Page 121 of Break Me
More waiting.
I’ve memorized the layout of the hallway.
Raven sits beside me in the consultation room, spine straight, her fingers threaded with mine.
The oncologist steps into the room, offering us a small smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Instead of sitting, he studies us for a beat before making his way around the desk.
I feel it then.
Whatever he has to say isn't routine.
“I’m going to be very direct,” he says gently.
My chest tightens.
“The pathology confirms a high-grade serous ovarian carcinoma.”
I only know one of those words.
Carcinoma.
Cancer.
Everything after that blurs together for a moment as I wait for the sentence to change. It never does.
“It is Stage IV,” he continues. “It’s spread throughout the abdominal cavity. There is significant peritoneal involvement. The ascites indicated advanced disease.”
Raven inhales slowly. “How long?” she asks.
No tremor.
No tears.
Just a question.
The doctor hesitates, just slightly. “With aggressive chemotherapy,” he says carefully, “some patients live a year. Sometimes longer.”
A year.
He doesn’t look convinced.
“And without it?” she asks.
He pauses again. “Months.”
The room shifts.
“Months how?” I ask.
His eyes move toward me. “Possibly weeks to months. This is an aggressive cancer.”
Weeks.
My body reacts before my mind does.
My ears start ringing. Not loud, just enough that everything else dulls around me. The air in the room feels thinner. My vision narrows at the edges, dark creeping in like I stood up too fast.
I blink, and the office comes back in pieces.
