Page 152 of Break Me

The gentleness in his voice makes something tighten in my throat.

“I’m not forcing it.”

The lie sits between us for a second, but he doesn’t call me on it. I hate him a little for that. I love him more for it.

Before I can think too hard about it, I reach for the pill and swallow it down with a sip of water, pretending it’s nothing. Telling myself it doesn’t mean anything. Like this disease hasn’t invaded my body and made itself real in a way I can no longer ignore.

I manage two more small bites before I know I can’t do another one without losing whatever fragile control I still have over my stomach. I set the fork down carefully, trying to make it look like a choice instead of a surrender, and lean back in the chair with what I hope passes for calm.

“I’m just not that hungry,” I say.

Sam watches me for a long moment, and in his face I can see the effort it takes him not to say all the things we’re both trying not to say right now.

“Okay,” he says finally

That one word nearly undoes me.

I nod and slide the plate a few inches away from me, just enough not to have to keep looking at it. The kitchen feels too warm, the smell of the food too overpowering.

Slowly, I push up from my chair, silently begging my body to cooperate with me. For a second, everything shifts. Not enough to knock me off balance, but enough that I need to take a few deep breaths as I wait for the floor to feel solid beneath my feet.

“I’m going outside for a minute,” I say.

Sam straightens from the counter immediately, and I hate that too, hate what my body’s teaching him to look for.

“I’m fine,” I add before he can say anything.

His eyes search my face, and I can almost hear the argument, but he decides not to make it.

“I’ll come with you,” he says instead.

A small smile catches weakly at my mouth. “I’d like that.”

He follows me out onto the porch, his hand settling briefly at my back as the door swings shut behind us.

We move toward the porch swing without saying anything, settling side by side, the wood shifting softly beneath us as it takes our weight.

The early evening air is cool against my skin, and for a moment I do nothing but sit there and breathe, drawing it in slowly, willing it to settle the nausea, the dizziness, the strange heaviness pressing through my limbs.

I press my hand lightly to my stomach and close my eyes. This is what I was not prepared for.

Not the pain or the fear. Not even dying, if I’m honest. Those things have all had names for a while now, and named things are easier to face than unnamed ones.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the way the disease would creep in and begin taking pieces of me in ordinary moments. The way a plate of food would become a battlefield. A walk across the kitchen would feel like a marathon.

I rest my head against his shoulder, and his arm comes around me, pulling me closer. His hand settles warm and steady against my arm as the swing moves softly beneath us.

For a minute, I let myself stay there, tucked into him, listening to the quiet creak of the wood and the steady rhythm of his breathing, letting it ground me in a way nothing else can.

But the space between what I can do and what I can’t is getting narrower.

I can feel it now, not as something distant or theoretical, but here, invading each moment.

Beside me, Sam doesn’t move. He just holds me like this is something he can fix by holding me tight enough.

My throat tightens, and I blink against it, forcing the tears back before they can fall, pressing my face into his shoulder so he won’t see as the reality of our lives hits me with a clarity so sharp it almost feels cruel that this is only the beginning of what he’s going to have to watch.

Not just today.