I'm not angry anymore. I'm scared. I'm very scared. My insides feel like they're made of black, iron snakes.

It's ten to eleven. Millie and I quietly take a seat on the grey armchairs in the brilliant-white waiting room and wait for the nurse with the sleek, red hair to call us in. We don't speak. We haven't spoken at all since the scan. There's nothing to say, is there? We just have to wait. Just a few more minutes.

I try to focus on Keith's soothing voice when I talked to him this morning. I try to focus on Sosa's encouraging words. I try to focus on anyone or anything that can push her voice out of my head.

Who was she? And how could someone I don't even know, with so little effort, crush me like that? Is she the ten-minute babe he hooked up with right after he so easily dismissed me from his life? Or is she more than that?

My gut sinks with the heavy realisation that he meant what he said. He is not my friend anymore. He is not my anything anymore. And I have never felt so alone.

A tall man with brown eyes, messy hair and a strong chin walks in and gives his name to the receptionist. I recognise him immediately. His son and wife appear behind him seconds later. I watch them take a seat in the chairs opposite ours. I smile at the boy, who gives me a sort of encouraging nod back. His mother looks better. Healthier and happier. Something inside me fortifies.

Footsteps.

I look down the corridor and the red-headed nurse appears.

"Mrs Emily Buġeja?"

Millie and I stand up. The boy fits his earphones into his ears but our eyes meet again. A shallow raggedy breath escapes me and I can tell he hears it.

I know, his eyes tell me.

My legs are shaking so much I'm terrified they will cave under my own weight, but somehow I make it to the doctor's office and take my usual seat at his desk. Dr Debattista is already in position, elbows on the desk, chin in his hands, square-spectacles on the bridge of his nose.

"Good Morning, Emily," he says in his velvety voice. "How are you today?"

The room is whiter than usual. Colder.

"Anxious," Millie answers frankly. "We took the PET scan yesterday..."

He nods slowly. "Yes. How has your recovery been?"

My eyes rivet around the room, trying to figure out what is different. I hear Millie release a slow breath beside me.

"Good. I feel good," she says eventually. The ironic helplessness in her voice makes my heart throb achingly.

Dr Debattista looks at her for the longest time. His eyes don't flicker in my direction. "Marjorie was very happy with the operation and with your recovery."

Pause.

There must be something missing in this room.

"As you know, she sent some samples for histology testing."

Another pause. The longest one yet.

And then I realise. It's the plant. The leafy plant that usually sits in the window is gone.

"The lab found cancer cells in your lymph nodes, Emily."

Silence.

The room becomes foggy. His voice becomes thicker, slower. My insides become hollow. I hear his voice as though it's coming through a radio from the next room.

"The scan you took yesterday confirms that the cancer has spread since the first CT. The lymph nodes in the groin area are inflamed and there are signs of metastasis to the lungs."

My heart thunders.

Louder. Faster.

Louder. Slower.

Louder. Louder.

Louder than his voice. I see his lips moving but it's like someone put the room on mute and magnified the sound of my pulse by a thousand decibels. I suck in the air from my nose and let it go from between my lips.

In from the nose.

Out from the mouth.

The smell of bleach burns my throat. Everything is spinning. My eyes focus on the empty space on the window sill.

What happened to the God-damn plant?

"Alison?"

His voice splits through the fog. I follow it straight to his clear, honest eyes. I see so plainly, so obvious, the pain he's trying to hide from us.

"Would you mind terribly if I have a moment alone with your grandmother?"

In from the nose.

Out from the mouth.

I nod slowly. I stand up. I hover out of the room. Then I run.

Straight through the corridor and into the waiting area. I rest against the brilliant-white wall but collapse anyhow. I crash on the floor and cry. I cry so hard and I don't care. I feel like I'm going to vomit so I put my hands over my mouth, trying to reign it all in.

The eyes of the receptionist are on me. The eyes of the boy and his family are on me. But they understand, don't they? They've been through this. I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder. It's the red-headed nurse.

She stands me up and guides me to the pantry. "Here you go, sabiħa," she says pushing a big mug of coffee into my hands. I put it on the table, bury my face in my hands and continue to cry. When I raise my eyes, I see the young boy looking straight at me through the door which the nurse left ajar, compassion and painful familiarity scribbled all over his face.

I know, his eyes say sadly.

I wipe my face with the back of my hands and see Millie coming out from the corridor. I gather myself as best I can and walk out to her. Her face is blank and placid. She takes my arm shakily and we walk out of the clinic together.

