The night before my first chemotherapy treatment, I almost skipped prom because I couldn’t bear the thought of facing everyone’s pity. Then my date walked onto the stage, shaved his head in front of the entire school, and set in motion something I never saw comingI went from obsessing over silver heels for prom to staring at clumps of my own hair in a brush in less than two weeks.No exaggeration.Two weeks ago, my biggest crisis was finding the perfect shoes to match the emerald green dress hanging on my Instead of worrying about photos and corsages, I was trying to process the words “Stage 3.Those words had been echoing in my head nonstop since the doctor said them.Stage 3Aggressive.Immediate treatment.Chemotherapy starts Friday morning.closet door.I had screenshots saved, makeup tutorials bookmarked, and an entire Pinterest board dedicated to my senior prom.

I was 17 years oldI was supposed to be worried about graduation, college applications, and whether my crush would ask me to dance.Instead, I was learning about treatment plans, side effects, and survival rates.The worst part was that I already looked sick.My hair had started falling out much faster than anyone expected.Every time I brushed it, more strands came loose.shower felt like a horror movie.I couldn’t stop crying.mom tried to be positive.My dad tried to be strong.Neither of them could hide how scared they were.And if they were scared, how was I supposed to feel?By Wednesday night, I had made my decision.I wasn’t going to prom.Simple.Problem solved.No stares.No whispers.No pity.