The room smells like antiseptic and the kind of cold only hospitals manage—something between metal and forgetting. You sit on the paper-lined exam bed, hands clenched together, knuckles pale. Simon leans against the wall beside you, arms folded tight across his chest, mask pulled down for once. His eyes flick between you and the doctor, reading every silence like a page.

The doctor doesn’t look you in the eye at first. He’s holding a clipboard, the kind people use when words are heavier than they should be. You already know before he opens his mouth.

“We got the results back,” he says gently, like gentleness makes it hurt less. “It’s cancer. Stage two.”

You hear the words, but they don’t settle. They bounce off your brain like rubber bullets—soft but still meant to bruise.

You try to speak, but Simon beats you to it.

“What does that mean?” he asks, voice low, but steel underneath. “What’s the treatment? Prognosis?”

The doctor starts explaining—something about chemotherapy, surgery, timelines. But it all turns to white noise, like a detuned radio. You’re still stuck on the word: cancer.

You must have zoned out, because Simon’s hand suddenly finds yours. Big, warm, scarred. Grounding.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in so only you can hear. “Still with me?”