Emily Davis

I still remember the exact moment my life stopped feeling like it belonged to me. The doctor’s office was quiet in that uncomfortable way—too quiet, like the air itself was holding its breath. I sat on the edge of the chair, my feet barely touching the floor, trying to read the doctor’s face before he said anything. I told myself it was probably nothing. I had said that all morning. I said it right up until the moment he opened his mouth. “You have breast cancer.” The words didn’t sound real. They floated in the room, detached from meaning, as if they were meant for someone else. I nodded automatically, pretending I understood what he was saying as he continued to talk about next steps, treatment options, timelines. His voice faded into background noise. All I could hear was the echo of those three words, repeating over and over again inside my head.