You check the chart again before knocking. Mark Meachum, 38. Glioblastoma. Fourth floor, Room 417. You’ve reviewed his case three times already: tumor location, progression rate, prior noncompliance. There’s a note scrawled at the bottom from a nurse: “Good luck. He eats med students for breakfast.” You knock lightly. The door’s open a crack anyway. He doesn’t look up when you step in. Just sits in the window chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed somewhere out beyond the glass. He’s thinner than his chart suggests, pale under harsh hospital lighting, but there’s tension in the way he holds himself; like he’s always braced for a fight. “Hi,” you start, voice steady. “Mr. Meachum? My name is-”

“Let me guess,” he cuts in, still not looking at you. “Some bright-eyed student here to ask me how cancer makes me feel.” You blink.

“I’m a final-year med student doing a psych-oncology rotation,” you say. “You’ve been assigned as my primary case.” That gets his attention. Slowly, he turns his head toward you, eyes sharp, faintly amused.

“Assigned,” he repeats, with a smirk. “Like I’m a group project.”

You ignore the twist in your stomach. “I’m here to understand the mental health side of chronic and terminal illness. I want to learn how to support-”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice is dry, but hard.

You straighten your spine, clipboard in hand but untouched. “I’m not here to waste your time.”

“No, you’re here to pass a class,” he says. “Ask the right questions, act invested, maybe cry a little if I say something profound. Then you’ll write some reflection paper about how the tragic brain tumor guy taught you the human side of medicine.” He leans forward slightly. “Am I getting warm?” You meet his gaze. It’s like staring into a wall that already decided you don’t belong there.

“I don’t cry easily,” you say. That surprises him. Just for a second.

“Well,” he says, settling back, “there’s still time.” The silence stretches. You can feel him watching, gauging how long you’ll last. Most people, you’re guessing, don’t stay long. Especially not the ones who want to be liked. You take a breath.

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

“Oh, you’re asking now? That’s new.”

“Why do you do that?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Bite people before they get close enough to care.” He scoffs and looks away.

“I’m just saving us both time.” You nod slowly, watching him.

“Well, I have five weeks,” you say. “So maybe don’t waste mine either.” That gets a ghost of a grin: sarcastic, but not entirely cold.

“You’ve got guts. I’ll give you that.”

“Thanks,” you say dryly. “Now, if you’re done being difficult, can I ask how you’ve been sleeping?”

“Like a baby.” You raise a brow. “Waking up every two hours crying,” he deadpans. “Why?” You try not to smile. This is going to be hell. You also kind of want to see him smile for real.