Until Next Year

Every summer, the same sun poured over the pine trees lining the campgrounds, and every summer, it felt like nothing had changed—until everything had.

We had this tradition, the three of us—me, Chloe, and Mata. We met at Camp Alderwood when we were thirteen, back when puberty still felt like a rumor and camp felt like the only place we could really breathe. Now we were sixteen, and this was supposed to be the summer we stayed up way too late and talked about college applications, or crushes, or the kind of nonsense you only talk about with the people who know you by your laugh and not just your name.

But the thing is… some summers don’t go the way you think they will.

I arrived two hours late on the first day, my backpack already ripping at the seams and sunscreen smudged across my nose. When I got off the bus, Mata was already there, waving her arms like she was directing a plane. I hadn’t seen her since last August, but she looked exactly the same—same messy hair, same giant grin, same glitter nail polish half peeled off.

“Nora! Dios mío, you’re finally here!” she shrieked, hugging me so tightly I had to remind her I was still breathing.

She pulled back, hands still gripping my arms. “You look taller.”

“I think you say that every year.”

“Maybe I do,” she shrugged, then tilted her head slightly. “Chloe’s already here.”

Chloe stood by the cabin door, hoodie zipped to her chin even though it was hot enough to melt lip balm. She smiled when she saw us, but it didn’t really reach her eyes. I recognized that smile—the kind you put on when you’re holding everything in, just barely.

“Hey stranger,” I said.

She shrugged. “Hey.”

The first few days were a blur of hiking, friendship bracelets, and sneaking Oreos past curfew. Mata kept trying to start a conga line during breakfast. I got in trouble for trying to dye my socks in tie-dye class. Chloe mostly hung back, watching from the sidelines, laughing when we dragged her in—but only for a moment.

On the third night, we stayed up after lights out, whispering in the warm glow of Mata’s phone. We were lying on our backs on our squeaky bunk beds, talking nonsense like we always did—boys, books, bad cafeteria food.

“What do you think we’ll be doing this time next year?” I asked, flinging a gummy bear into the air and trying to catch it with my mouth. It bounced off my cheek instead.

“How about Mata becomes a famous YouTuber, I finally write that fantasy novel but forget to save the file, and Chloe—”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to come next year,” Chloe said suddenly, cutting me off.

The words dropped like stones.

Mata sat up halfway. “Why not?”

There was a long pause. I heard the sheet rustle as Chloe sat up too.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything yet,” she said, “but I think I should.”

She took a breath. Then another. Her voice trembled just slightly.

“I got diagnosed a few weeks ago,” she said. “It’s cancer. Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I haven’t started treatment yet—they wanted me to have this week before chemo starts.”

I froze.

“They caught it a little late, and… I don’t know what’s gonna happen. I’m scared. Like really scared.”

No one spoke for a second. Mata was the first to move—she slid off her bunk and pulled Chloe into a hug without saying a word. I climbed down and sat beside them.

“You’re gonna fight it,” Mata said, through tears. “You’re gonna win. You’re Chloe-freaking-Martinez.”

Chloe gave a watery laugh. “That’s not my last name.”

“It is now,” Mata sniffled.

I didn’t say anything for a bit. I was scared to say the wrong thing. Then I just blurted, “I wish I could punch cancer in the throat.”

Chloe smiled. “Me too.”

The next morning, everything felt the same—and completely different. We went swimming in the lake. We fought over who got the last pancake. We played cards until dusk. But there was a new rhythm now—an urgency. Like we all knew the clock was ticking, and we wanted to make every second loud and full.

That night, by the bonfire, Chloe danced.

She didn’t perform. She opened up. She twirled barefoot in the dirt, arms stretched like she was reaching for something—connection, maybe. Her eyes were open, bright with the fire’s glow. When we caught her gaze, she smiled, wide this time, and motioned us in.

She wanted rhythm. She wanted warmth. She wanted to not feel alone.

So we joined her. Mata threw in clumsy spins. I copied Chloe’s turns, awkward but sincere. We laughed too loud. We got dirt all over our socks. We danced like idiots, like kids, like people who loved each other more than they ever knew how to say.

Chloe’s joy lit us up. It was contagious. She didn’t need a spotlight—she was one. I watched her and all I could think was: please let her be okay.

On the last morning, we exchanged hugs that felt more like we were holding each other together.

Before I got on the bus, Chloe handed us each a little envelope. “Don’t open until you get home,” she said.

Inside mine was a note on lavender paper:

“Nora,

Thanks for making this week feel like something else. Like I could just be Chloe, not sick-Chloe. I don’t know what happens next, but having this week meant everything.

I hope next summer I’m standing on that dock again, yelling at you to stop stealing my hoodie.

Love you forever,

C.”

I cried in my bedroom when I read it. Like a full-on ugly cry. Then I texted her a picture of me wearing her hoodie, because yeah, I’d definitely “borrowed” it when she wasn’t looking.

We don’t know what next summer looks like. I want to say it’ll be golden. That we’ll be back on that dock, eating gummy worms and making dumb jokes. But I don’t know.

What I do know is that some summers don’t go how you plan.

And some still matter more than any of the others.

Even the ones that break your heart a little.