heart stopped beating.

As I finish the book and lie it down next to my hospital bed, I can hear the heart monitors beeps slowing down and I know that they soon will come to a stop.

I shake the last cigarette of the package I had with me when I first met Hazel Grace, out of the box and put it between my teeth without lighting it.

I lie back into the pillows and close my eyes, because the risen sun is too bright in my losing eyes.

If someone entered the room now, they would hear a boy with an unlit cigarette between his teeth whispering "Okay.", followed by the long and final beep of a heart monitor.

So this is the epilogue I promised (sorry for posting so late, my inspiration was kinda not there these past few days). I hope you enjoy it, and again, if you notice something about my writing that needs improvement, please let me know. Of course, I'd also appreciate positive reviews ;)