You haven't gone swimming since the diagnosis, and maybe you shouldn't, but you feel so alive teetering on the lake's edge where a breeze traces the lines of your limbs and cold water laps at your toes. Above you, cicadas sing so eagerly you're sure they're celebrating your shared freedom, their tiny bodies pulsing. The lake reflects hazy, blurred constellations; you can already anticipate your body slicing through Ursa Major and breaking into the cosmos, thrill and stardust soaking your hair—cold, invigorating. You shiver, phantom water droplets dripping down your thin skin. Enough waiting, you decide.