Between Needles and Need Pt. 01

This is my first story written in English. I'm not a native speaker, so please forgive me if the grammar or translation is a bit rough around the edges. The autobiographical part is that I'm seriously ill, I have cancer, and I spend a lot of time in hospital. Being there so much, you see things happening between people that you're not really supposed to notice. Those little moments, the tension, the unspoken feelings, that's what inspired this story and what I wanted to explore.

All the main characters are adults, and most of the story is about love between women. But there is also some sex with a man. So if that's not your thing, maybe skip this one. I wrote it because I wanted to share the mix of tension, desire, and survival that comes with all this.

Myra

The day her body stopped feeling like it belonged to her didn't come with any big dramatic moment. No collapsing on the floor, no gasping in mirrors. It started with a lump. Small. No pain. Barely there, more like a thick spot. Like something under the skin had stiffened its spine. She noticed it by accident while drying off after a shower. Her thumb paused. Pressed. Pressed again.

The GP had that look. Not panicked, but also not the kind of look that says "This is probably nothing." She was referred. The tests followed: ultrasound, mammogram, biopsy. The doctors kept their voices low, like volume might cause structural damage. Myra just kept thinking, if they say it, it's real.

And then they said it.

Breast cancer.

She nodded. No idea if she cried. She only knew she didn't want to go home. She stayed at the hospital until the sky turned dark. Called her family. They came, brought her home and cared for her, listened and hold her. It took a bit of the anxiety away, but Myra had a long way to go.

Then came the flood of appointments. A new rhythm, completely out of her control. Scans, bloodwork, intake conversations, scheduling calls. The calendar was her life now.

And then she met Dr. Hanna Wilks. Her oncologist.

She introduced herself with a calm voice, a straight back, and the kind of presence that makes you stop picking at your sleeve. She explained things clearly. Options. Statistics. Side effects. She didn't sugarcoat, didn't dramatize. Myra barely took in half of it.

What she did notice, though, was the hand she placed on Myra's arm at the end of that first consult. It wasn't a doctor's touch. It was just... human.

From then on, Myra kept seeing her. In treatment rooms, in corridors, once in the hospital café where she was reading something non-medical and drinking tea like a regular person. That should've been fine. It wasn't.

It got harder to breathe around her. Not because of the chemo, not because of fear. Because Myra had started noticing her as a woman. Her hands. The way she said her name. The way she listened without blinking too much. The way she gave her water when Myra cried and said, "You don't have to be strong today. I'm still here."

After that, Myra pulled back. On purpose. More polite, less open. Like distance was a treatment option. It didn't work. Every visit became a full-on internal brawl between her common sense and her stomach. She never expected desire to feel like nausea. It started somewhere in week four of the first chemo cycle. The appointments with Dr. Wilks were harder than the infusions. Way harder.

There was nothing inappropriate. No weird looks, no almost-touching. Dr. Wilks was relentlessly professional. Friendly, attentive, not even a whisper of personal interest. Which made everything worse. Because Myra couldn't stop noticing. The way her voice dropped slightly when she said her name. The way her sleeves always hovered just above her wrists. The way she listened without interrupting, without rushing. And worst of all, the way Myra's own body started reacting.

It crept up on her. That too-warm feeling under her skin when she sat across from her. The restless buzz in her thighs. The ridiculous, involuntary way her breath caught whenever Dr. Wilks leaned forward to show her something on a chart. She hated it. Hated that she could feel her own pulse in places she didn't want to think about while discussing side effects and white blood cell counts.

Before every appointment, she'd go to the bathroom to check her face in the mirror. Fix her hair, even though there wasn't much left. Sometimes she'd change her shirt last minute, because something about the first one felt too tight, too revealing, or just... wrong.

She blamed it on the chemo. Then the anxiety. Then the whole collapsing mess that was her life. But deep down, she knew. Her body had betrayed her in more ways than one and this was just one more.

One evening, after an appointment where she'd barely managed a full sentence, Myra found herself staring at her phone like it might hand her a miracle. She wanted to text something casual. "Thanks for explaining everything today. It helped." But there was no number. No WhatsApp. Just the cold hospital portal where you could download your bloodwork and maybe fill out a feedback survey. No access. It felt like being locked out of something she hadn't even been let into.

The next time she sat across from her, her mouth was dry. Dr. Wilks asked how she was feeling, how her appetite was, whether she had any fever. Myra nodded, said yes or no in the right places, but didn't look her in the eye.

"Myra?"

"I'm just tired," she muttered.

Dr. Wilks nodded, made a note. And then, just for a second, she placed her hand on top of Myra's. A reflex maybe. A flash of compassion. But it felt like Myra's whole chest caved in.

"You can always call the clinic if you need anything," she said.

Myra nodded. Thought, I want to call when I don't need anything. I just want to hear your voice. She stood up without making eye contact. She couldn't. Not again. Not when those eyes rearranged her insides like that.

****

They were in the kitchen, surrounded by half-empty glasses and a torn-open bag of chips. Outside, the light was fading. Inside, the air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and stale coffee. Jake looked at her, frowned, and gave her that sideways grin he always used when something didn't quite add up. According to him, she looked like she'd just strangled a puppy.

Myra shrugged. She just felt weird.

