I walked toward her, my legs numb, barely feeling like my own.
“Serena?”
“Adrian?”
Her voice was quieter now.
“What are you doing here?”
She turned her eyes away, twisting her fingers together.
“I’m just waiting.”
I sat beside her and noticed the IV pole, the hospital band on her wrist, the faint tremble in her hands.
“Waiting for what?”
She hesitated, then exhaled as though she no longer had the strength to hide anything.
Something inside me cracked.
“What’s going on?”
When she finally spoke, her tone was careful, controlled — as if she were trying to make the truth hurt less.
“I was diagnosed with early-stage ovarian cancer.”
The world narrowed to a single, suffocating point.
“When?”
“Before we divorced.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
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