“Are you sure?” he asks.
The doctor holds his gaze.
“Yes.”
Seth’s shoulders go rigid. Something dark flickers behind his eyes.
“What does she need?”
The doctor turns the screen away. “We’ll need to perform a quick procedure to remove the remaining tissue. If we don’t, she risks infection and hemorrhage.”
Seth nods once. “Do it.”
The doctor looks to me.
“Is that okay?”
I search for a reaction. Grief. Panic. Anything that feels proportional.
There is nothing.
“Okay,” I say.
The doctor explains what will happen in simple terms. Cleaning. Making sure nothing remains. Monitoring afterward. The words drift in and out like they aren't meant for me.
I focus on Seth instead.
He stands so close to the bed his knee presses into the frame. His hands keep clenching and releasing at his sides, like he is holding something back with sheer force. His face is rigid, eyes glassy but locked on me, like looking away might make this real.
He leans down again, his mouth near my ear.
“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”
They position me and numb me. I feel pressure, movement, hands working where I can't see. I stare at Seth the entire time.
I watch his jaw tighten when the doctor begins. I watch him turn his head slightly, like he can't stand to look but can't leave either.
I feel nothing.
I don't feel pain, grief, or fear.
Just distance.
It is like I'm floating somewhere above my body, watching it happen to someone else.
Seth reaches for my hand again, and I let him take it. His grip is too tight, his fingers trembling. He presses his forehead to my knuckles for just a second, like he needs that contact to stay upright.
“I’m sorry.”
I can't respond.
I don't know how.
I keep staring at his face instead, at the way this is breaking him in real time. His eyes are red now. His mouth is drawn tight, the muscles in his neck standing out as he swallows again and again.
He feels everything.
And I feel nothing.