"Weird like pregnant?" he asked, his grin widening. She threw a chip at his head and missed by an inch. "No, not pregnant. Weird like... confused. All over the place without a real reason." Jake nodded solemnly, as if this was deep philosophy. "Existential crisis," he said. "Classic. Let's hear it."

She sighed, took a sip of coffee and stared at the counter. She didn't want to say it out loud, but not saying it made her even more restless. Eventually, she said she might have feelings. For someone. He clapped his hands like she'd just confessed to a high school crush. "Myra has feelings. Is it a person or a houseplant?"

She said it was a woman. A doctor.

He leaned back. "A doctor?"

She nodded.

"Your doctor?"

Another nod.

He laughed, but not in a mocking way. More like someone reading a twist ending they hadn't seen coming. "That's so wrong it circles back to being poetic. Like a movie that starts with soft lighting and ends in court."

Myra said she meant it. No jokes.

"I know," he said, taking her hand. His voice softened, but the glint in his eyes stayed. "So what do you want? To ask her out between chemo rounds?"

She didn't know. She just wanted it to stop. Or to turn into something. Anything but this.

He told her it was good that she was alive enough to feel. That it didn't matter who or why. That she didn't need to take everything so seriously all the time. "You always say that," she said. "Like things become less real if you treat them like a joke."

"Maybe it helps keep the walls from falling in," he said.

She looked at him. He winked. Which made it worse. She felt dumb, childish, and mostly alone. He asked her what the worst thing was that could happen. She could flirt a little. See what came back. If the doctor wasn't into it, then that was that. She wouldn't be her patient forever. But if she was into it, then... jackpot.

"She's not," said Myra. "She's so right. So correct. That's probably why I like her."

Jake raised his eyebrows. "You do love a lost cause."

"Yeah," she said. "Apparently."

Later, when he pulled the door closed behind him, she slid under the covers. The click of the lock sounded like a sigh. His scent still hung in the room, skin, soap, a trace of sweat and cum. Comforting. Not arousing. But steady, like warm milk when you really need whiskey.

She stared at the ceiling. Jake was sweet. Really sweet. He always knew when to talk and when to shut up. And yes, he'd said it again, somewhere between teasing and truth: "You always fall for women you can't have. Always just out of reach. Always perched up in some metaphorical tree."

And he'd rolled on the condom with a joke: "No radioactive babies, thank you." She had laughed, mostly out of awkwardness, and a little out of grief. She had never wanted children. Jake did. That had ended their relationship to begin with. But now, with the chemo, with her body changing, maybe permanently, it suddenly hurt. Not because she wanted a baby. But because the option had quietly walked out the door without saying goodbye.

What happened between them was friendship. Not a crush. Not fire. It was softness. It was not being alone for a night. It was someone who knew her, knew her body, and treated it gently. But now she was alone again. And her head was buzzing. Long dark curls pinned up in a loose knot, pale grey eyes, a voice that said words like "metastatic" and "lobular" in a way that sounded almost kind. Not like science. Like hope.

Myra turned over. There was still a hum in her lower back, a flicker in her chest. She thought about the first time she'd known that a woman could make her feel something.

She was fifteen. Her biology teacher had asked her to stay after class for an assignment. She didn't even remember what it was about. Just the way that woman had rested her hand on her shoulder while explaining something. The way Myra spent the next few weeks recognizing her perfume in books. The way she wrote her name in the margins of her notebooks without even noticing.

She knew it wasn't just admiration.

But that too had been impossible. A wall of age, authority, boundaries. Just like now.

She groaned and pressed her face into the pillow. Jake had tried to keep it light, like he always did. But that only made her feel heavier. Like no one really got what was going on. Maybe not even her. What was this? Was it a crush? A projection? A form of escape? Or was it just her heart reaching out to something while her body was slipping away from her?

She didn't know. But she knew she wanted to see her. Not because she had to. Because she wanted to.

And that made everything more complicated.

She had promised herself to keep things professional. Businesslike. Neutral. No more blushing when Dr. Wilks said her name. No more stealing glances at the curls that always looked just a little messier by the end of the day.

So when she walked into the consultation room the next time, her face was set. Mouth neutral. Back straight. Eyes locked on the window behind the doctor.

"Myra," said Dr. Wilks, warmly. "How have the past few weeks been?"

Myra shrugged. "Fine."

A pause. The scratch of a pen. A click of a mouse.

"Did you have any fever after the last cycle?"

"Don't know."

"You didn't take your temperature?"

"No."

A pause. A tiny frown.

"Appetite?"

"It's fine."

Now Dr. Wilks looked at her properly. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just... concerned.

"Myra, it feels like you're not telling me something."

She felt her face heat up. The exact thing she was trying to avoid.

"There's nothing," she said quickly. "Everything's fine."

"You seem distant. Closed off. You've always been clear in your answers and now..."

"Maybe you shouldn't focus so much on how I'm being," Myra snapped. She didn't mean for it to come out that sharp, but she didn't take it back either. The silence that followed was thick and awkward. Dr. Wilks put her pen down.

"I pay attention to how you're doing because that's my job," she said, gently. "Because your health depends on what you tell me."

"I know," Myra muttered. "Sorry."

