The kind that come from somewhere deeper than sadness.
Fourteen months of fear came out all at once.
My mother pulled me against her.
“You’re okay,” she whispered.
I cried harder.
The doctor explained that the area was consistent with benign post-surgical tissue changes and nerve-related inflammation.
The pain had been real.
The fear had been real.
But the cancer had not returned.
For the first time since my diagnosis, I allowed myself to say the words.
“I survived.”
My mother kissed my forehead.
“Yes.”
I looked at her.
“No more pretending.”
She smiled through her tears.
“No more pretending.”
That evening, I found Vega outside the clinic.
He was leaning against the hood of his vehicle.
When he saw me, he straightened.
“Well?”
I smiled.
“Benign.”
He closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Then he exhaled.
“Good.”
“You were worried.”
“I was.”
I walked closer.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
He looked at me.
“I cared from the beginning.”
“Then why were you so hard on me?”
He was silent.
Finally, he said, “Because I thought you were trying to disappear.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You were so determined to prove you belonged here that you stopped letting anyone see you.”
