The envelope was wrinkled now — not from wear but from the way I kept holding it, over and over, like the weight of it might eventually lessen. Like somehow, the truth printed in its sterile font would change if I just read it enough times.
But it hadn't.
It was still there. The diagnosis. The slow countdown to something I wasn't ready for.
Lila had returned two days ago with the second opinion, her face pale with worry. I had hoped, in some foolish, trembling corner of my mind, that it would be different. That maybe the first test was wrong. That the fear choking me would end with a laugh and a scolding about overreacting.
But it was real.
She had hugged me so tightly that I had to force the tears back. I didn't want to break. Not in front of her. Not yet.
And now I was here again.
At the hospital. Alone.
Sitting in the cold hallway outside the doctor's office, I ran my fingers over the hem of my sleeve, rubbing until the fabric nearly burned.
Lila had offered to come with me, but I told her I needed to do this myself. Truth was, I didn't want her to see me beg.
The donor. That was all I cared about now. There was one match, they had said. Just one.
I was led into a small consultation room. Too white. Too clean. Too detached for what it was about to hold.
The doctor walked in — kind eyes, rehearsed voice.
"We're sorry, Ms. Adair. The matched donor has declined. Legally, we can't release their information. We've exhausted every other compatible profile."
Declined.
Like I was a subscription they could cancel.
Like my life was negotiable.
The room fell silent. I blinked, but my lips refused to move. The doctor offered some hollow words of comfort and then stepped out — probably to give me time to cry, or scream, or collapse.
But they left something behind.
A folder. Thick, worn. Clearly important.
I stared at it, then looked at the door.
They wouldn't forget something like that.
Would they?
My fingers reached for it before my mind could catch up. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to snoop — but something pulled me to it.
The name inside… was blacked out.
But the handwriting was familiar. A signature I couldn't place.
There was a note scribbled in the margins:
> "Unwilling donor. Protected by private order. No override authorized."
I stared.
The air shifted. It wasn't just coincidence.
Whoever this donor was… they were hiding. Or being hidden.
And suddenly… for the first time in days, my fear began to shift. Not vanish. But change. Morph into something else.
Curiosity.
And then… dread.
--