She wanted to disappear. Into her chair. Into her coat, casually draped over the back. Into a little box somewhere inside her head. Dr. Wilks nodded slowly, still watching her. Not accusing, but curious. Like she was trying to understand something Myra didn't want to show.

"You know," she said, almost casually, "I read an article recently about how patients sometimes pull back when something gets too close. Not physically, but emotionally. Because they feel vulnerable. Because something touches them outside the medical context."

Myra didn't say anything. Every part of her wanted to run. Or cry. Or laugh in that fake, too-loud way and say: I'm not in love, don't worry, I'm just weird today. But she said nothing. Just stared at her own hands.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Dr. Wilks said. "But if something is on your mind, anything at all, you can tell me. You don't have to. It's just an option."

"There's nothing," said Myra. Her voice was flat.

The doctor nodded again, shorter this time. She turned back to the screen, clicked through a few tabs. The rest of the appointment was all business. Distant. No hand on her arm. No extra glance. Just the echo of everything she hadn't said.

And when Myra walked out of the room, she didn't feel relieved. She felt hollow. Like she had just boarded something up that actually needed air.

The door of the consultation room clicked shut behind her. She heard the soft murmur of voices, the clatter of keyboards, the squeak of shoes on linoleum. She wanted to go to the waiting room, just sit for a moment and catch her breath. But she didn't dare. What if Dr. Wilks came back? What if she saw her there, breathless, fidgeting in her chair, head spinning, heart beating like a warning drum?

She didn't risk it. She walked straight out of the hospital. The cold air hit her face like a slap.

She sat down on a bench near the entrance and tried to breathe slowly. In and out. In and out. But her breath caught. The panic crept in. Her chest felt tight. Her hands trembled. Her thoughts were racing faster than she could keep up. Why am I like this? she thought. Why can't I just be normal? Why did I let it get to me like that?

She felt like a kid again. Small. Fragile. Like being back at that first impossible crush, that unreachable teacher. Only this wasn't some schoolgirl fantasy. This was something that gnawed at her, something she couldn't name, something that hurt without leaving a mark.

People passed her by. She caught their glances. The quick mental check: is she okay? Do I need to do something?

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pull herself together. But it felt like she was coming apart. She wanted to call someone. But who? Jake? But that would mean talking. Explaining. And the words wouldn't come.

She took a deep breath, counted to ten, tried to hold herself steady. Tomorrow was another round of chemo. Tomorrow she'd be back at the clinic. Today she was falling apart. But no one could know.

****

Myra quickly tapped out a message to Jake. "Will you come with me to my next appointment with Dr. Wilks?"

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.

"Yeah, of course."

That night, they sat together on the couch. Myra felt off. Tired and heavy from the chemo and everything else. She was a little limp, really just in need of company. Someone to lean against. Something soft. Jake sat beside her, his bald head catching the light. He looked at her for a moment, quietly.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, grinning.

He shrugged. "I think you're one of us now. The bald squad is complete."

Myra laughed. "The bald squad? What's our team uniform?"

"One of those suction cup dildos from your nightstand," Jake said, deadpan.

Myra broke into helpless giggles. "Team Bald Unicorn," she managed through her laughter. "That's us. Unbeatable. Slightly magical."

"I don't know why you still hang around with me," she mumbled later. "Because I'm into you," Jake said without hesitation. "And you have this uncanny ability to make every man you know feel just a little jealous." He gave her a look. She gave him one back.

"So," he said, steering things in a new direction, "how do you want me to test Dr. Wilks? Smooth and charming? Subtle flirtation? Or just my best poker face?"

Myra smiled. "Just ask if she has a Facebook account. Or a secret phone number."

Jake laughed. "I'd blow my cover in ten seconds."

"Exactly," Myra said, and rested her head on his shoulder.

****

The next appointment felt easier. Not because the situation had changed, but because Myra didn't have to go alone. The weather that day was strange in a good way. It was cool, but not freezing. Crisp, but not painful. Myra and Jake walked into the hospital together, both bald now, looking like a matched pair. "Told you," Jake said, rubbing his smooth head. "We're a team." Myra smiled. "Like a bald club."

In the waiting room, Jake put his arm around her shoulders. It made her feel a little more relaxed. Less like she was walking into something scary by herself. When Dr. Wilks came out to get her, Myra felt that nervous lump in her throat, but with Jake there, she could manage it.

"Good afternoon," Dr. Wilks said. She looked calm and polite, but her eyes noticed everything.

"This is Jake," Myra said. "He's coming in with me today."

Dr. Wilks nodded. She looked at Jake a moment longer than necessary. Her body stiffened a little. Myra could feel the shift in the air. In the exam room, Dr. Wilks got started with the normal checks: examining Myra's chest, checking how the chemo was working. Myra took off her top without any hesitation. Jake sat down quietly next to her, steady and calm, like he was watching over her.

Dr. Wilks looked surprised. Myra had never brought anyone with her before. But now she seemed almost peaceful, like Jake helped her stay grounded. She even smiled, just a little. Dr. Wilks noticed that Myra's breathing was shallow, her nipples hard and that her body reacted to the situation, but she didn't say anything. "Interesting," she murmured as she pulled on gloves and began the exam.

