51. Gabrielle
Gabrielle
This isn’t happening.
It can’t be happening.
The words won’t sink in, they refuse to stick. They just bounce around my skull, sharp and violent and wrong.
I’m gripping Cam’s hand so tightly my fingers feel like they might snap, but he isn’t squeezing back. He’s just sitting there. Still. Silent. Frozen.
Why isn’t he squeezing back?
The doctor’s voice feels distant, and muffled.
“The marrow didn’t graft properly.”
“The transplant failed.”
Failed.
That one word slams into my chest like a wrecking ball.
No. No, that can’t be right.
I open my mouth, barely able to hear my own voice over the rush of blood in my ears. “No. No! There has to be something else. Another trial, another treatment, something—”
The doctor gives me a look that I hate. That awful, pitying look. The one I’ve seen before. The one I never wanted to see again.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any other options.”
No.
This isn’t how this ends. This is not how this ends.
“There has to be something else,” I whisper, my throat feeling raw, my entire body trembling. “Please.”
“How long?” Cam asks calmly.
Something breaks inside of me the second those words leave his mouth.
I want to put them back in.
I want to stop the clock.
I want to erase the last seventy-two seconds of my life and beg for an alternate reality.
But I can’t.
The doctor exhales, shifting slightly.
“Cameron…you have about six months to a year left—best case scenario.”
I swear the room caves in on me. The walls close in. My stomach twists so violently that I feel like I’m going to throw up.
I hear a sharp, shattered breath that startles me, and it takes me a second to realize it’s actually mine.
Six months to a year.
That’s not enough time. That’s not any time.
I can feel everyone around me reacting. Cam’s mom sucking in a sharp breath, his dad stiffening beside her. But Cam—Cam just sits there, numb.
Empty.
I see it written all over his face.
I shake my head harder. “That’s not—it can’t be—”
“Gab,” Cam says softly, his voice hoarse.
But I can’t stop.
I turn to the doctor, desperate, my voice breaking in a way I don’t even recognize. “There has to be something.”
His eyes are kind, but his words are ruthless. “The only thing we can do now is make sure you are comfortable. We can focus on palliative care, pain management, and any resources you’ll need.”
I make a sound, a strangled sob I can’t hold back.
Comfortable.
That’s doctor-speak for letting you die slowly.
I feel like my whole world is shattering around me.
The doctor keeps talking, but I don’t hear a word. This isn’t real. This can’t be real. I’m ready to wake up now.
Please wake up now Gabrielle.
After talking with his parents a little while longer, the doctor walks out, and the silence left in his place is deafening.
I sit there, staring at nothing, my vision blurred by the tears I can’t hold back, my pulse hammering in my ears.
The grief is too big, too heavy, too sudden.
Then Cam finally moves, turning his body in the bed. “Mom—” His voice cracks, and that’s all it takes before she’s out of her chair, wrapping her arms around him.
Cam starts apologizing. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, shaking his head, voice trembling. “I’m so—”
I snap out of my daze instantly.
“Stop,” I choke out, whipping my head toward him.
Cam blinks at me, stunned, but I can’t—I won’t let him say those words.
I shove forward, grabbing his face, forcing him to look at me. “Do not—do not—do that.”
His lips part, but I shake my head, my thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as his mom holds onto him still.
“You don’t get to apologize for something that isn’t your fault.” My voice is raw. “You don’t.”
His eyes are filled with so many emotions—guilt, devastation, and a lot of other things I don’t have the strength to name.
I feel my body wanting to give out, but I steel myself, shoving down every ounce of the grief that’s threatening to drown me because he is the one who needs me right now.
I press my forehead to his, my voice barely above a whisper. “You’re still here, Cam.”
His hands come up, wrapping around my wrists, his grip weak but warm. “Gabrielle—”
“No.” I shake my head against his, closing my eyes. “No, we are not doing this. We are not breaking. Not yet.”
Not when I need to hold onto him for as long as I can.
Not when he needs me to be his strength.