51
The examination room was quiet. Too quiet.
Ericka sat perched on the edge of the cushioned table, one leg crossed over the other, a familiar knot forming just behind her sternum. Not nerves. Not dread exactly.
Something worse.
Recognition.
She had always known how to spot bad news before it was spoken. It was in the tone of the nurse's voice, the way the doctor didn't make eye contact right away. The way the room felt colder than it had when she first walked in.
The walls here were pale gray. No windows. No sunlight.
It felt like a metaphor she didn't have the energy to unpack.
She glanced down at the crisp folder in her lap—her name printed across the top in block letters, next to an eight-digit ID number and the date. She knew what was inside. Bloodwork. Imaging. Tissue samples.
She'd had her suspicions weeks ago. The fatigue. The sudden, sharp aches. The way her body felt like it didn't belong to her anymore. But she had pushed through it like she always did. Until it got worse.
Now, here she was.
When the doctor finally came in, he was kind. Calm. Gentle. He used words like early stage, treatment plan, and manageable. He never once said cured.
And when Ericka nodded and asked the right questions—about procedures, recovery time, options—her voice didn't waver.
Not once.
Even when he said the word cancer.
Afterward, she sat in her car for almost fifteen minutes without starting the engine. The city pulsed around her—honking horns, flashing lights, the distant bark of a dog—but all of it felt like static.
White noise.
She stared straight ahead, hands clenched around the wheel.
There wasn't fear. Not exactly.
Just weight. Crushing and quiet.
She'd spent her entire career building something out of steel—structure, control, success. Her name was on the doors. Her decisions shaped futures. Her calendar was booked out months in advance. She didn't do powerless.
But now?
Now she felt like a thread being slowly pulled loose from the inside.
And the worst part?
She couldn't tell Amanda.
Not yet.
That night, Amanda sat on the couch in Ericka's apartment, flipping through one of Ericka's abandoned portfolios. She glanced at the time again—8:52 PM.
Ericka had texted her hours ago: Running late. Appointment ran over. I'll be home soon.
Amanda tried not to overthink it.
But she had been thinking about it. All week. For the last three weeks, really. The "appointments" kept piling up. Always vague. Always during the day, smack in the middle of her normally bulletproof schedule.
Ericka wasn't the type to flake. If she said she'd be somewhere, she was there—heels clicking, eyes sharp, fully prepared. These sudden disappearances weren't like her.
Amanda hadn't said anything yet.
But that didn't mean she hadn't noticed.
She stared down at a swatch of silk pinned to the page in her lap, her fingers ghosting over it. She missed Ericka's sketches. The ones she used to leave out on the kitchen counter without realizing. The ones Amanda would quietly admire with a warm drink and a soft smile.
They hadn't talked about design in weeks.
Amanda closed the portfolio and folded her legs beneath her, trying to fight the strange twist in her gut. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't even frustration.
It was fear.
The kind that whispered questions you didn't want to say out loud: What if she's pulling away? What if she's not okay? What if something's wrong and she just doesn't trust me with it?
When the door finally opened, Amanda sat up straight.
Ericka walked in, wrapped in her wool coat, her scarf still tight around her neck despite the mild weather. Her face was pale, a little drawn. Her lips pressed into a faint line.
"You're still up," she said softly, closing the door behind her.
Amanda stood. "I wanted to see you."
Ericka forced a smile, walking over and pressing a kiss to Amanda's forehead. "I'm sorry. Today got away from me."
Amanda searched her face, every detail. "Another appointment?"
"Yeah," Ericka said, too quickly. "Just routine."
Amanda hesitated. "You've had a lot of those lately."
Ericka turned away, setting her bag down. "It's nothing. Just things I've been putting off for too long."
Amanda stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Ericka's arm. "You don't have to tell me everything. But if something's wrong..."
Ericka didn't answer.
Just for a second, Amanda thought she saw it—crackling behind her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly.
But then it was gone.
"I'm fine," Ericka said, her voice clipped but calm. "Really."
Amanda didn't press.
But the knot in her stomach tightened anyway.
She watched Ericka move through the apartment like a ghost of herself—quiet, efficient, untouchable. And it hit Amanda in a way she hadn't expected:
Whatever this was, it wasn't just about the appointments.
It was about the silence.
Ericka was shutting her out. Piece by piece. Smile by smile.
And Amanda didn't know how to fix it—because she didn't even know what was broken.
In the bathroom later that night, Ericka stared at herself in the mirror.
She had memorized the way her reflection looked in different lights—how to adjust the sharpness of her features, how to soften the lines around her mouth, how to hold her posture like armor.
But tonight, all of it felt like performance.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her jaw, then hovered over the slight bruising where they'd drawn blood earlier.
Early stage, the doctor had said again.
She tried to cling to that.
She tried not to think about surgeries, or medications, or the possibility of losing everything she had built. Not the company. Not the power.
Her hair. Her sense of control. Her independence.
And Amanda.
God, Amanda.
The way she looked at her like she was something bright.
Something unshakable.
If Amanda knew—if she found out—it would change everything.
Ericka didn't want to see pity in her eyes. Or worse... fear.
So she swallowed the truth. Brushed her teeth. Fixed her face.
And when she crawled into bed beside Amanda and curled around her back, she pretended she wasn't holding the weight of something life-altering behind her ribs.
Amanda took her hand, lacing their fingers together under the covers.
"Whatever it is," she whispered into the dark, "you don't have to carry it alone."
Ericka didn't answer.
She just held on tighter.
And kept pretending she could protect her from the truth.
Even if it meant breaking her own heart in the process.