Jake tried to lighten the mood. "So, Doc, how am I doing as a support partner?"

Dr. Wilks gave him a quick look. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm here for your friend, not to evaluate you."

The way she said "friend" hung in the air. Myra didn't notice. She looked at Jake and felt comforted, like she wasn't going through all of this by herself anymore. Jake noticed how Dr. Wilks frowned slightly when she turned back to her notes. For a second, he felt like he didn't belong. Like he had stepped into something private.

Dr. Wilks spoke gently to Myra, but she kept glancing at Jake now and then. When the appointment ended, Jake walked out with Myra. He didn't say much.

"We need to talk," he said quietly.

Myra looked at him, confused. "About what?"

"Later," he said. "When you're ready."

That evening, they sat in Myra's small kitchen. Fresh coffee filled the room, and city sounds floated in from the window. Myra looked tired. There was a lot she hadn't said.

"So?" she asked. "Are you going to tell me what's on your mind?"

Jake shrugged. He had a small smile. "I think it makes sense that you like Dr. Wilks. She really cares about you. That's obvious." "I know," Myra said. "She's always so serious. But it helps, actually. I've gotten used to it." Jake looked more serious now. "Yeah, but I don't think she liked that I was there." Myra laughed softly. "You thought she'd fall for your amazing bald head?" "Maybe," Jake joked. "Or maybe she just likes bald people. Just not bald men."

Myra laughed harder. "Poor you."

They looked at each other. The moment felt light and warm, like the coffee steam between them. "But seriously," Jake said, "I get why you like her. She's got a certain energy. And she was definitely tuned in to you."

Myra let out a long breath, smiling just a bit. "Maybe I'm just hopeless."

"Or just human," Jake said, finishing his coffee.

****

The days after her appointment with Dr. Wilks were full of restless thoughts. Her mind felt like a storm that wouldn't settle. Jake had confirmed it. Her feelings about the doctor weren't crazy. He even said it made sense. But that didn't make things easier. What was she supposed to do with those feelings? A doctor wasn't a crush. This couldn't happen. It wasn't allowed. Still, the feeling was there. Slow and stubborn. It hit her every time she thought about the next appointment, three weeks away.

So she turned to the internet. She typed in things like "feelings for your doctor" and "what to do if you fall for a doctor." Most of the articles were clear: if it bothered you, talk about it. Or consider asking for a new doctor.

But Myra already knew, she didn't want a different doctor. She trusted Dr. Wilks. She was one of the best. Twice before, when Wilks had been on vacation, a stand-in had taken over, and it never felt right. It didn't feel like being truly seen. The idea of leaving her oncologist, the one person who seemed to understand not just her body but her soul, made her feel scared. And even more confused.

She called her sister.

"Would you come with me to my next appointment? Jake can't make it."

Her sister didn't hesitate. "Of course. Is everything okay?"

Myra didn't mention the feelings. Just that it had felt better with someone there. That it was hard going alone. That she didn't want to be by herself this time. She still didn't know what she felt. Or what to do about it. But one thing she was sure of, she didn't want to do this alone anymore.

The chemo drained her energy, but it also brought something else: waves of emotion she hadn't expected. At night, when everything was quiet and the hospital felt far away, she would lie in bed, her body trembling softly from exhaustion and something else. Longing. Her mind would drift to Dr. Wilks. To that intense gaze, those bright gray eyes that seemed to see straight through her. To the careful way she'd touched Myra's skin during exams. Not in a wrong way, but with such focus and attention. It stirred something deeper than she liked to admit. She'd touched herself in those moments, in the dark, letting her hand wander over her skin, guided by thoughts of the doctor. It wasn't new. She'd done this before. But lately, it came with a sharper edge.

Once, she'd tried to bring that energy into bed with Jake. He played along. Even wore a curly wig as a joke, pretending to be Dr. Wilks. He touched her gently, teased her, and they both laughed until it didn't feel like pretending anymore. For a moment, the tension turned into something playful. Something safe.

But when she thought about the real thing, about sitting across from Dr. Wilks again, her stomach twisted. Want and fear tangled together. And still, the craving stayed. For those eyes, those hands, that voice. For everything she couldn't have, but couldn't stop thinking about.

****

The waiting room felt different this time. Not because of the weather or the people. Because it was Iris who sat next to her.

Iris, five years older, had always been the calm one. Sharp eyes. A warm heart. Even with kids of her own, she still had that big-sister instinct. Protective. Steady.

"So, today I finally meet the famous Dr. Wilks?" Iris said, taking off her coat and sitting beside her. Myra just gave her a look. "Please don't make this weird."

When Dr. Wilks came to get her, something shifted.

"Someone new today?" she asked with that smooth, careful voice. "Not feeling brave enough to come alone anymore? "Myra answered quickly. "I just feel better when someone's with me."

That was that. The appointment moved on. Exam, blood work, numbers. Then something unexpected.

"I think we should pause the chemo for a week," Dr. Wilks said. "Your body is clearly overwhelmed. The numbers aren't good. And your fatigue is concerning."

Myra nodded. She already knew. Her body had been warning her for days. Her voice was soft. "I don't want to stop."

Dr. Wilks looked at her closely. "Sometimes rest is the only way forward."

