The Fault in Our Stars – John Green

Lena had never liked hospitals. The smell, the silence, the fluorescent lights. They felt like waiting rooms for sadness. But after two years of living with bone cancer, she was used to it. Or at least, good at pretending she was.

She had friends—some real, some temporary, some who didn’t know what to say anymore. But it was easier to just scroll and stay quiet. Until she met Leo.

She wasn’t trying to meet anyone. She wasn’t trying to be “normal” or have some coming-of-age romance. She was just waiting for her blood test results when someone in the chair next to hers sighed loudly and muttered, “This place smells like death and expired pudding.”

She glanced up. He was about her age, with messy curls and dark eyes that sparkled despite the IV in his arm.

“You’re not wrong,” she said.

He looked over, smiled, and said, “I’m Leo. I’m here for the pudding.”

She laughed for the first time that day.

He handed her a tiny slip of paper with his number.

“Text me if the pudding ever improves.”

That night, she did.

Lena: Still smells like death. Still no pudding.

Leo: Tragic. Maybe bring a scented candle next time. Cinnamon roll, perhaps?

Lena: Too flammable. Can’t have the hospital burning down. I’m still using the wi-fi.

And that’s how it started.

They texted every day. Sometimes stupid jokes. Sometimes deep stuff—about treatments, fear, the weird way people look at you when you’re “the sick kid.” They talked about music. Favorite books. Bad dreams. Good days.

Leo made her laugh. A lot. But more than that, he saw her. Not as a patient. Not as someone fragile. Just… Lena.

He told her about his cancer. How it started in his lungs. How he had one surgery, then another. How sometimes, he was terrified. How he hated when people said, “Stay strong” like it was a command.

Leo: Why can’t I just be soft sometimes?

Lena: You can. I’ll still think you’re brave.

Leo: Even if I cry at commercials?

Lena: Especially then.

They met up one afternoon after an appointment. Walked through the city with matching medical masks and coffee in hand.

“I’m supposed to avoid crowds,” she said.

“So we’ll avoid them together,” he said.

They talked for hours, ending the day sitting on a quiet rooftop with paper cups of lukewarm tea, watching the sky bleed pink and orange.

“I hate how beautiful the world is sometimes,” she whispered. “Like, it hurts.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s even better when you’re in it.”

She looked at him then, her heart aching in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time.

That night, he texted:

Leo: I’m glad we met, even if the circumstances are crap.

Lena: Me too. Even if we’re just two messed-up constellations.

Leo: We’re still stars, though.

They didn’t use the word “love.” Not right away.

It came in moments. In hand squeezes during chemo. In playlists sent at 2 AM. In the way Leo memorized her favorite poems and recited them when her pain was too much to talk through.

He called her "stardust with a spine." She called him "sunlight on a cloudy scan."

But the truth was always there, like gravity pulling them closer.

The decline came faster than either of them expected.

Leo’s cough got worse. The hospital visits got longer. The messages shorter. But Lena kept texting.

Lena: Today sucked. I miss you.

Lena: I wish I could fix it.

Lena: I love you.

No reply.

Then, hours later:

Leo: I love you too, Lena. Always. Even when I’m not texting back.

When he passed, it was quiet.

No dramatic scene. No last words. Just a message left unread and a silence she couldn’t text her way out of.

At his funeral, she read a note he’d written just a week before:

“You made me feel infinite in a body that was breaking. You made the end feel less like a goodbye and more like a moment between messages.

If stars fall, it’s only because they want to be closer to people like you.”

Now, every night, Lena texts him.

She knows he won’t answer.

But she texts anyway.

Saw the stars tonight. They looked like you.

I laughed at a joke you’d love.

I’m still here. Still loving you