If You Knew the Deadline

What would you do if you knew someone you love only had two years left to live?

Would you still postpone dinner because you’re tired?
Would you still choose work over weekends?
Would you still say, “Next time na lang”?

Two years sounds long — until you start counting it in birthdays, Christmases, random Tuesdays, and ordinary mornings. Suddenly, it’s not “two years.” It’s a limited number of hugs. A limited number of inside jokes. A limited number of “ingat ka” before they walk out the door.

And that’s when I realized something.

Life isn’t short.

If life were short, how do we explain people celebrating their 100th birthdays? How do we explain those who feel it’s too long and choose to end it themselves? Life isn’t measured by length alone.

Life is fragile.

Fragile like glass — it can last decades if untouched, but one unexpected drop can shatter it instantly.

We tell ourselves that longevity is something we can control. Eat clean. Exercise daily. Avoid stress. Stay away from gadgets. Stay away from processed food. Do yoga. Drink green juice. Sleep early.

And yet, there are people who do everything “right” and still find themselves in a hospital room hearing the words Stage 4. One day they’re strong and laughing. The next day, they’re fighting for their lives.

So no, none of us really knows.

It’s not fully about the food we eat.
It’s not fully about how disciplined we are.
It’s not fully about avoiding risks.

Because at the end of the day, we do not hold the calendar of our own existence.

And that truth isn’t meant to scare you.

It’s meant to wake you up.

If you knew someone you loved only had two years left, you wouldn’t waste time on petty arguments. You wouldn’t delay saying “I’m proud of you.” You wouldn’t assume there’s always another holiday, another trip, another random coffee date.

You would treasure the mundane.

You would sit longer at the table.
You would listen more carefully.
You would hug tighter.

But here’s the reality: even without a diagnosis, even without a warning, we are already living in uncertainty. No one can guarantee tomorrow. Not you. Not me. Not even the healthiest person you know.

We keep saying, “Someday.”
Someday we’ll travel.
Someday we’ll rest.
Someday we’ll say what we really feel.

But someday is a luxury none of us owns.

All we truly have is now.

Now is the only thing guaranteed. This breath. This moment. This ordinary day that feels so ordinary we forget it could be the last one with someone we love.

So live.

Not recklessly. Not carelessly. But intentionally.

Do what you want to do while you can. Love the people around you while they are still here. Forgive if you can. Speak kindly while you still have the chance. Make memories not because you’re afraid of loss, but because you understand how precious presence is.

And if one day it all ends — whether sooner or later — may it end with fewer regrets.

This isn’t a threat. It’s a reminder.

Life is not necessarily short.
But it is undeniably fragile.

And before you know it, the moment you thought would last forever becomes a memory.

So make the most of what you have.
Make the most of who you’re with.

Because right now — this second — is already a gift.

au revoir. 😊