Ethan stepped out of his house. He wore casual clothes, some dark jeans and an oversized hoodie.
A black messenger bag hung across his shoulder.
Noah gestured toward the waiting taxi.
Ethan said as he slid into the backseat, adjusting his bag.
"I had to get my medication organised."
Noah didn’t take it seriously, he guessed it was some kind of antibiotic or paracetamol, nothing too serious.
None of his guesses prepared him for Ethan’s matter-of-fact response.
"I’ve been recently diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Need to keep my insulin pens with me, coupled with fast and slow-acting glucose in case of hypo or hyperglycemia."
Ethan spoke like someone discussing the weather rather than a life-altering medical condition that would shadow every decision for the rest of his existence.
Aunt Mei didn’t tell me about this...
But of course she hadn’t. Aunt Mei specialised in cheerful updates about family achievements and gentle inquiries about Noah’s romantic prospects.
Medical diagnoses didn’t fit her conversational template, especially ones involving her teenage son’s new dependence on pharmaceutical intervention for basic survival.
Noah had heard about it, he wasn’t ignorant about the condition.
An autoimmune condition where the body’s immune system destroys insulin-producing beta cells in the pancreas.
Unlike Type 2, which developed gradually through lifestyle factors, Type 1 struck without warning or obvious cause.
The pancreas simply... stopped working.
Hyperglycemia meant blood sugar levels climbing toward dangerous heights, requiring insulin injection to prevent diabetic ketoacidosis, a potentially fatal condition. Hypoglycemia meant blood sugar crashing toward unconsciousness, requiring immediate glucose intake to prevent seizures or coma.
A constant balancing act between too much and not enough, with death waiting on both sides.
"I... I see," Noah managed.
The taxi driver glanced in the rearview mirror, sensing the change in the tone. He’d probably transported enough passengers to recognise when small talk had evolved into something more substantial.
Ethan’s expression remained carefully neutral, but Noah caught the flicker of vulnerability beneath his cousin’s composure.
How long has he been dealing with this?
The small bag suddenly made perfect sense.
It wasn’t a fashion accessory, but a survival toolkit containing the medication required to keep Ethan’s blood chemistry within acceptable parameters.
Insulin pens for high blood sugar, glucose tablets for dangerous lows, testing strips to monitor the invisible war being fought inside his body.
And I thought my loan shark problems were stressful.
Realising that his young cousin was terminally ill made him feel sad for the kid.
His thoughts wandered back to his cousin’s recent heartbreak, It was bad enough to be dumped for someone with more money, infinitely worse when you’re already dealing with the psychological burden of a lifelong medical condition that marked you as different, fragile, requiring special accommodation.
No wonder he looked so defeated. It wasn’t just about the girl.
"When?" Noah asked gently.
"Three weeks ago," Ethan replied, his tone maintaining that careful neutrality. "Started feeling really thirsty, tired all the time. Mom thought it was stress from school. Then I lost like fifteen pounds in a week and started throwing up."
"Hospital stay?" Noah probed, already knowing the answer.
"About a week. DKA—diabetic ketoacidosis. Basically, my blood turned into acid because my pancreas decided to quit without notice."
Ethan’s laugh carried no humour.
"Great timing, right? Amy was posting pictures with Jason while I was learning how to inject myself with insulin."
A sixteen-year-old kid processing a permanent medical diagnosis while simultaneously discovering his girlfriend’s betrayal. No wonder Ethan had seemed so hollow when he met him.
"Does she know?" Noah asked.
"Nope. Haven’t told anyone at school yet. Still figuring out how to explain why I need to eat lunch at specific times and things like that."
Ethan’s attempt at humour fell flat, revealing the anxiety beneath his composed facade.
Taking him on a shopping spree just became a lot more important.
Noah’s original plan to spoil his cousin with nice clothes and gadgets suddenly felt inadequate. This wasn’t about teenage materialism anymore—it was about giving Ethan something positive to focus on while adjusting to a reality that would follow him forever.
"The insulin," Noah said carefully, "is it expensive?"
"Oh, monumentally," Ethan replied with bitter cheerfulness. "Like, mortgage payment expensive. Monthly. Forever. Insurance covers most of it, but the copays are still brutal. Dad’s been stress-eating antacids since we got the first pharmacy bill."
Another piece of the family puzzle clicked into place.
"That’s..." Noah searched for appropriate words and found none. "That’s a lot."
"Yeah, it’s basically a subscription service for staying alive. Premium membership in the ’not dying from lack of insulin’ club."
Ethan’s dark humour made Noah worry.
"But hey, at least I lost those fifteen pounds everyone keeps saying teenagers need to worry about."
The taxi turned onto the main shopping district, its windows revealing stores that had previously been beyond Noah’s financial reach.
Time to make this kid’s day significantly better.
Ethan nodded, shouldering his bag.
The first store greeted them, and Noah approached the nearest associate, a woman in her thirties whose smile managed to be both professional and genuinely welcoming.
Her quick assessment of their current attire resulted in exactly zero judgment, which immediately elevated her in Noah’s estimation.
"Looking for anything specific today?" she asked.
"Complete wardrobe upgrade for both of us," Noah replied with the casual confidence of someone who’d recently discovered the joy of not checking price tags.
"Business casual, weekend wear, whatever you’d recommend for someone of my age and his age."
Listen to me, talking like I understand fashion.
The associate’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm.
It was rare to find such a heavy spender.
"Wonderful. I’m Sarah. Let’s start with some basics and build from there."
After some time of Sarah guiding them through the store and different choices, Ethan stood in front of a three-way mirror, transformed by clothes that fit him good.
The difference was remarkable—not just in appearance, but in posture. His shoulders had straightened, his stance more confident.
The kid looks like he belongs in a college catalogue.
"How do you feel?" Noah asked.
"I feel...good." He smiled.