If a stranger glanced at me on the street, they would see me as a normal, typical girl. But if they looked closer, they would see the sun reflecting wrong on my chest, my skin jutting out in the wrong way. They would see a thin white tube, the size of a stir stick, threaded in my chest, over my collarbone.

“Wait, what do you have?”

Every time I went on a first date in my late teens and early 20s, and told the person my diagnosis, they asked that question. And then, “How does it work? It’s a tube?” and then, “Are you dying?”

Well, yes. I was dying.

I have a serious lung disease, pulmonary arterial hypertension. A doctor told me when I was 18 years old that I had 10 years to live.

I would watch every muscle on their face and wait for the twitch in their brows to navigate their mind. I hoped for a response, the perfect one. The one where I didn’t feel like falling six feet below the café floorboards. A kind smile, a gentle look, a simple “I understand.”

It wasn’t always that way.

“Hi! It is so nice to meet you!” I greeted my date, who was wearing a grey sweater and jeans, his winter boots clomping on the floor, slush shooting out from underneath. My hands sweated as I scraped my painted nails on the table in front of me.

People walked by and sat down at nearby tables as I wracked up the courage to tell Grey Sweater about my diagnosis. His side-eye notified me he knew something, but just didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Do you think they have soy milk?” Grey Sweater asked, getting up to grab a cup right next to me. The conversation flowed, but I knew my time was running out–literally and metaphorically.

I battled myself day and night over this. Was I worth staying with when I knew I didn’t have a future? How was it fair to ask someone to watch me die? It was not. But neither was the face Grey Sweater gave me when I told him about my tube. A mix of disgust and terror, like he wanted to crawl away from the subject on all fours.

Before I continue, I should say that was the worst reaction I ever got. People are not inherently bad. I do not want you to be afraid of falling in love, but I do want to share my honest experiences, and it isn’t all sugar and cookies. It can hurt, it can be scary, but it can be beautiful too.

On an icy winter day, an entire year after Grey Sweater, I met a boy who wore an orange T-shirt. I was bundled up in a scarf, and he was in summer clothing.

We spent a couple of hours walking along Bank Street, sitting on cold benches, looking for a warm coffee shop to sit down in. When we did, I knew it was time.

“That’s so cool!” said Orange T-shirt, “Can I see your tube?” He looked at me with bright, curious eyes. Surprised by the reaction, I showed him, and he started firing questions at me. This was the first time the reaction was more curiously excited than curiously afraid. We spoke for hours about it, and it was nice not having a disgusted face to look at. This face was open, kind. The expression was similar to one I had seen years before.

It was my first date about 10 months after my three-week hospital stay with all its blinding lights and endless procedures. I met a man, and we spent hours walking around a lake, discussing everything. He was the first person I told about my diagnosis who did not know me before the tube. Mr. Lake Walk let me vent everything that had happened to me. He listened. The wind blew in the trees around us, the water perfectly rippling onto the grassy shore. Mr. Lake Walk wasn’t scared. He wasn’t disgusted, didn’t try taking on the Canadian geese on all fours to get away from me. He was thoughtful and kind.

I used to battle with myself about whether I should even try to date. Should I let someone fall in love with me when I knew how and when I would die? I was hesitant about letting people in, but now, looking back, I am learning to let the world take me where it wants. But every once in a while, the most absurd plot twists come along.

Take last summer, for example, when my doctor told me that I am no longer going to die at 28. I can look toward the future and plan for a much longer time. That change in itself showed me that in life, anything can happen.

Sometimes, Mr. Lake Walk comes up to you in the Algonquin College cafeteria, four years after your first date and asks if you remember him. Sometimes, guys like Grey Sweater find you on Bumble, and you start talking again. Sometimes, a boy with an orange t-shirt shows you that your body isn’t scary and disgusting.

From all of this, I have learned a few things, but mainly: Do not be afraid to love others. I am 23, and I am still learning how to navigate love, but I am trying, and that is all I can honestly ask for.

Be selfish, be brave, and fall in love whenever you can.