The words come out uglier than I intended, and I see something flicker across his face. For a second, I think he’s going to fight back.
But his jaw just tightens.
Good.
I want to hurt something.
I can’t hurt a tumor.
I can’t hurt an MRI report.
I can’t hurt a prognosis curve.
Icanhurt him.
That’s familiar. That’s easy. That makes sense in a world where nothing else does.
“You don’t know anything about me,” he says quietly, and there’s an edge to it now, sharp and cold.
“I know enough,” I shoot back. “I know you’re here because you fucked up your perfect little life. I know you’re using my family as some kind of recovery retreat. I know that every time you look at me like you understand, like you get it, you’re full of shit because you don’t get anything.”
“Sloane—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Just don’t.”
I turn away, moving toward the hallway like I have somewhere important to be. Like I’m not about to fall apart in the middle of my own kitchen.
My phone buzzes again.
A notification.
New test results available in MyChart.
My blood turns cold.
I freeze, thumb hovering over the screen.
No. Not yet.
Tomorrow at ten. In person. With the doctor. With my family.
That’s how it’s supposed to happen. That’s how you’re supposed to hear these types of things.
That’s the right way. The responsible way. The normal way.
But I’ve never been one that does well with waiting when I know whatever’s coming is going to hurt. My thumb taps the notification anyway.
The app loads painfully slow, the little spinning circle mocking me as I stare at it, heart pounding so hard it’s loud in my ears. My hands are steady, which feels wrong. Like my body hasn’t caught up to what my brain already knows.
When the results page opens, my eyes go straight to the impression.
MRI Brain.
I swallow.
The words blur for a second, then sharpen, black and unforgiving against a white screen.
Interval progression.
