Locke
The first thing I learn about chemotherapy is that it has a sound.
Not one sound, but a collection of them: soft shoes on floors, machines humming with a low patience that feels unnatural, quiet voices carrying just enough kindness to make the room feel both gentle and terrifying at once.
Zara hears it too. I know because the second we walk into the treatment center, her fingers tighten around mine.
She looks beautiful this morning, because she always does. She has her hair in a high ponytail, a soft sweater slipping slightly off one shoulder, boots, faded jeans. It’s the kind of outfit that probably took her five minutes to throw together, and it still makes me want to stop walking just to look at her.
Instead, I keep her hand in mine, because looking at her isn't the point to
