I studied, really studied her, and I saw it. The way her skin had paled. The slight hollowness around her eyes. The way she smiled, like she was trying to keep us from worrying.

And I wanted to scream. Because I should have noticed. Because I did notice. Because I had known something was wrong, but I had told myself it was nothing. I had told myself she was just tired, that maybe it was stress, that whatever it was, it would pass.

But it wasn’t passing.

It was real.

And I couldn’t do anything about it.

“It’s early,” Dad said after a while, his voice steady but strained. “The doctors caught it early.”

But the way his hands curled into fists, the way his eyes momentarily darkened, said everything.

It didn’t matter that they caught it early.

It mattered that it was there at all.

Mom must have seen something in my face because she reached for me with trembling hands, pressing a palm against my forearm. “It’s—” Her voice cracked slightly. “I don’t want you to panic.”

Panic?

My body was nothing but raw nerves and pounding blood.

“We’re going to fight this,” Dad said, offering a faint smile. “We’re going to be strong. As a family.”

I felt my ribs caving in. They were trying to crush my lungs, trying to make sure I couldn’t take a full breath.

My body was already bracing for the worst.

My throat closed.

I couldn’t do this.

I couldn’t do this now.

Not after last night. Not after having Beverly.

Not after finally letting myself want her out loud.

Not when I was about to tell them everything.

Everything I had spent last night telling myself—everything I had promised her, every word I had let slip between us—it all felt like a cruel joke.

I had let myself believe in something.

And now? Now, I had to bury it.

My pulse pounded in my ears.

Mom was saying something, something about appointments, about treatment, about hope.

I barely heard it. Because my own heartbeat was too loud.

I didn’t even realize I was shaking until Beverly’s fingers brushed against mine. I jerked away. Not because I didn’t want her touch. But because if she touched me, I was going to break.

All the words I had been about to say? Gone.

All the courage I had built up? Gone.

All the hope I had let myself feel? Fucking gone.

Because I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t be selfish.

I couldn’t stress Mom out.

I couldn’t make this about me.

I had to be the son they deserved.

I had spent my whole life being a problem. I had spent my whole life taking up space where I didn’t belong. I had spent my whole life wondering if I was something they regretted.

I would not be a burden now.