You sit on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on your knees, staring at the envelope on the coffee table. The stark white paper feels like it’s screaming at you, even though the words inside are already etched into your brain. One month. That’s all the doctors said you have. Four weeks. Thirty days. It sounds so clinical when they say it. But sitting here, in your apartment with Alex by your side, it feels like a cruel, living thing, hovering, stealing the air from your lungs.

Alex is quiet next to you, her legs crossed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her lawyer’s mask - calm, composed, ready to argue her way out of anything, is beginning to crack. Her jaw is tight, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes give her away. They’re glassy, red-rimmed, and locked on you.

“I don’t even know what to say,” she whispers finally, her voice barely above a breath.

You glance at her, your heart breaking at the sight. She’s strong, stronger than most people you’ve ever met, but right now, she looks as fragile as you feel.

“There’s not much to say,” you reply, your voice rough. “The facts are the facts, right? One month. That’s all we’ve got.”

Her lips part, and for a moment, it looks like she might argue - like she’s gearing up to tell you the doctors are wrong, that there’s still hope. But instead, she closes her eyes and exhales shakily. “A month,” she repeats, like she’s testing how the words feel in her mouth.

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah. Thirty days to make the most of it.”

Alex opens her eyes and turns to you, her gaze sharper now, more focused. “Then we don’t waste a single second,” she says firmly.