Chapter 9 – Diagnosis
He hadn't really slept.
The hours had dragged on and on, thinning out between darkness and distant city sounds. Every time he let his eyes fall shut, his mind burst back—louder, heavier, unwilling to be still.
By the time the sky started to lighten, he was already propped up in bed. Not awake. Not asleep. Just... present.
He ran a hand over his face and looked at the floor for a while.
It was already scheduled.
He went on autopilot—brushing teeth, washing his face, sliding into the first shirt he encountered. The buttons were on in reverse at first. He set them right without thinking.
He emerged into the grey dawn, yanking his hood over his head though it wasn't raining yet. The city was just waking up. People stepped with that unspoken urgency found only in early mornings, their footsteps fast but muted.
The train ride went by silently. He didn't glance at his phone. Didn't even glance at anyone. His gaze remained fixed on the out-of-focus windows, where buildings went by like specters.
At the hospital, he didn't talk much. He didn't have to.
His name was already on the list.
The nurse behind the desk looked up, nodded, and waved him down the corridor.
He made his way down white halls he knew, his steps light on the linoleum. The hall turned. Light gray doors along the walls—anonymous, identical.
The nurse had called his name. He entered.
The doctor looked up from a folder. His face was unexpressive, but not strange. There was a kind of heaviness in the way he moved—something guarded. Something ready.
But before the doctor could speak, the words rushed out, fast and desperate.
"I passed out last night."
It stung. Like it had lain coiled on his tongue for hours, waiting to strike.
The doctor blinked, eyes unwavering. "When?"
"Last night. I was just at home. Doing homework. Then… I don't know. There was this feeling in my head, and next thing I knew, I was on the floor."
A silence stretched taut between them.
The folder went down in the doctor's hand. His voice, when it was uttered, was lower than usual. Slower.
"Your report arrived this morning."
Something deep within him turned quiet.
—
Rain hit the pavement like noise—quiet, relentless, infinitude.
Outside the hospital door, under the lip of an inadequate overhang, his shoulder was braced against cold, hard stone. Water permeated the cuff of his shirt, trickled over the top of the collar behind his neck. His hair weighted down by water.
He'd stood still a while.
All of it seemed dulled. The street, the sky, the city—gray, soundless. Cars drove by, splashing through shallow puddles. People rushed by, umbrellas afloat, coats cinched tight.
But he didn't move.
The memory came back slowly.
—
"Glioblastoma."
The word fell with a sort of finality that didn't require emphasis.
He didn't respond at first. Just… sat. As if his body hadn't quite processed what he'd heard.
The physician crossed his arms, the report still lying open on the desk between them.
"We had suspected it following the last scan," he replied, his voice calm. "But the confirmation was with the recent tests. It's progressed. Deep frontal lobe involvement."
The words were clean. Clinical.
They left a stain.
"It's aggressive," the doctor went on, turning the page over with delicate fingers. "Stage four. Fast-growing. We'll talk about treatment options—surgery, radiation, chemo—but I'm going to be frank with you. The prognosis is grim, even with treatment."
He looked down at the floor.
The chair beneath him was too small, too unyielding. Like it had no business being here now. Nothing did.
The doctor let the moment of silence lengthen before he asked softly, "Have you informed your grandparents?"
He parted his lips a fraction. Then froze.
There was nothing to say.
The doctor didn't insist.
Just nodded very slightly. Quietly. Compassionately.
—
Rain pounded in the hollow of his chest.
He stood still, the pressure of the doctor's words bearing down on him from every direction, like a wave building too quickly to swim out from under.
He fumbled in his pocket, drawing out his phone with numb fingers.
The screen illuminated with a familiar name.
Grandpa.
His thumb lingered over the call button.
One press. That was all it would require.
But the silence on the other end already resonated in his mind—the kind of silence that would ensue after they heard the news. The shock. The heartbreak. The terror.
He wasn't ready for that yet.
With deliberate, slow hands, he killed the screen and pocketed the phone.
"…I'll tell them later," he whispered, barely audible under the sound of the rain.
Then he stepped forward.
No umbrella. No direction.
Only the soft rhythm of water against pavement and the distant beat of a heart trying to steady itself.
And the long road home.
(End of Chapter)