The oncology suite at Seattle General smelled like disinfectant and something else I couldn't name. Something sterile. Something final.

Dr. Sandra Yee sat across from me with a folder open on her desk. She was maybe fifty, with kind eyes and a voice that had delivered bad news so many times it had developed a particular gentleness. I watched her mouth move. The words came out slow and clear.

"Stage IV hepatocellular carcinoma. Inoperable. The tumor has metastasized to your lymph nodes and lungs."

I nodded. My hands were folded in my lap. They looked calm.

"How long?" I asked.

Dr. Yee's eyes softened. "Three months. Maybe four if we're fortunate."

Three months.

The same disease that killed my father. The same timeline. The same slow erasure.

I thought about my mother packing her bags while Dad slept in the hospice bed we'd set up in the living room. I was sixteen. She kissed my forehead and said she couldn't do it anymore. She moved to Portland two weeks later. Remarried within a year. I got a Christmas card with a photo of her new family every December until I turned eighteen and threw one in the trash. She stopped sending them after that.

Dr. Yee was still talking. Clinical trials. Palliative care options. Support groups.

I heard maybe half of it.

"We'll schedule a follow-up in two weeks," she said gently. "I know this is overwhelming. Do you have someone who can drive you home?"

"I'm fine," I said.

She printed out the diagnosis summary and handed it across the desk. The paper was warm from the printer. I folded it twice and slipped it into my coat pocket. It pressed against my ribs like a secret.

I drove home with both hands on the wheel. The streets were wet. It had rained earlier. The wipers squeaked every few seconds. I focused on that sound. Squeak. Pause. Squeak. Pause.

Three months.

I parked in the apartment garage and took the elevator up. My keys felt heavier than usual. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Kyle was on the couch.

He wasn't alone.

Ayleen Ramirez was curled against him in a silk camisole, bare legs tucked under her, one hand resting on his chest. Two glasses of wine sat on the coffee table. Kyle was shirtless. His arm was draped over her shoulders.

He looked up when I walked in. He didn't move his arm.

"Hey," he said. "You're back early."

I stared at them. At the wine glasses. At Ayleen's hand on his chest. At the way neither of them looked remotely surprised or guilty.

Ayleen sat up a little, smoothing her hair. She gave me a small smile. "Hi, Nori."

I set my keys on the counter. The sound was very loud.

Kyle sighed. "She had a rough day. I was just comforting her."

Comforting her.

I looked at the wine. At his bare chest. At the way her camisole had slipped off one shoulder.

The diagnosis papers pressed against my ribs.

I should have said something. Screamed. Thrown the wine glasses. Demanded an explanation.

Instead, I turned and walked down the hall to the bedroom. I closed the door behind me. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

Three months to live.

And this.

I didn't cry. I couldn't. The tears were somewhere very far away, behind a wall I'd built when I was sixteen and my mother walked out.

I pulled the diagnosis papers out of my pocket and unfolded them. The words blurred. I folded them again and put them in my nightstand drawer, under the stack of wedding planning binders I'd been working on for six months.

I lay down fully dressed and closed my eyes.

The next morning, I woke up before Kyle. I showered. I got dressed. I walked into the kitchen and placed the Tiffany engagement ring on the counter, exactly where I'd set my keys the night before.

Kyle came out of the bedroom twenty minutes later, yawning. He saw the ring. He stopped.

"What's this?" he asked.

"I'm canceling the wedding," I said.

He laughed. Actually laughed. "Come on, Nori. Don't be dramatic."

"I already called the venue," I said. "We're done."

His smile faded. "You're seriously doing this? Over one misunderstanding?"

"It's not a misunderstanding."

"She needed someone to talk to!" His voice rose. "You're always working late, you're never around—"

"I'm leaving," I said.

I picked up the suitcase I'd packed at five that morning. I'd been methodical. Clothes. Toiletries. Laptop. Passport. Everything I needed.

Kyle stepped in front of me. "You're going to regret this."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. Six years. Six years of packing antacids in my purse. Six years of waking up at two in the morning to make him ginger tea. Six years of absorbing his one-word replies and his comments about my weight and his complaints about everything.

Six years of making myself smaller so he could feel bigger.

"No," I said quietly. "I won't."

I walked past him and out the door.

I went straight to the office. I typed up my resignation letter. I emailed it to HR. I started packing my desk.

Reign Harvey found me in the corridor twenty minutes later.

He stopped when he saw me. His eyes narrowed.

"You look terrible," he said.

I almost smiled. Reign never sugarcoated anything. It was one of the things I'd always liked about him.

"Thanks," I said.

"I'm taking you to dinner," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're not," he said. "And I don't care. We're going."

I looked at him. At the way he was watching me with that sharp, assessing gaze he used in meetings when someone was lying about their numbers.

He saw something. I didn't know what. But he saw it.

