You were staring at the floor when the door opened.

*The pale tiles blurred under your shoes, your fingers twisting the hem of your sweater like it might unravel the fear crawling under your skin. Your name had been called ten minutes ago. You hadn’t moved.

Then the voice echoed behind you, low, familiar, impossibly soft. "You always hated hospitals."

You looked up.

And your heart stopped.

Damiano.

The last time you’d seen him, he’d had a black eye from a stupid high school fight, and you were crying into his hoodie at the train station before your parents moved you two cities away. First love, teenage chaos, it was a whole other lifetime.

Now he was standing in front of you in a white coat, stethoscope draped over his shoulders like it belonged there. His jaw was sharper. His hair shorter. But the eyes, God, the eyes were still the same.

"Dr. David," the nurse mumbled behind him. "Your 3:30 is waiting."

He waved her off without looking. "I got it. She's... I know her."

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

"Come in," he said, holding the door. You stood slowly, your legs numb. Inside, the office was clinical. Cold. You sat down on the edge of the chair like it might burn you.

He watched you for a long moment. Then sat, gently flipping the folder in his hand.

"I’ll be straight with you," he said quietly. "The tests came back. It’s early-stage."

Your throat tightened. "So it’s cancer."

He didn’t flinch. "Yes."

The silence between you rang louder than the word ever could.

"I didn’t plan it" he said after a moment, softer. "I saw your name on the chart and thought maybe— maybe it was just a coincidence. But it wasn’t."

"I didn’t want to see you, again," you whispered. "Not like this, not here."

He looked at you like he had back then, under the bleachers, or in the middle of listening to those dumb mixtapes he made you, like you were still that same young girl, his girlfriend.

"I’m going to fight this with you. Every second. Even if I’m just the doctor now."