We don't speak on the way home. I park the car and we climb the alley steps, still not looking at each other. I open the door and walk through the living room, straight to the kitchen. Millie sits down at the table with me. No one switches on the radio. No one puts the kettle on. We just sit and stare in silence.

After a while, a long while, minutes, hours, days, I'm not sure, she looks up at me. "Ally..." she starts, but her words fail her.

I shake my head and more tears fall into my open palms.

"It's not fair," I say at last, voicing what my brain cells have been chiming like a mantra since the moment I ran out of the doctor's office.

"Ally, don't..."

"It's been less than a month since the CT! How is this even possible?"

Millie purses her lips and waits for me to calm down so that she can explain. "He said it's very aggressive..."

"No," I say stopping her. How is she accepting this? "No. You don't... You don't deserve this!"

"Sweetheart-"

"I know nobody does. My mother didn't either. But you? This should not be happening to you!"

I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. But it's the only thing I know is unquestionably true. I knew from the start that this wouldn't end well, but that does not make it easier or better or fair.

Millie looks at me for a long while and I see the pity in her eyes. It does nothing but shame me. I feel like I've been slapped in the face by some invisible hand of faith, mocking me and taking away from me my only source of hope.

"When you left the room," Millie starts, taking the time to choose her words carefully. "Dr Debattista said that if we treat aggressively with two different chemo treatments, a really strict diet and an exercise regime, we might slow it down and we'd gain a few more months."

My head snaps up.

A few more months? That's all that's left? How can we be here so soon? The dreadful stage, where the only option is to delay the inevitable, to go for the lesser evil, whatever that is. 

I remember so clearly the moment when they said the same thing to my mother, but she didn't believe them. None of us did. She felt fine, after all.

"He said I'd need to take a lot of tablets to cover the side effects of the chemo," Millie goes on. "And he believes I'll be strong enough to start it in a few days."

I consider her pretty face. She doesn't look fifty-seven anymore. She looks timeless. She could be fifty, sixty-two or a hundred years old. 

"Without it, I won't make it till Christmas," she says, her voice factual.

My eyes sting again. I nod to show her I understand but she shakes her head. Her lips purse again and her chin trembles for the first time since the night she told me about her diagnosis. The pain in my heart is indescribable. She finally edges forward and takes my hands in hers, looking me straight in the eye.

"I told Dr Debattista that I don't want chemo," she says finally. My breath catches in my throat and my neurons become paralysed. "I can't do it," she goes on apologetically, caressing my hands. "I remember what Marija went through and I can't do it. I don't want to. I don't want to spend the rest of the time that I have left worrying about what to eat, where to go and what to do. I don't want to see my hair fall out as I pour my guts into a toilet. I don't want to spend days on end in the hospital, taking treatment that hurts just so that I can have another month or two of pain and suffering... I feel so selfish, Ally! I know you want me to fight this, but I can't do it."

All I see is her. Her worried, hazel eyes. Her neat, blonde hair. Her slight frame, pale skin, red cheeks. Her pink fingernails at the end of her long, bony fingers, so warm. Always so warm.

"You're not being selfish," I reply clearing my throat, unsure how I'm still sitting upright. "I understand. You don't have to feel bad. I love you so much."

She squeezes my hand again as her eyes glisten with moisture. "Thank you."

And then without warning, without reason, I blurt out, "I'm seeing someone."

Nanna's teary eyes grow round and wide as if that's the biggest news we received today.

"His name is Keith," I go on. "I met him at Sosa's birthday party and we've been sort of dating since then."

"Oh," she breathes, loosening her grip on my hand a little. "Is that why you and Jeremy aren't talking?"

My insides tense up in knots. She knows.

"No," I reply. "He doesn't even know about him."

"Ally-"

"Please, don't tell him!" I add desperately.

I can see the hurt in her eyes when I don't explain further.

"Do you want to meet him? Keith?"

She looks at me with uncertainty. "Do you like him?" 

I nod, yes. "He gives me butterflies, Nann."

And Millie finally smiles. A warm, patient smile. A smile that doesn't totally eradicate the worry from her eyes. "Then of course I'll meet him."

"You're the only one who knows," I say quietly.

Millie looks at me suspiciously. "Why? What's wrong with him?"

I short, wet laugh escapes through my lips. "Nothing!"

She smiles back. "There's no reason to keep him a secret then," she answers wisely.