Iris didn't say anything. Just watched. Later, in the hallway, as Myra pulled her coat closed, Iris spoke. "What did she mean by that comment? About you bringing someone new?"

Myra looked puzzled. "Oh. That. She didn't mean anything by it." "Didn't she?" Iris asked. "It sounded weird. Like she was annoyed. Like she didn't want anyone else there." Myra shrugged. "Maybe she just prefers to talk to me directly."

"Maybe," Iris said, though her expression said she didn't quite buy it.

As they stepped outside, something shifted in Myra's mind. Jake had felt it. Now Iris had noticed it too. But Myra kept telling herself it was just care. Just a doctor doing her job.

Hannah

The door clicked softly shut.

Hannah didn't move. One hand still rested on the folder, her back rigid, her jaw tight. After a moment she turned, walked to the window of the consultation room, and did what she always did. Looked outside. The square below, the hospital flag flapping gently, a couple of people on a bench, a nurse finishing her coffee. Her eyes scanned the view, hoping maybe foolishly that she'd spot Myra walking away, alone, unhurried, maybe even smiling.

But no. Not today. Again. Myra hadn't come alone.

And Hannah didn't have the luxury of lingering, not really. Another patient already waited. But still she stayed, just for a second longer. Something felt off.

Jake. That grinning, cocky guy. Bald head, smug expression, eyes too familiar when they landed on Myra. Like he knew something Hannah didn't. Like he was testing her. Or worse, judging. She couldn't stand him. Probably thought he was charming. And that stupid line. "So, Doc, how am I doing as a support act?" Ugh. And the way he looked at Myra. Too warm. Too close.

And today, Iris. That big-sister tone. The leaning-in at every answer. The kind of sibling who thinks no one else will ever treat their baby sister quite right. Like Myra needed guarding. Like she, Hannah, couldn't be trusted to see her for who she really was.

But it wasn't that. It wasn't about Iris. Or Jake.

It was Myra.

She was quieter now. More closed off. Ever since she'd started bringing people, she seemed further away. And Hannah missed her. Missed the girl who, just briefly, had let her see behind the armor. Now? A wall. A practiced smile. Nothing more.

She stepped away from the window. Her fingers hit the keyboard a little harder than necessary. New patient. New mask. New script.

But something hummed beneath her skin, a low vibration she couldn't shake.

What are you hiding, Myra? And why can't I read you anymore?

The morning meeting in team room two. Five doctors. Three nurses. One social worker. A dietitian checking the time.

Hannah sat at the far end of the table, fingers resting on her tablet, but her mind nowhere near the agenda.

Just one name.

Myra.

"Anything we should be aware of for today's admissions?" the head nurse asked. "Nothing major," someone said. "Except maybe with patient Mattheis."

Hannah's head snapped up, voice a touch too sharp. "Mattheis? Myra Mattheis? How's she doing? Anyone notice anything different?"

There was a beat of silence. A glance or two across the table. The nurse on duty, an older woman with a calm voice and a knack for people, nodded slowly. "She's always been pleasant," she said. "Chatty, very funny most of the time. You almost forget how sick she is."

That didn't line up. Not with the Myra Hannah had been seeing lately.

"Any changes? Physically or emotionally?" Hannah asked, trying to sound casual and not quite managing it. The social worker shook her head. "Not really. Though, there was a little argument on the ward last week."

"What kind of argument?" Hannah's voice was tighter now.

The nurse stepped in. "Another patient was complaining about you. Said she didn't feel heard. And Myra kind of snapped."

"What did she say?"

"Something like, 'If you don't listen to the doctor, don't blame her when things go wrong.'"

A pause. Then silence.

Hannah nodded slowly. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her pen. "Alright. Thank you."

She let it go. Out loud, at least. But inside, it flared up.

So Myra defended her. In public. To a stranger.

But with her, face to face, she was distant. Careful.

Was it guilt? Embarrassment? Fear?

She thought back to the earlier Myra. Those first few weeks. When she still cried openly. When Hannah could still say something soft and Myra would melt. When something warm had flickered between them that had nothing to do with white coats or IV drips.

But that Myra had changed.

And not just because of the treatment.

Myra

The conversation with Iris lingered like damp mist in Myra's head. She had called her out of the blue because she couldn't shake those words. "Do you remember what you said about Dr. Wilks?" she asked, her voice a bit shaky with tension. "Yes," Iris replied right away, as if she had sensed it coming. "What exactly do you mean?" Myra asked carefully. "Well... about that comment of hers," Iris said. "That she thought it was strange you brought someone along again."

Iris sounded a little uneasy, like she wanted to say more but wasn't sure how. "I just found it a bit odd," she continued. "Not in a bad way, but a doctor should be used to family coming along, right? It felt like she didn't like it." Myra shrugged, trying to brush it off. "Maybe you're just too protective," she said. "And Jake's always trying to be funny. Maybe it's you two, not her."

Iris sighed softly, her tone calm but serious. "I'm not saying she's a bad doctor, Myra. She's good. I just felt something. That's all." Myra stayed quiet, staring at the ceiling. Her mind was already on the next appointment. That important meeting where she'd find out if the chemo would continue or if she'd have to stop. The nerves gnawed at her like an invisible storm in her stomach.

