I took it.
Black.
Bitter.
Terrible.
I drank it anyway.
At the cancer center, Owen did not touch me without asking.
He did not call me brave.
He did not say everything happened for a reason.
He sat beside me in the waiting room and read every form twice.
When the receptionist asked, “Relationship to patient?” he paused.
I expected him to say friend.
Or fiancé.
Or actor, because apparently shame meant nothing to him.
Instead, he looked at me.
“What do you want me to be?”
That question hit harder than it should have.
For almost a year, Caleb had been telling people what we were.
Future husband.
Partner.
Soulmate.
Then he walked out and made me explain his absence while my body was already betraying me.
I looked at the receptionist.
“Support person,” I said.
Owen nodded once.
“Support person.”
The second doctor was a woman named Dr. Priya Shah.
She had sharp eyes, silver earrings, and the calmest voice I had ever heard.
She reviewed my scans.
Then reviewed them again.
She asked questions my first doctor hadn’t.
When symptoms started.
Which blood tests had changed.
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