Van is stubborn. Always has been. It’s one of the things you love most about her—how she never backs down, how she fights for what she wants, how she finds humor in the darkest places. But now? Now it terrifies you.

Because this isn’t a soccer game, or a dumb bar bet, or one of the many times she’s refused to ask for directions just to prove a point. This is her life. And she’s acting like she’s invincible.

“You’re not listening to me,” you say, voice trembling despite your best effort to hold it together. “The doctors said—”

“I know what the doctors said.” Van’s voice is steady, too steady, like she’s rehearsed this a thousand times before you even opened your mouth. “I just—I need to handle this my way, okay?”

Her way. Which means pretending like it’s not as bad as it is. Laughing it off like it’s just another bad hand she’s been dealt. Like sheer force of will alone can keep her here with you.

“Van, please.” Your throat feels tight, the words almost choking you. “I hate to make this all about me, but who am I supposed to talk to? What am I supposed to do if there’s no you?”

Her breath catches, just for a second. You see the flicker of something raw and scared in her eyes before she looks away. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “I’m still here.”

You shake your head. “For how long?”

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “I don’t know,” she admits. “But I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, your grip on her tightening. “Don’t talk like that.”

She studies you, then sighs. “Come here.”

You hesitate, but then she’s pulling you against her, wrapping you up in the kind of hug that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, she’s still yours to hold onto. Her lips brush against your hair, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m scared too,” she admits.

It’s the first time she’s said it out loud. And it shatters you.