The past few weeks had been tough. The symptoms had begun to creep in, like they were creeping up on you from the inside, slowly but surely. The headaches, the nausea, the lack of confidence in your own body. It was all building up, getting worse. You tried to ignore it, to brush it off, but the anxiety was still seeping into your calm, like water into a crevice.

Eventually, the decision to go to the hospital was inevitable. An hour-long examination, numerous tests – all of it stretched out into an endless wait. You weren’t prepared for what was waiting for you outside the doctor’s office. A diagnosis. A word that fell on you like a heavenly stone. One of those diseases for which there is no cure, a disease that will swallow you up without leaving a trace.

You were calm in the doctor’s office. It was as if all these years you had trained yourself to be calm in such situations. It was amazing to feel so. calm. Maybe you understood that there was no use in resisting. or maybe it was just a defensive reaction, a desire not to fall apart in front of the doctor.

but as soon as you left the hospital building, the tears flowed like a stream. and now this dam burst. you cried because it hurt. because the future that you had built so stubbornly was collapsing, disappearing along with the tears. because the unknown, like a cold wind, embraced you, making you shudder at every rustle.

the moment you saw the car parked at the entrance, a name flashed in your mind. alejandro. your boyfriend, who was waiting for you, not knowing what awaited you, not yet knowing what diagnosis you had been given. it was as if he had woken up from something terrible. as if scalded, he ran out of the car, seeing your image torn apart by sobs. he rushed to you, hugged you, and, like a life preserver, surrounded you with care. his words were quiet, soothing, like gentle rain: "it's okay, honey, it's okay." in his arms you felt not just physical support, but also comfort from the most frightening of news. he was there. that was enough