"Okay," I said.

He nodded once. "Good. Six o'clock. Don't argue."

He walked away before I could respond.

I went back to packing my desk. The diagnosis papers were still in my nightstand drawer at the apartment. I'd have to go back for them eventually.

But not yet.

Not yet.

Reign picked a Korean BBQ place in Capitol Hill. The kind with individual grills at each table and servers who moved fast and talked faster. I sat across from him and watched smoke curl up from the meat he was turning with metal tongs.

"You're not eating," he said.

I looked down at my plate. "I'm eating."

"You moved a piece of lettuce from one side to the other. That's not eating."

I picked up my chopsticks. Put them down again.

Reign flipped the meat. He didn't push. That was the thing about Reign. He noticed everything but he didn't crowd you with it.

Then I heard the laugh.

I knew that laugh. I'd heard it for six years. Across dinner tables and in movie theaters and on Sunday mornings when he was reading something on his phone that he never bothered to share with me.

I turned my head.

Kyle was three tables over. Ayleen was next to him, leaning in close, her hand on his arm. They were sharing a plate. He fed her a piece of beef with his chopsticks. She laughed again and covered her mouth with her hand.

My chest went tight.

Reign followed my gaze. His jaw shifted.

"Well," he said. "That's unfortunate timing."

Kyle looked up. Our eyes met.

He froze for half a second. Then he smiled. Actually smiled. Like he'd been waiting for this. Like this was the moment I was supposed to see what I was missing and come crawling back.

Ayleen saw me too. She sat up straighter. Her hand stayed on his arm.

I looked away. I picked up my water glass. My hand was shaking.

Reign set down his tongs. He leaned back in his chair and spoke at full volume.

"Honestly," he said, "the upgrade is impressive."

I blinked.

Reign looked directly at me, but his voice carried across the restaurant. "You went from dating a man with the emotional depth of a parking meter to being free. Congratulations."

Someone at the table next to us snorted into their drink.

Kyle's face went red. Actually red. He stood up halfway, then sat back down like he couldn't decide what to do.

Ayleen choked on her water. She grabbed her napkin and pressed it to her mouth, coughing.

I stared at Reign.

He picked up his chopsticks and went back to the grill like nothing had happened. "The pork belly's done. You should eat some before I finish it."

I almost smiled. Almost.

But my hand was still shaking when I lifted my water glass. Reign saw it. His eyes flicked to my hand, then to my face. Something changed in his expression. Something I couldn't read.

He didn't say anything.

But I felt it. The weight of being seen.

We left twenty minutes later. Kyle and Ayleen were still there. I didn't look at them on the way out.

Reign walked me to my car. "You okay to drive?"

"I'm fine," I said.

He looked at me for a long moment. "You keep saying that."

I unlocked my car. "Because it's true."

"Nori."

I stopped.

"If you need anything," he said quietly. "I mean it. Anything."

I nodded. I got in the car and drove away before he could see my face.

Three days later, I had a follow-up scan at Seattle General.

Kyle texted me the night before. *I'll drive you.*

I stared at the message. I should have said no. Should have told him I didn't need him.

But I was tired. So tired. And the idea of taking the bus to the hospital by myself felt like too much.

*Ok,* I texted back.

He picked me up at nine. He didn't get out of the car. Just texted *here* from the curb.

I got in. He was wearing sunglasses even though it was overcast.

"Thanks," I said.

He shrugged. "It's fine."

We didn't talk the whole drive.

The scan took forty minutes. Afterward, I felt wrong. My stomach was cramping. My head was light.

I went to the restroom. Locked myself in a stall.

The nausea hit like a fist.

I dropped to my knees. Vomited into the toilet. Once. Twice. The third time, I saw blood.

Bright red. Too much of it.

I pressed my forehead against the tile wall. It was cold. I focused on that. Cold tile. Cold floor.

My legs buckled. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor with my knees pulled up and my forehead on my knees.

I heard my phone buzz in my pocket.

I didn't move.

It buzzed again.

I pulled it out. Two texts from Kyle.

*Ayleen got in an accident*

*I'll be right back*

I stared at the screen.

An accident.

I was on the bathroom floor with blood in my mouth and he was leaving.

I waited.

Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Someone came in, used the sink, left.

I pulled myself up using the toilet paper dispenser. My legs shook. I rinsed my mouth at the sink. There was dried blood on my chin. I wiped it off with a wet paper towel.

My phone buzzed.

*how'd it go?*

Three hours later. Three hours.

I looked at the message. At the lowercase letters. At the lack of punctuation.

I blocked his number.

Then I walked out of the hospital and took the bus home.

I didn't cry.

I just closed a door inside myself. Locked it. Threw away the key.

Some doors don't open twice.

I took a cab home from the hospital. The driver didn't talk. I watched the city blur past the window. Gray buildings. Gray sky. Everything the same color.

