"Please don't kill me."
The words tear out of me before I can stop them, thin and trembling, like paper ripped down the middle. My heart thunders against my ribs. Every breath feels like it's slicing my throat. The room smells of rain and cold metal. He's standing there — still, impossibly still — a shadow cut out of the dark.
I back up until my spine hits the wall. My palms are slick. My nails bite into my own skin just to keep me from shaking apart. He tilts his head, and for a heartbeat I swear his eyes soften.
He steps closer.
—
The smell of antiseptic.
A clock ticking too loud.
I'm alone in the doctor's office, perched on the edge of the chair. No one to hold my hand. Just me and the papers on the desk.
"I'm so sorry, Arya. The tests are clear. Stage four carcinoma. Six months… maybe less."
Her voice is soft, but the words hit like bricks. My mouth tastes metallic. I clasp my own hands together, fingers digging hard into flesh until my nails leave crescents in my palms. The sting steadies me. It's the only thing keeping me from floating away.
I nod, because nodding is easier than speaking. I take the papers because my hands know what to do even when my mind doesn't. I stand, because standing is what people do after being told impossible things.
Outside, the world is sun-bright and ordinary. A kid kicks a soccer ball. A woman loads groceries into a trunk. My secret follows me home like a second shadow.
Our house looks the same — chipped blue paint, crooked porch light, Mom's flowerpots on the steps. Bread bakes somewhere inside. The smell of home presses against the newness of the news and makes it sharper.
Bryan is on the couch, headset askew, fingers moving like he's conducting an invisible orchestra. "Hey, Arya," he says without looking up. "You good?"
"Yeah." The word comes out flat but true in the simplest, most performative way. Mom calls from the kitchen, humming. "Dinner in ten, sweetheart!"
I tuck the papers into my bag like contraband and follow the choreography of family life — wash my hands, sit, smile at the right moments. I laugh when they laugh. I answer when called. I fold the secret into my chest and press it flat so no one can see the edges.
Later, behind a locked bathroom door, I open my palms. Tiny half-moons bloom where my nails dug in. Pain is a compass; it points me back to the present. I make lists in the dark, counting days the way other people count heartbeats.
Day 0 — the diagnosis.
Day 1 — the first full day I still have to live.
Day 2 — call Professor Hale about the poetry seminar.
Day 3 — the lake, while the water is still warm.
Day 4 — learn Mom's cinnamon bun recipe without burning the center.
Day 5 — let Bryan think I don't hear him when he sneaks into my room to talk about nothing.
I don't write them down. For now they live in my head like a small, steady pulse. They are mine.
Outside, the streetlight hums and the world goes on. I whisper the numbers into the dark until sleep takes me, nails still tender against my palms.