“How big is a baby at seven weeks?” I asked, just to change the subject. Tried to smile, like I wasn’t choking inside.
“There’s already a heartbeat,” she said quietly, and for the first time, her expression softened into something real.
“No kidding?” My throat tightened. “So it's in there, alive.”
She nodded. “Little thing’s got its own rhythm already.”
That was the first time I felt something crack in me. It hit different—knowing something inside me was alive, even if the rest of me was dying.
She handed me a note. “That’s my number—WhatsApp too. Call me, no matter what time.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
The bus home was packed. Elbows in my ribs, smells of cheap cologne, gun oil, and street snacks. I found a seat in the back, head down, hoodie up. I choose the bus instead of driving my own car.
I texted Alex:
“Doc, how do you even know if nausea’s from cancer or pregnancy? I haven’t been able to eat in days.”
Before she could answer, someone tapped me.
“Hey,” an older guy barked. “This seat’s for elderly or pregnant people. Get up.”
“She looks fine to me,” a woman chimed in. “She can stand. Let the man sit.”
The whole bus started to turn.
I pulled my medical file out of my bag and flashed it like a badge. “I’m pregnant. And I got stage four brain cancer. I’m not getting up. Happy?"
Silence dropped like a shot fired into the air. I leaned back and stared out the window.
And just like that, I didn’t feel scared anymore.
---
The door clicked behind me, and the house was thick with silence. Too thick.
But the hallway smelled like wine and perfume—something expensive and too sweet. The kind of scent that didn’t belong to me.
The lights were off, except one in the entryway. A wine glass lay tipped on the console table. Burgundy puddled beneath it like blood.
I didn’t clean it up. My body ached—every part of me from the hospital still throbbed like I’d been flayed open. But I walked. Step by step. Numb. Quiet.
The master bedroom door was cracked.
I pushed it with my fingertips.
And there she was.
Zoraya.
She was stretched across my bed, legs crossed like she owned the world, wearing the ivory silk robe Zeus gave me last Valentine’s. It hung loose around her—untied, careless. Her damp hair clung to one shoulder, and her smile was a slow, smug curve.
She looked at me like I was an afterthought.