Chapter 8 Where Hope Feels Heavy
The support group ended the way it always did not with closure, but with quiet. Folding chairs scraped against the floor as people stood, conversations trailing off mid-thought, emotions tucked back into pockets for later. Clara lingered in her seat longer than usual, her fingers worrying the edge of her sleeve.
Peter noticed.
He always did.
“You okay?” he asked softly, crouching slightly so his voice didn’t carry.
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. I just… need air.”
Outside, the afternoon sun felt gentler than usual, filtered through thin clouds that made the sky look tired. They walked side by side without touching, the silence between them thick but not uncomfortable just full.
Clara stopped near the edge of the parking lot.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said.
Peter turned to face her fully now. “Okay.”
She took a breath, then another. “The author. From the book.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, interest sharpening. “The one you keep emailing?”
“He replied.”
Peter’s face changed instantly, surprise, excitement, disbelief all colliding. “Wait. He actually replied?”
“Yes.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He said he won’t answer questions in writing. That if I ever find myself in Amsterdam, I can visit him.”
“That’s…” Peter laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. “That’s incredible, Clara.”
She shook her head. “It would be. If it were possible.”
And just like that, the weight returned.
She told him about the cost. The flights. The treatments. The reality that dreams didn’t always fit into hospital schedules or insurance plans.
Peter’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“But it is,” he insisted. “You spent years reading his words, living inside that book, and when you finally get close to answers, money gets to decide?”
She watched the frustration rise in him, fierce and protective, and something in her chest softened. No one had ever been angry for her before.
“Come with me,” he said suddenly.
“Where?”
“A picnic. Right now.”
She blinked. “Peter….”
“No excuses. You told me something huge. I don’t want it to end in a parking lot.”
They sat beneath a tree at the edge of a quiet park, the grass cool beneath them. Peter spread out a blanket with exaggerated seriousness, earning a laugh from Clara, real this time.
They talked about the book again. About unfinished endings. About how some stories refuse to explain themselves.
“Maybe that’s the point,” Clara said. “That some things don’t get answers.”
Peter shook his head. “I hate that.”
“I know.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her. “You deserve more than half-stories.”
The moment lingered, fragile, suspended before Clara’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
Hospital reminder.
Her MRI.
The mood shifted instantly. Peter drove her to her parents where they would leave for the hospital together.
The hospital smelled the same as always sterile and faintly metallic, like memory itself.
The machine swallowed her slowly, inch by inch, until the ceiling disappeared and was replaced by a narrow tunnel of white and shadow. Clara folded her hands over her stomach the way the nurse had instructed, fingers lacing together too tightly, knuckles pale. Don’t move, they had said. As if stillness were ever easy when your body had spent years betraying you.
The first sound came without warning, a sharp metallic thud, followed by a low mechanical hum. It echoed inside her chest, vibrating through bone and breath. Clara closed her eyes, though it changed nothing. The noise pressed against her thoughts, loud enough to drown out reason, quiet enough to leave space for fear.
What if it’s worse?
The thought slipped in uninvited, settling heavily. She imagined shadows blooming on the scan, dark shapes blooming where there should be none. She imagined doctors lowering their voices, her mother’s hand tightening just a little too much around hers. She had learned the language of bad news long before she learned algebra.
She focused on her breathing, shallow, careful, controlled. Her lungs never let her forget themselves. Each breath felt measured, like it had to be earned. She counted silently. One. Two. Three. In. Out. Again.
I’m still here, she reminded herself. I’ve survived worse.
Her mind drifted, as it always did when fear lingered too long. To Peter’s smile. To the way he looked at her like she was something steady, something real, not fragile glass. She pictured the flower he gave her during the picnic, imagined him waiting, imagined a future that felt dangerously close to hope.
The machine clanged again, louder this time.
Clara swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting behind her eyes. She didn’t pray for miracles anymore, she had learned better than that. But she whispered something quieter, something braver.
Just let me have a little more time.
When it was over, she didn’t feel relief, only exhaustion.
Outside, her parents waited, concern written into every line of their faces. Clara smiled anyway. She was good at that.
She didn’t tell Peter about the MRI yet.
Some things needed time.
And some hopes, even heavy ones, were still worth carrying.
Her parents took by her hands inside the car that was parked waiting, it was time to go home.
Will I ever get better? Will I ever get answers? Will Peter ever give up on me? These thoughts kept crawling h
er mind as she slept off, it had been an exhausting day.