Later, in bed, her phone buzzed. It was Jake. "Should I come with you to the meeting?" he asked. She didn't hesitate and called him back. "No," she said softly. "I think it's better if I do this alone." "Are you sure?" Jake asked carefully. "Yes," she said firmly. "Otherwise, I keep hiding behind you both. I keep hiding from myself. This is something I have to do."

There was silence on the other end. Then his voice returned, softer now, almost playful. "Okay. But can I come over the day before? Tear you apart? Relax you completely with my tongue until you forget everything, even her?"

Myra laughed hoarsely, the tension breaking for a moment. "Jake... I'm wrecked. I'm so tired. And your tongue will glow. Radioactive licker. We might have to register you with the health authorities." He laughed out loud. "Then I'll be the first man with an officially certified chemo tongue."

They laughed together, a moment of lightness in everything heavy. "I like that," she said finally. "Really. But I just want to wake up once feeling like I did something myself. You know?"

"I get it," Jake said. "But remember, you're never really alone. Not even in that exam room."

"No," she said softly. "I know."

****

Dr. Wilks was different today. Relaxed. Softer. The crease between her eyebrows was gone, her eyes had that old sharpness again. Myra noticed it immediately. Because I'm alone again, she thought. Because I'm not disturbing with extras. Because I brought the right setting: no one. The words from Jake and Iris echoed in her head, but she showed nothing. Dr. Wilks smiled kindly.

"Good to see you again, Myra. How are you feeling today?" Myra wanted to answer but her throat felt tight. She swallowed. Her voice barely more than a sigh.

"Wrecked."

Again that softness. Not fake, but not innocent either. "I'm going to run some tests. We'll see how your body is holding up, then decide what's next," the doctor said calmly. Myra nodded, almost mechanically. She pulled off her sweater, then her shirt. Her hands trembled as she unclasped her bra. Everything felt slow, like her body was working against her.

Hannah put on her gloves, warmed her hands by rubbing them. Her fingers gently touched the skin of Myra's breast.

"Tell me how it feels," she whispered.

Myra couldn't help herself. The tiredness made her harsher than usual.

"So this is how all those stories start," she muttered.

Hannah stiffened.

"What do you mean?"

Myra looked away, immediately regretting her tone. "Nothing. Just... people's stories."

"Which people?" Hannah asked. Her voice had an edge now. Not loud, but sharp. More alert than before. Like an alarm going off somewhere in her head. Hannah thought about that other patient. That incident. That vague discomfort she never fully understood.

"Myra... you have breast cancer. I have to touch your breast. This isn't personal."

"No," Myra said sharply. "I know that." But it did feel personal. Everything felt personal. Too close. Too heavy.

Hannah worked silently. The air in the room had changed. Tighter. Cooler.

Afterward, Myra put her clothes back on. Her hands trembled trying to fasten her bra. She barely managed. She sighed loudly. Her gaze swept angrily along the windowsill, lingering without really seeing anything.

"Myra, I've decided we're stopping chemo," Hannah said finally. "Your body is done. We'll prepare you for surgery. That means you need rest now."

"How long?" Myra asked without looking up. "Six weeks. There will be some talks with other specialists. But I won't see you again until around the operation."

Six weeks.

It sounded like a sentence. Like a door slamming shut.

Hannah said it with a smile. A smile. Like she was talking about a holiday. Like it wasn't serious.

Myra felt it simmer inside. That smile stabbed like salt on an open wound. The irritation climbed slowly but surely, like a whispering rage. Like it was nothing. Like they were just parking her in time. Like she was no more than a file.

She said nothing. She even smiled. But inside her face felt tight, her skin itchy under her clothes. She stood up. Her shoes squeaked briefly on the linoleum.

Then she turned around one last time.

Dr. Wilks was already looking at her computer screen.

Myra pulled her mouth into a half-grimace. Almost childlike, angry. Like she wanted to shout something that would do justice to everything she felt. But the words got stuck in her throat.

"Goodbye, doctor," she said. The words sounded too formal, too stiff. Too distant.

Without waiting for an answer, she walked out. Her stomach pounded. Not with desire. Not with chemo. But with that one feeling that had no name. Only a raging emptiness. A fury. A longing that kept burning long after the door closed behind her.

Hannah

Hannah stared at the computer screen but saw nothing. Her eyes followed lines of text her brain no longer processed. The door had clicked shut behind Myra. The room was empty now. Quiet. Too quiet.

Myra's words still echoed in the air, softly spoken but swelling in her gut like a stone she couldn't dislodge.

That's how all the stories start.

What did she mean by that?

Hannah set her elbows on the desk and pressed her forehead into her palms. Shut it out. The world. The noise. The thinking. But the thoughts kept rattling at the door of her mind.

Stories? What stories? Had someone said something? Twisted something?

And then that look. That strange expression on Myra's face while she fastened her bra, like Hannah had done something wrong. Like she had been caught wanting something that should never be spoken aloud.

But she hadn't done anything wrong. She followed protocol. She was professional. Always. Wasn't she?

She'd felt such relief when Myra started opening up again. A joke, a half-smile, a trace of the warmth from those early weeks. Hannah had thought, there she is again. My Myra. The one who dares to speak.

My Myra?

