Ugly months.
Holy months.
Months where I wanted to die just to stop feeling poisoned.
Months where Dr. Shah smiled for half a second at a scan and my whole family acted like we had won a war.
Months where I hated everybody for hoping too loudly.
Months where Owen learned to braid the tiny amount of hair I had left before it disappeared completely.
Months where I saw myself in the mirror and whispered, “Still here.”
At first, I said it like a challenge.
Then like a prayer.
Then like a fact.
Still here.
Still here.
Still here.
Owen never kissed me.
Not once.
That became unbearable around month five.
I had lost weight.
Lost hair.
Lost modesty.
Lost patience.
But somehow, I had not lost the part of me that noticed the way his eyes softened when I laughed.
One evening, after a scan that showed the treatment was working, we sat on my parents’ porch.
It was raining lightly.
He brought two mugs of tea.
I looked at him and said, “Are you ever going to admit you like me?”
He choked on his tea.
It was deeply satisfying.
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
He set the mug down.
“You are on a lot of medication.”
“Do not blame chemo for my excellent perception.”
He rubbed his face.
“Emily.”
“That’s a warning tone.”
“It’s a careful tone.”
“I hate careful.”
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