Chapter 21 The News She Hated Giving
Clara didn’t know when Peter had arrived.
She only realized he was there when she felt it, that familiar pull in her chest that had nothing to do with her lungs and everything to do with him. The air around her shifted, softened, as if the hospital itself had paused to let him exist inside it.
She looked up.
Peter stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders tense, eyes scanning her face with a kind of fear he wasn’t trying to hide. He looked like he had run there hair slightly disheveled, breath still uneven, worry etched deep into his expression.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Peter took a step closer. “Clara.”
Her name sounded different in his voice this time. Careful. Fragile. As if it might break if he said it too loudly.
She swallowed and nodded. “Hey.”
He searched her face, his eyes darting briefly to the faint tubing still taped near her collarbone, the pallor of her skin, the exhaustion she couldn’t mask even if she wanted to.
“You okay?” he asked, even though they both knew it wasn’t the right question.
She gave a small smile. “I’m here.”
It was the best answer she could offer.
They moved to a quiet corner of the ward, two plastic chairs pulled close together, the space between them heavy with everything she hadn’t said yet. Peter sat down, angling his body toward her fully, like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.
“I talked to the doctors,” she said.
Peter nodded slowly. “Your mom texted me. Said there was a meeting.”
Clara stared at her hands. “They don’t think it’s safe.”
The words landed softly, but they carried weight. Peter inhaled sharply, then exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening.
“Not safe how?” he asked, though something in his eyes suggested he already knew.
She lifted her gaze to his. “Amsterdam.”
Silence stretched between them.
“They said no,” Clara continued, her voice steady in a way that surprised even her. “They explained everything again, the lungs, the oxygen levels, emergencies. They reminded me I’m stage four.”
Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together now. “So that’s it?”
She nodded once. “That’s it.”
For a moment, Peter didn’t say anything. His eyes darkened, not with anger, not exactly, but with something sharper. Helplessness, maybe. The kind that had no place to go.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said finally. “You’re stable now. They said there was no new tumor growth.”
“They did,” Clara agreed. “But stable doesn’t mean strong.”
She watched his face change as the truth settled in. How his shoulders stiffened. How his lips parted as if he wanted to argue, then closed again.
“I tried,” she said quietly. “I really did.”
“I know,” Peter replied immediately. “I know you did.”
She looked at him then, really looked,and felt her resolve wobble. The way his eyes shone with unshed tears. The way his thumb rubbed anxiously against his knuckle, a habit she’d noticed only recently.
This was the part she hated most.
“There’s something else,” she said.
Peter straightened. “Okay.”
She drew in a careful breath. “I think… I think we should take some space.”
The words felt wrong as soon as they left her mouth, but she forced herself to keep going.
“Not because I want to,” she added quickly. “But because I don’t want to hurt you. This…” She gestured weakly to herself, to the hospital, to everything. “It’s messy. And I don’t know what happens next.”
Peter stared at her, stunned. “Clara…”
“Please,” she said softly. “Just hear me out.”
He nodded, though his expression tightened.
“I don’t want you tying your hopes to mine,” she continued. “Or rearranging your future around something that might not… last. I don’t want to be the reason you miss out on things.”
Her voice cracked despite her efforts.
“I care about you too much for that.”
Peter shook his head slowly, disbelief giving way to something deeper. “Is that really what you think this is?”
She hesitated. “What?”
“A burden,” he said. “You think you’re a burden.”
Her silence was answer enough.
Peter stood abruptly, pacing a few steps before turning back to her. “Clara, listen to me.”
His voice wasn’t raised, but it was fierce.
“You don’t get to decide what hurts me for me.”
She flinched slightly, then met his gaze.
“I’m serious,” he continued. “You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared I’ll feel something.”
“I’m not scared of that,” she whispered. “I’m scared of hurting you.”
He stopped in front of her, crouching so they were eye level.
“You’re not hurting me,” he said. “Losing you would.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t care what the doctors said,” Peter went on. “I don’t care how uncertain things are. I care about you. Right now. As you are.”
She shook her head, tears finally slipping free. “Peter…”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly.
The words landed between them, solid and unmovable.
She searched his face, hoping foolishly that she might find doubt there. Something she could use to make this easier.
There was none.
“You don’t mean that,” she said weakly.
“I do,” he replied without hesitation. “You can ask for space. You can ask for quiet. You can ask for time. But don’t ask me to stop loving you.”
Her chest ached, emotion swelling dangerously.
“I don’t know how this ends,” she whispered.
Peter reached out then, carefully, giving her time to pull away. When she didn’t, he took her hand, warm and steady.
“Neither do I,” he said. “But I know where I’m standing until it does.”
She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead briefly against his shoulder, letting herself breathe him in.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeated softly.
And for the first time since the doctors had said no, Clara felt something stir again inside her, fragile, terrifying, undeniable.
Hope.
Even if it wasn’t allowed.