Page 122 of Break Me

Desk.

Diploma on the wall.

The curve of Raven’s shoulder.

Weeks.

My pulse hammers in my throat. My hands feel distant, like they don’t quite belong to me anymore.

I press my feet flat into the floor.

Ground.

Chair beneath me.

Breathe in.

I will not break in this room.

Not in front of her.

Raven sits still. Too still.

Her hand is still wrapped around mine, fingers threaded so tight her knuckles have gone pale.

“I didn’t feel sick,” she says, her voice is steady. “Not until recently.”

“Ovarian cancer is often called a silent disease,” he explains gently. “Symptoms are vague. Bloating. Fullness. Mild nausea. Many women attribute it to stress, hormones, pregnancy, gastrointestinal issues.”

She swallows.

“If we had come in when the first test was negative—” I cut in. “We should’ve called sooner. We waited. We thought⁠—”

The doctor looks directly at me. “You did nothing wrong.”

I shake my head. “We thought we tested too early. That we miscalculated.”

“And that’s exactly what any physician would have told you,” he says. “Given Raven’s age and symptoms, if you’d called after the first negative, you would’ve been advised to wait a few weeks and retest.”

He leans forward slightly. “This cancer has been developing for some time. Those few weeks wouldn’t have changed the outcome.”

The guilt doesn’t leave, but for now, I shove it down and attempt to deal with what’s in front of us.

Cancer’s something you cut out.

You remove it.

You fight it.

I shift forward in my chair.

“Surgery,” I say. “You operate and remove it.”

The words come out steady. Practical. Like we’re discussing a broken part in an engine.

“It’s not that simple.” The doctor holds my gaze. “The cancer is not operable in a curative way. The disease is too widespread.”

“So you take out what you can.”