Page 124 of Break Me

“No.”

His answer is clear. Immediate.

“It may slow progression and reduce the tumor burden, but it would only be temporary. At this stage, we don't consider it curable.”

She swallows. “And if it doesn’t respond?”

“Then we stop treatment.”

“And without treatment?” she asks.

“Without chemo, the disease will progress faster. Weeks to a few months,” he says. “But you may feel more like yourself in the short term. Less treatment-related illness.”

There’s that word again. Weeks. My vision blurs again, and I can hear my own breathing.

“So, either way,” she says quietly, “I still get sick.”

She looks directly at him.

“And I die.”

The doctor holds her gaze.

“Yes.”

There it is.

Not abstract.

Not sanitized.

Just truth.

“There has to be something else,” I say. “A clinical trial. A specialist somewhere else.”

“You’re already with the specialist,” he says gently.

“Will I suffer?” Raven asks.

“There will likely be discomfort as the disease progresses,” he says. “We can control pain. That’s one thing we are very good at.”

She holds his gaze. “And at the end?” she asks, her voice cracking on the last word.

There it is—the first real fracture.

He doesn’t look at the chart. Doesn’t look at me. “At the end, the body begins to conserve energy,” he says gently. “There’s increasing fatigue. Decreased appetite. More time spent resting. We focus on comfort.” He pauses. “You would not be alone in it.”

Raven nods once, barely perceptible.

“And how long,” she asks, “from when that starts?”

The doctor hesitates this time. Just long enough for my pulse to spike. “It varies,” he says. “But once decline becomes noticeable, it can move quickly.”

I feel my chest tighten again.

Raven’s fingers are still wrapped in mine. “Will I know?” she asks.

The question is almost quiet enough to miss.