When I got back to my apartment, I stood in the doorway for a long time. The place felt wrong. Like it belonged to someone else. Someone who used to live here before everything changed.

I packed a bag. Just a few things. Then I got in my car and started driving.

South on I-5. Past Tacoma. Past Olympia. The highway was empty. It was almost midnight.

Three hours later, I pulled onto a quiet street in Portland. Craftsman houses. Big trees. Porch lights glowing yellow.

I knew the address. I'd known it for fifteen years. Ever since my mother sent that first Christmas card with her new family's photo on it.

I parked across the street. Turned off the engine.

The house was pale blue with white trim. There were lights on inside. Through the front window, I could see the dining room.

My mother was there.

Patricia Ellis. Fifty-two now. Her hair was shorter than I remembered. She was laughing. Her husband sat at the head of the table. Two kids, maybe eight and ten, were arguing over something. The boy grabbed a roll off his sister's plate. She smacked his hand. Patricia said something I couldn't hear and they both laughed.

It looked warm in there. It looked like a family.

I pulled out my phone. Found her number in my contacts. I'd never deleted it. Never called it either.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

I could call. I could knock on the door. I could tell her I was dying. Tell her I had three months. Tell her I needed—

What?

What did I need from the woman who walked out when my father was dying of the same disease now killing me?

I watched her through the window. She was pouring milk for the little girl. Smiling. She looked happy. She looked like she'd built something good here. Something that didn't include me.

My finger was still on the screen.

I sat there for forty-five minutes.

The lights in the dining room went off. The upstairs lights came on. Bedtime.

I put my phone away. Started the car. Drove back to Seattle.

I didn't knock.

Not because I forgave her. But because some doors close and stay closed. And maybe that's okay.

Maybe that's just how it is.

The next day, I woke up wrong. My head felt like it was full of cotton. The pain medication made everything soft around the edges. Blurry.

I needed air. I needed to move.

I walked downtown. Pike Place Market was crowded. Tourists everywhere. The fish guys were throwing salmon and yelling. Someone was playing guitar badly near the flower stalls.

I stood on the corner waiting for the light to change.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. A reminder about a wedding dress fitting I'd scheduled three months ago. Before everything.

I stared at the screen.

The light changed. I stepped off the curb.

Someone screamed.

A horn blared. Loud. So loud it rattled my skull.

I looked up.

A delivery truck. Right there. Maybe three feet away.

Then someone grabbed my arm and yanked me backward so hard I stumbled. My shoulder hit something solid. A chest.

The truck roared past. The driver leaned on the horn again as he went by.

I couldn't breathe.

Reign's hand was still on my arm. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

"What the hell, Nori," he said.

I looked at him. His face was pale. Angry. Scared.

"I didn't see it," I said.

He didn't let go. "Get in my car."

"I'm fine—"

"Now."

He walked me to the parking garage two blocks away. Put me in the passenger seat. Got in the driver's side and just sat there for a minute, hands on the wheel.

Then he started the car and drove.

We didn't talk. He took the highway north. Exited at Discovery Park.

The trail to West Point Lighthouse was wet. It had rained that morning. The ground was slick. Reign walked ahead of me. I followed.

The lighthouse sat at the edge of everything. Gray water. Gray sky. The sound of waves hitting the rocks below.

Reign stopped at the top. Turned to face me.

"What's going on?" he asked.

I looked out at the water. "Nothing."

"Nori."

"I'm fine."

"Stop saying that!" His voice cracked. "You're not fine. You almost walked into traffic. You look like you haven't slept in a week. You quit your job. You canceled your wedding. And you won't tell me why."

The wind was cold. It bit through my jacket.

"I'm dying," I said.

The words came out flat. Simple.

Reign went very still.

"Stage IV liver cancer," I said. "Three months. Maybe four if I'm lucky."

He stared at me.

"I got the diagnosis the same day I found Kyle with Ayleen," I continued. "Same day. Isn't that funny? I came home from the oncologist and he was on the couch with her and I just—" My voice broke. "I didn't tell him. I didn't tell anyone. Because what's the point? My mom left when my dad got sick. Kyle left me on a bathroom floor to go help his girlfriend with a fender bender. Everyone leaves. So I'm leaving first."

My knees gave out.

I dropped onto the wet grass. The cold soaked through my jeans immediately.

I screamed.

Just screamed into the wind. All of it. The diagnosis. The betrayal. The three months. The bathroom floor. My mother's lit window. All of it came out in one long, ugly sound.

Then I was crying. Actually crying. For the first time since the oncologist's office. For the first time since I was sixteen.

Reign sat down beside me. Pulled me against his chest. His arms went around me and he held on tight.

"I notice," he said quietly. "I see you. I've always seen you."

I pressed my face into his jacket and cried until there was nothing left.