Declan’s beautiful, sleeping face comes into focus as my eyes flutter open. He’s right by my side, and it’s obvious that he slept there overnight. His hand is still clutching mine, and seeing it is almost too much to take in. The words he said before I fell asleep echo in my mind, and my entire body swells with gratitude for him.

I’m so thankful he was there. And that he’s still here.

I sit up carefully so I don’t wake him and spot my parents sleeping in the room too. They’re sitting side-by-side in uncomfortable looking chairs, my mother’s head resting on my father’s shoulder. She must have come back into town when she heard what was happening with me and seeing her there warms my heart.

But my stirring must be louder than I thought because all three of them slowly start to wake up, blinking their sleepy eyes as they try to get their bearings. My mother’s the first one up, and she hurries over to my bedside to stroke my face.

“Oh, thank god, you’re awake. I’ve been dying to see those beautiful eyes all night. Are you okay?”

“I’m feeling alright,” I tell her quietly, and it’s the truth. I am feeling a little better this morning, but anxiety is still writhing inside me waiting to hear what’s actually wrong with me.

Declan and my parents fuss over me a little, all three of them clearly determined to make sure I’m as comfortable as possible, but we’re interrupted when the doctor knocks on the door and steps inside. We all look over at him, and I can feel the subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room. I’m not the only one who’s been anxiously awaiting an update from him.

“We have some answers about your MRI results,” Dr. Landers says carefully, glancing over the papers on his clipboard, and my heart leaps into my throat. But Declan scoops my hand in his, offering silent, unwavering support and instantly bringing down my anxiety. I couldn’t imagine getting whatever life-changing news the doctor is about to give me without Declan here at my side. My heart pounds against my ribcage, and time seems like it starts to stretch out.

“Based on your history of escalating symptoms—the persistent migraines, vision disturbances, and halo effects you’ve been experiencing,” Dr. Landers continues, “we’ve confirmed a diagnosis of intracranial hypertension.”

“There’s no tumor?” I ask, my voice small and fragile.

“No tumor,” Dr. Landers confirms. “No cancer. Just an elevation of cerebrospinal fluid pressure that’s been causing your neurological symptoms.”

I blink at him, trying to process what he just said—because I’m still stuck on the first part.

I don’t have a tumor, and I don’t have cancer.