Chapter 3His Fake Depression Cost Him Everything

I glanced at the tiny gap on the cot, shook my head, and pulled a wooden chair right next to my mother's headboard. Leaning my head back against the cold hospital wall, I closed my eyes.

In the dead of night, the test results were finally ready.

I rose quietly, using the dim glow of my phone screen to illuminate the path to the door.

As I passed the cot, it was empty.

I frowned faintly, but didn't dwell on it. I slipped downstairs to retrieve the printouts.

At 3:00 AM, the hospital lobby was a cavern of fluorescent white and hollow echoes, punctuated only by the low hum of the automated kiosks.

I stood before the machine, my palms slick with cold sweat, a sudden, suffocating dread seizing my chest.

"Her annual checkups were clear," I told myself like a mantra. "She's fine. It's just the summer heat."

Yet my pulse hammered against my ears, my breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps.

When the machine spat out the crisp white paper, my fingers shook so hard I could barely grasp it.

Taking a shuddering breath, I slid the page out and forced my gaze down the column of numbers.

"Alpha-fetoprotein (AFP): 10,780 ng/mL."

The number felt like a nail driven straight into my skull.

It was high enough that I didn't need an oncologist to interpret it.

I had walked through chemo with my mother five years ago. I knew every marker by heart. Normal was under 10.

The cancer was back. And it had metastasized aggressively.

The flimsy sheet of paper suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, crushing the air straight out of my lungs.

A tidal wave of sheer terror crashed over me, dragging my knees toward the polished linoleum.

"I can't fall apart. If I collapse, who protects her?"

Instinctively, my trembling fingers brought up my phone. The screen rested on one contact.

The man who had spoon-fed my mother soup just hours ago. The man I had sworn to leave.

"Mark."

I stared at his name for three agonizing seconds, tears burning behind my eyelids.

Even if his poverty was a game, even if his depression was a sick lie—we had lived in the same cramped apartment for two whole years.

Two years of our lives weren't an illusion.

The warmth of his arms in the winter, the cadence of his breath against my neck—those were real.

I tapped the call button.

I prayed he would pick up. Just to steady my shaking hands. Just to keep me from falling into the abyss.

"Beep—"

A single ring, and then the line went dead.

Desperate, clutching at the thinnest thread of hope, I redialed.

Canceled.

Redialed.

Canceled instantly.

Until finally, the automated operator informed me that the number was unreachable.

Mark had blocked me.

Clutching the crumpled report against my chest, I stumbled to my feet. Every step felt like wading through deep water.

I drifted aimlessly across the hollow lobby, directionless, numb, not knowing where to turn or what to do next.

As I passed the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, a sharp glare from the parking lot caught my eye.

A luxury customized Sprinter RV was parked under the streetlamp. The blinds were wide open, the interior bathed in warm, ambient light.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Through the glass, the boyfriend who had just sent my calls straight to voicemail was lounging effortlessly on a plush leather sectional, his posture entirely relaxed.

Beside him sat a woman with long, glossy waves and a sharp, delicate profile.

Trista.

She was smiling, playfully feeding a plump red strawberry into his mouth.

Mark parted his lips and took the bite with natural, practiced ease—a gesture repeated a thousand times before.

Something was said, and both of them dissolved into easy, intimate laughter.

My feet moved on their own, carrying me toward the vehicle.

With every step across the tarmac, the muffled voices through the cracked awning window grew crystal clear.