The Fault in Our Lungs

They always say depression is a side effect of cancer, but it's a side effect of death. Augustus Waters left the world a little brighter for me. In return, I want to make it brighter for someone else. And it all started with depression.

The week after Augustus 'passed on', Mom had sent me to a psychologist because I was eating less of my lunch and drinking 'unreasonable' amounts of water and tea.

The psychologist was well known and went by the name of Doctor Patrick Stewart. His office was on the other side of town by a McDonald's restaurant (Mom had promised some after the visit). The waiting room was draped in satin red wallpaper and the floor had cream colored carpets.

Patients filled the room of various ages from six to fifty (a guess, of course). There was two people in particular that caught my eyes.

1. A girl in the darkest of pink clothes and that was mumbling to herself.

2. A boy that wore the same color as the the room, like he wanted to blend in.

The clothes didn't catch my eyes, but the mere fact that they were very similar in features. They shared the same hair, eyes, nose, and height.

"Hazel Grace Lancaster, Mr Stewart will see you now," a nurse had informed me as I took in the sight of the pair.

"Do you want me to walk you in?" Mom asked.

I shook my head. This is where I'm different from your average teenager. I am a cancer kid with an oxygen tank on a cart. The cannula wraps around my ears and comes to my nose to deliver oxygen to my crap lungs.

That's when everyone noticed me with my big green tank being wheeled behind me. But I wasn't focused on everyone else, just the pair of kids in the corner of the room, desperately trying to disappear into the walls.

I had went in Mr Patrick's office and vented out to him.

"Who was Augustus to you?" he asked.

"He was certainly a friend. My boyfriend, to be exact," I had told him.

My face was expressionless, and my insides were filled to the brim with feelings.

"Who is this Issac person?"

"My other friend."

"How is he with the whole ordeal?"

"Blind."

"Excuse me?"

"He is blind. Cancer."

Patrick Stewart looked at me with empathy. Later, I learned that his late wife died of breast cancer. He chose to help depressed people because of her.

"Well, Hazel Grace, time to end our session. I do hope to see you Friday at the next visit," Mr Stewart told me.

"Okay." That word defined my life for what it really was: okay. I had to get cancer: okay. My favorite author is a jerk: okay. Augustus Waters had to go off and die: okay. All is okay.

I left the office and walked into two torsos on the way out. The two people in the waiting room.

"Sorry," the girl mumbled to me.

They both hurried pass me and into separate rooms across from each other. That was not the last time I saw them; only the first.