I guess the irony of the whole scenario was that larger breasts were actually a symptom of my sickness: essentially, as the tissue mutated, and the cells divided, my breasts had been growing. They’d never been particularly sedentary appendages anyway. When I discovered the lumps, my initial thought was that they were simply my monthly cycle: my breasts usually plumped up a week from my period. But I’d just had my period and these lumps were nothing like the ripe, tender swelling I normally experienced. They were hard and misshapen under my skin, like marbles in a woollen sock. And then the baby was thrown out with the bathwater, so to speak, and my breasts were sliced off and tossed away along with the cancerous growths. Once adorned with my sedentary, silicone replicas I was surprised by how much I missed living by that quiet, fleshy cycle. I was shocked, as well, by how much I came to miss my period.

‘Often, a genetic predisposition for breast cancer correlates with a genetic predisposition for ovarian cancer. So, if you have breast cancer while you’re young, the risk of developing ovarian cancer later in life is quite high,’ the doctor told me. ‘It’s not unheard of, though, that the two should develop pretty much alongside one another like this. I’m so sorry.’

I’d known from that moment that my period wouldn’t come back. I’d even taken solace in it as a consolation prize: You can’t have children, but don’t worry! You won’t have to put up with a bloody crotch once a month anymore. But as the months unfolded, I was taken aback by how much I missed anticipating that bloom of blood in my undies and I found that I couldn’t disentangle the rhythm it afforded my life from all that it symbolised: not only that I wasn’t pregnant this month, thank god, but that I might have been, and still might become.

The loss wasn’t as bad for me as it would be for others, because I’d never been entirely sure I actually wanted kids; but I still felt it.

‘I feel like I can’t do what’s natural, you know?’ I tried to explain to Jem. ‘Like I’ve somehow lost a chance to properly experience my body. I’m too young for this. It’s not fair. I feel like something’s been stolen from me.’

Jem covered one of my hands with one of his. I remember so clearly the way his skin looked: dramatically weathered against mine, which was chemo-ravaged—nothing but baking paper, lightly traced over with a blue pen.

‘I know, Luce,’ he said gently. ‘But really, I don’t think I would’ve been comfortable having them anyway. We’re a plague.’ He meant humans. ‘And now you and I won’t be responsible for contributing to it.’