CLARA'S POV
The morning smelled faintly of antiseptic, coffee, and the stale chill of early February. I dragged myself out of bed, hair messy, and shoulders heavier than I remembered, though I was still trying to pretend they weren’t. Every small movement felt like it had weight; every breath reminded me that this wasn’t just fatigue anymore. This was chemotherapy.
I tried not to look at the calendar on my wall. Too many dates, too many appointments, too many needles. Each one felt like a countdown I didn’t want to acknowledge. The chemo nurse called it “routine” like saying that would make it easier to swallow. I didn’t swallow.
The ride to the hospital was quiet. Daniel drove slower than usual, which I appreciated. He didn’t talk much, but I could feel the tension in his shoulders. I
