The following day, as I prepared to leave for the doctor’s appointment, my partner noticed my unease.
“You seem worried,” they said, their voice softer than usual.
“I am,” I admitted, my hand involuntarily touching the lump.
They watched me, the silence stretching between us like a chasm.
“Do you want me to come with you?” they asked, breaking the silence.
“No, it’s okay,” I replied, though part of me wished I’d said yes.
As I left the apartment, the air felt heavy with unspoken words, each step towards the doctor’s office weighted with uncertainty.
The waiting room was a symphony of nervous energy, patients shifting in their seats, flipping through outdated magazines. I felt the tension in my shoulders, the anticipation of what the doctor might say.
My name was called, and I followed the nurse into the examination room, the sterile smell of antiseptic hanging in the air.
The doctor entered, a kind smile on her face, but I could see the professional curiosity in her eyes as she examined the lump, her fingers gentle but probing.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
