Then something in her gives a little. Not all at once. No dramatic break. Just a hitch in her breathing before her eyes start filling anyway. The tears come silently after that, slipping down slowly while she still tries to keep herself composed. Somehow that makes it worse to watch.
“Hey.” I pull her toward me immediately.
She folds into me without resisting, pressing her face against my chest. I can feel how tightly she’s holding herself together, like she’s trying not to let this turn into something bigger once it starts.
So I don’t push. Don’t rush her.
I just hold her.
After a minute or two, the tension slowly starts easing out of her body. Her breathing steadies until she finally leans back enough to look up at me.
“Tell me,” I say again, softer this time.
She studies my face for a second, something flickering through her expression. Relief maybe. But there’s something else underneath it too.
“I think I have cancer.”
The words settle between us heavily.
I hear them. Understand them. But they don’t fully land at first.
“What makes you think that?”
She swallows hard. “I can feel something. Inside. Lower down.” A pause. “It’s been there for a while. I kept thinking maybe it would go away.”
My chest tightens. “How long?”
“A few months.”
I absorb that quietly. A few months. And she never said anything.
“Describe it.”
She hesitates before answering. “It feels firm. Not soft.” Her hand presses lightly against her stomach. “When I touch it, it doesn’t move the way everything else does.” She stops for a second, trying again. “It just feels… wrong. Like it shouldn’t be there.”
“Show me.”
She takes my hand and guides it down, placing it low against her abdomen just above her hip. Her fingers adjust mine slightly until they’re exactly where she wants them.
Then I press.
I feel it immediately.
For one second, I want my hand to be wrong. Want there to be nothing there at all.
But there is.
Firm beneath the surface. Distinct. It doesn’t shift when I press against it. Doesn’t soften or move under my fingers.
It just stays there.
I force my expression to stay calm even as something cold settles low in my stomach.
“Do you know how big it is?”
“It’s growing,” she says, showing me the size with her fingers. “It was smaller before.”
I adjust my hand against her stomach, tracing it carefully beneath my fingertips. There’s shape to it. Size. Something solid enough that it can’t be ignored.