She sat upright, took a deep breath, whispered to herself, Not my Myra. But she didn't fully believe it.

What unsettled her the most wasn't the remark, or the chill that settled over the room, or the stilted goodbye. It was the hope. The fact that she'd started hoping. Hoping that these six weeks would be a break. A breath. A stillness. But now it felt like distance. Real, unbridgeable distance.

****

The coffee machine let out a low hum in that strange, too-late part of the afternoon. Hannah rubbed her eyes while the scent of bland cappuccino mixed with disinfectant and latex.

"You look like you're fighting a war on two fronts," said Anna Wood, her colleague from internal medicine, as she reached for a cup. "Feels like it," Hannah replied. She stood there a moment longer, staring at the pattern in the floor tiles. Anna glanced sideways at her. She knew Hannah well enough not to ignore her silences. "What's going on?"

Hannah hesitated. "Have you ever felt like you've lost your grip on a patient? Not because they won't listen, but because you just can't read them anymore?" "Welcome to oncology," Anna said dryly, though her eyes stayed serious. "Talk to me."

Hannah sighed. "It's a patient of mine. Myra. Breast cancer. She's younger than most, late thirties. She used to be open. Honest, even when it hurt. Then she closed off. Started bringing people with her to appointments. She became distant. But today she came alone. And for a moment, it was good. She talked. She even made a joke."

"And?"

"And then she flipped. Out of nowhere. Like I'd done something wrong. She said something strange. That's how all the stories start. I can't stop thinking about it. It's like a splinter in my head."

Anna took a sip of her lukewarm coffee. "Did you ask her what she meant?"

"Not really. She shut down again before I had the chance. And honestly, I felt caught off guard. Like she was accusing me of something I didn't understand."

"Has anything happened between you? Anything... inappropriate?" "No. Nothing. No lines crossed. Nothing."

"But you're worried?"

"Yes. She's exhausted. Physically breaking down. But there's something else. She's holding something back. And I can't tell if it's about the illness, or about... me."

Anna studied her for a moment. "Have you thought about just talking to her? Not as her doctor, but as a human being who cares what happens to her?"

"That's not allowed, is it? That's not professional."

"It's unprofessional to pretend you feel nothing. It's human to admit someone's gotten under your skin. And if you truly believe it's affecting her care, then you have an obligation to talk about it." Hannah stared down into her coffee. "Or," Anna went on, "you ask yourself whether you're still the right doctor for her. Sometimes distance is better than closeness."

That last line landed like a stone.

Hannah said nothing. She thought of Myra's look as she stood up. That slow, deliberate motion. Like a child resisting a parent who doesn't understand her.

Six weeks of silence, Hannah thought. Six weeks where I do nothing. Unless I decide not to do nothing.

Myra

About two weeks in, Myra's inbox started filling up again with appointments. As usual: blood tests, follow-ups, a session with the dietician. And tucked in between them, a phone call with Dr. Wilks. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it gave her a flicker of joy. She'd already started imagining it. What she'd say. What she wouldn't. How Wilks's voice would sound.

The room was quiet. Just the hum of the fridge, the low rattle of the heater. Myra was exhausted. Not just from being ill, not just from the chemo eating her body from the inside out, but from everything else. The emotions felt like hammers, relentless and clumsy. She could barely stand. Thinking was even harder. All she wanted was sleep. To disappear. To get away from herself. But the wanting didn't leave. It pressed and burned and whispered. It wouldn't go away. Not anymore. It had settled into her, hot and pulsing, like something that lived in the marrow of her bones.

She slid her hand down her stomach, slower now. Her Satisfyer was in the nightstand. The quiet click of the lid felt intimate in its own right. She let it rest against the inside of her thigh for a moment, not turned on, not quite there yet.

Then she switched it on, low setting. The buzz was a soft promise. Her breath caught. Her knees shifted apart. The first touch was too much. She gasped, pulled back, waited. Then tried again. She thought of that fantasy. Dr. Wilks pushing her against the wall of a treatment room, still in her coat. No words, just breath and skin. Myra felt how wet she was. Her breath was shallow. She imagined those eyes: steady, not intrusive. Honest. No longer professional.

The wave hit fast. Too fast. She didn't have the strength to stretch it out. Her legs clenched. Her lower back arched. Eyes shut tight, she came with a silent quake, mouth closed, body open. No drama. No movie. Just truth.

Afterward, she lay still, the Satisfyer beside her, chest rising and falling. One name echoed in her mind: Wilks. The air in her room felt thick. Her heart still pounded. Her head spun slowly, drunkenly. She turned onto her side, sheets twisted, hand limp on her stomach like she'd been caught by the silence itself.

Then her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

But she knew.

She sat up, pulling the sheet up with instinct more than modesty. Answered the call.

"Myra Mattheis speaking."

A pause. Then: "Hello Myra, this is Dr. Wilks. We had a phone appointment scheduled for today. Is now a good time?"

That voice. She swallowed. "Yes. Perfect. I was just waiting for it."

"Good. I just wanted to check in. How you've been feeling since we stopped the chemo, both physically and emotionally. Your bloodwork looks more stable, which is encouraging, but I'd rather hear it from you."Myra gripped the sheet tighter. Her heart still thudded in her belly.

