viii. Weeks
It comes in the mail today. You reach for his hand, yours too shaky to even take it out of the mailbox. He smiles indulgently at you, and you hold the envelope in your hand as he holds the door open for you.
You've changed, certainly. The skin over your cheekbones is a little bit tighter, and you look more worn than recently, but you still look healthy. You're still cheerful, optimistic. You've been waiting weeks for these damn results.
You open it. Your eyes scan the paper, dull and lackluster. You hand him the paper and sob softly.
Cancer.