There’s tapping on keys. She’s here. Relief hits first, stinging and immediate. Then, something heavier: sadness she ran.
As I peek in, the light from her laptop is the only thing I see. It glows yellow in the center of the room. And there she is, sitting in her tracksuit and pink wellies, hair tied back, tired looking and so white. She looks ghastly, ghostly even, as if she’s not even meant to be here. As if she’s come from another realm.
Anxiety twists in my chest. This isn’t her. There’s a change.
Her shoulders hunch over the laptop like she’s trying to disappear into it. I take a breath, and push open the door.
“Antonia,” I say. “Where have you been?”
She looks up. Her eyes widen for a split second before she shuts it down. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve hardly heard from you in days,” I say, the worry bleeding through even though I try to stay calm. Her expression remains impassive. She says nothing. Her focus returns to her screen as if ignoring my presence means I’ll disappear.
“Antonia…” I push. “Don’t shut me out. Please.”
She sighs, not sparing me a glance. “I’ve just been busy. With the retreat, Opengate and the protesters. You know how it is.”
“That doesn’t excuse you going off-grid. I phoned Clara.” I place my hands on the desk in front of her, and her head snaps up.
“You phoned Clara, looking for me?” she says, bristling, standing straight, annoyed, eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah. I did. Because I care about you.”
We’re standing across the desk, face to face. My knuckles whiten, gripping the wood. She doesn’t back down; she leans in, her chin lifting, defiant.
“There’s just a lot going on,” she stammers, her conviction wavering. “I’m fine.”
“Well, show me.” I gesture to her laptop. “Show me what you’re working on. Is it something I can help you with?”
She sits down, tapping the keys quickly. As I round the desk, she closes a window. I glance at the computer and then at her as she opens a different document. A spreadsheet. Numbers, figures, budgets, everything we’re aware of.
I know that’s not what she was looking at. And I need to know why.
I pull up a chair and sit next to her. Not touching, but close enough to feel the distance anyway. Her knee moves away as mine gets nearer. Her fingers tremble slightly on the keys. This isn’t her. What could’ve happened?
“Antonia, please…” I don’t hide the pain in my voice. I can’t. Losing her like this will crack open a part of me I thought was almost healed. Not perfect, but enough to live again. It’s fracturing once more.
She sighs softly. “I don’t want to do this right now.”
“Why are you pushing me away?”
“It’s complicated,” she says, sounding sad. All the light and happiness from the last few weeks is gone.
“I don’t understand.”
I reach for her hand on the laptop. We brush a key, and the window pings open.
A search result.
Nothing obtrusive.
Just: lump under armpit
I stop breathing. My stomach drops. Not because I don’t know what that means. I’ve seen those words too many times before.
I’ve diagnosed them.
Many people come into my office for consultations, asking what it means. And the answers vary so much. For the lucky, it’s benign. Hormones. Nothing more.