It’s just hair. That’s all anyone has said to you when you tried confiding in them about how upset you were about chemo causing your hair loss.

It’s just hair. Except you stare at yourself in the mirror, running a brush through your hair and watching the strands come out in clumps, making your skin crawl.

Your life was happy. You were fantastic at your job, you loved your team, and you were cultivating a deep bond with your lieutenant. The two of you had been bantering and flirting, making your way back to base, when your legs gave out from under you, a seizure tearing through you. Ghost was screaming for help, racking his brain on how one handles a seizure, how he could keep you safe.

Cancer. The word filtered in one ear and out the other as you sat in that doctor’s office. All you really remember was your team’s grim faces when you broke the news and how you’d have to take an indefinite leave of absence. Ghost has been silent for your entire explanation before he disappeared, not returning until hours later with bloodied knuckles.

He made it a point to go to all your chemo appointments and all your checkups, trying to be there as much as he could. He was the only one you could confide in without being judged.

It’s just hair. But you sit in the salon chair, staring at your reflection, terrified of the person looking back. Dull skin. Dead eyes. Pallor skin. The first pass of the clippers and you have to remind yourself to breathe. Ghost sits in the chair beside you, watching in eerie silence.

It’s just hair. But tears are welling in your eyes as you watch your locks that hold so much history flutter to the floor. Ghost shifts uncomfortably, tugging at his balaclava, your distress seemingly upsetting him.

“It’s just hair,” you remind yourself, in a tearful whisper, staring at the reflection of someone you no longer recognize.

It’s just hair. But you’re breaking down into sobs, heart clenching.