I can’t look at her book. I can only look at the clear bag above her,drip drip drippingchemicals into her veins. Medicine that’s supposed to save her by hollowing her out first.
“You don’t have to stay the whole time,” Helen says softly, catching my eye. “I know this isn’t exactly riveting entertainment for a teenager.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her gaze lingers on me, soft and knowing. “Thank you.”
The first hour is quiet. She reads her romance novel, occasionally smirking at the page like she’s in on a private joke. I scroll through my phone and fire off texts to Caleb likeI promised.
HARPER: Hour one. She’s good. Reading some smutty novel and making faces at the steamy parts.
His reply comes fast:
CALEB: Thank god. How are YOU doing?
I stare at that for too long before typing back:
HARPER: I’m fine.
But I’m not. I’m watching this woman—this kind, generous, maddeningly strong woman who has shown me more love in six months than Darlene ever bothered to in eighteen years—get this awful treatment while pretending it’s casual.
And I want to scream. I want to smash those beige walls and demand to speak to the universe’s manager. Because why does Helen get cancer while Darlene gets to skate through life untouched?
It’s not fair. None of this is fair.
Halfway through the second hour, Helen shuts her book and looks straight at me.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?”
I blink. “Me? I’m fine. How areyoudoing? You’re the one?—”
“I’m doing what I need to do,” she says simply. “But I’m worried about you. You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
She gives me that look—the one Caleb gives too—like she can see straight through my bullshit.
“Talk to me. How are things? Really?”
I shift in the chair, restless. “Everything’s fine. School’s good. Caleb’s… Caleb’s great. We’re all good.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her voice is gentle but firm, persistent in that Graham way that doesn’t feel like pressure so much as invitation.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me how you are, Harper. Not school. Not Caleb.You.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, except my voice cracks.
Helen reaches over and takes my hand. Her skin is soft, her grip steady, and it makes my chest ache.
“You know,” she says, “it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to not know how to handle this. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
I look at our hands—hers smaller, fragile now.
“I don’t get scared,” I lie, chin tilting up. “That’s Caleb’s thing.”