Page 1 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
ELLIS
Tip #1: Life shouldn’t be a eulogy rehearsal. Shut up, eat a mini quiche and live a little.
“How does it feel?” Dr. Mason’s voice cut through the stillness of her office, the double-glazed windows doing little to mute the ruckus of the bustling city outside.
I blinked at her dazedly, taking in her seated form across from me in her usual chair—legs crossed, pen poised over a notebook filled withme. My words, my silences, my habits, and my bullshit, all documented over months of weekly sessions.
She waited patiently, her face calm behind black-rimmed glasses, brown hair twisted into a low bun at her neck.
“Um… can you repeat the… whole question?” I asked weakly, a flush creeping up my neck. “I zoned out for a second.”
She smiled softly and nodded. “I asked how it felt to be a year post-transplant. You must be feeling very reflective today.”
I shifted uncomfortably, pulling the sleeves of my gray sweater over my hands as I swallowed. The office felt too warm. Or maybe I was just running too hot today. I was one badthought away from overheating—or spiraling, whichever came first.
How was I supposed to answer her question?
I hadn’t wanted to come today. I hadn’t felt emotionally capable of acknowledging the spiral in my mind, but Mom had insisted. She told me today was the one day, of all days, not to miss—given the gravity of it all.
“So, how do you feel?” Dr. Mason’s voice remained calm, serene, as if afraid that even the slightest shift in tone might startle me, like some frightened animal.
Maybe in her eyes, that’s exactly what I was.
“I guess I feel alive,” I said finally, shrugging uselessly as I leaned forward, taking a glass of water from the table and downing it in a long gulp.
It was too hot in here.
Dr. Mason nodded once, hardly reacting to my blunt statement. I wasn’t giving her much to work with, but I’d told her when I walked in that I didn’t want to be here today. She regarded me through her glasses, giving me that calm, practiced stare. The look of a seasoned therapist, dissecting me, waiting for me to contradict myself.
Because I always did.
“And what doesalivefeel like to you, Ellis?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, as if examining me under a microscope.
I stared past her, out the window at the world outside, turning her words over in my mind. Because what the helldidalive even feel like?
I knew what it was supposed to feel like. I knew the dry mechanics of it all. The scientific side of things.
For all intents and purposes, I wasalive. But that didn’t mean I knew how to be.
I used to think there would be amoment. That there would be some kind of jolt in my body that would make it all feel real,makemefeelrealagain. Something that would allow my mind to relax and recognize that I had made it. That I was still here.
But it never came.
Instead, I had spent the last year… waiting. Waiting to wake up and feel normal, whatever normal even meant. Waiting tofeelsomething. Waiting to feel grateful. Waiting for this new heart to fail me the way my last one did. Waiting for some other organ to crash. Justwaitingfor the next shoe to drop.
I forced my eyes back to Dr. Mason, who showed no signs of impatience as she waited, leaving me to wrestle with my thoughts rather than pushing me to answer. It was one of the things I appreciated about her. She let me respond when I was ready.
“I guess it feels like… like I have a pulse. Lungs that work. A heart that beats.”
Dr. Mason nodded slowly, tapping her pen against the notebook. “How did you do with your assignment last week? Did you stop researching?”
I grimaced and tugged at the sleeve of my sweater. “Um, no.”
“Ellis, we talked about this,” she said gently. “You needed to take one week off from studying the success rates of heart transplants. No Reddit forums. No TikTok videos. And no posting about it on your own channel. You’re spiraling, and you’ll continue to spiral if you spend every waking hour mapping out the approximate year youmightdie.”
I clenched my jaw, trying not to flinch at the honesty in her voice, at how calmly she called me out. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I licked my dry lips.
“I don’t want to be taken by surprise again.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. I clasped my hands in my lap, exhaling heavily. “Listen, this heart is eventually going to fail me. Or something else will. Because that’s just what happens to me, okay? I’m sorry if it’s not the positive, flowery outlook we’vebeen working toward for the last ten months, but it’s just facts. And I work better with facts. I think better. I cope better.”