"I'm tired. Sleeping a lot. Dizzy sometimes. But I'm not as nauseous anymore, so that's a win."

"And the pain?"

"Manageable. Some sharp aches in my chest now and then, but nothing new."

Dr. Wilks was quiet. Myra could hear her breathing.

"I'm glad to hear it's not worse. And mentally? How have you been doing? It sounded like these past few weeks were hard on you."Myra hesitated. Every part of her wanted to say something. But what? That she'd just been touching herself to the thought of her? That she missed her voice in ways that made her ache?

Instead, she said, "It's been weird. These six weeks feel like a dead zone. I'm tired all the time, but also... restless. Like nothing's happening except in my head."

There was a pause on the line. Not cold, attentive.

"That makes sense," said Wilks, voice low. "That in-between space is hard. Your body's trying to recover, but your mind wants movement. Or closure. Or clarity. All of it."

Then she said something Myra hadn't expected.

"I missed your openness. The past few sessions, it felt like you were somewhere else. But last time, it felt like a shift. Like you were coming back a little. I was glad. And then... it changed again. That stayed with me."

Myra stared at the floor, wrapped in a sheet, exposed by nothing but a voice.

"I was joking," she said. "It came out wrong. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Okay," Wilks said gently. "Thanks for saying that."

Another breath. Then:

"We'll speak again before the surgery. But if you want to talk sooner, about anything, you're allowed to ask. And I mean that." Myra's throat tightened. All the things she could say, wanted to say, locked behind her ribs.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Really."

And for a moment, between her bed and the hospital's stone courtyard, everything in her head went quiet.

****

The days dragged on. Myra spent most of her time in bed, because walking and moving around took too much energy, even though the doctor had said it was the best medicine. In her mind, it was a never-ending game of chasing seat with emotions, but no one seemed to be paying attention to the music anymore.

Jake still came by, sometimes cooked for her, made jokes that used to make her smile. But now it felt like he was acting out a scene for which she'd forgotten the script. "Remember when you tried curling my hair with a teaspoon?" he asked once. "That was back when you still had hair," she replied. Then silence. He stayed longer that night, but she barely touched him. Later, at the door, he said, "You know you can talk to me, right? Really talk."

She nodded, but the words didn't come. They were there, buried deep, hidden under her ribcage beneath a quiet, pulsing heart that didn't belong to Jake.

Iris was kind too. She called, sent pictures of the kids, asked if she could come by. Myra kept saying, "Not today."

She missed the kids more than she had expected. The smell of their little heads. The questions that made no sense. The hands reaching out to her with books or runny noses. Now she was just a voice on the other end of the line. A memory of an Aunt Myra who had something no one understood, and whom no one was allowed to get close to.

Every time her phone buzzed, she held her breath. Was it her? A short message from the hospital. A reminder about an appointment. A new date for a blood test. And once again, another scheduled call with Dr. Wilks.

The conversations were professional. Businesslike even. But there were softer edges. Hannah asked how she was. How she really was. And she listened. Her voice became a beacon, a safe light in the storm. But that light grew brighter, warmer. And Myra no longer knew if it was warming her or burning her.

At night she lay awake. Not from pain. Not only from chemo. But from the nothingness. The nothingness in which she had no role anymore. No work, no babysitting, no plans. Just waiting. Waiting for the surgery. Waiting to recover. Waiting for the next call from Dr. Wilks. She felt everything starting to flood her.

She missed Jake but couldn't bear him. She leaned on Iris but felt like a burden. She longed for Dr. Wilks but didn't know if that longing still lived in her body or only in her head. And above all, there was the emptiness. A silent white space where everything fell quiet.

****

For weeks, the silence had been piling up like snowdrifts in Myra's brain. Soft at first, but heavier every day, until she could no longer move inside her own head. Every thought was a tangle, every feeling an avalanche. She couldn't make sense of it anymore. Couldn't hold on to anything solid. And that made her furious.

Not sad. Not hopeless. Furious.

She wanted to scream at the walls. Throw things. Rip her own skin off just to feel something clearer. All the pain, all the longing, all the fucking waiting. It had turned her into someone she didn't recognize. Someone who didn't care about dignity anymore.

Someone who needed answers, or a fire, or an ending.

The phone rang at exactly the scheduled time. Two in the afternoon. Myra had been sitting on the couch for an hour already, phone in hand, the world a blur. Not from illness, but from pressure. From six weeks of surviving without anything that resembled living.

"Hello, this is Dr. Hannah Wilks," came the voice on the other end. Calm. Professional. As always. "Hi," Myra said. Cold.

"I'm glad I could catch you. I wanted to check in, see how you're doing. You had bloodwork done yesterday, so I've got that in front of me..."

Myra listened but heard nothing. Just herself thinking: If I say nothing, this keeps going. If I say nothing, she'll think everything's fine.

Then Hannah said, "You've been honest about your physical symptoms lately. But I feel like you're not really telling me how you're doing mentally."

A pause.

Then it cracked.

"AS IF YOU CARE HOW I AM DOING!"

Silence. On the other end, it felt like someone had just fallen through a glass table.

"Myra... what do you mean by that?" Hannah's voice was careful now. No longer professional.

"I mean I've been rotting inside my own head for six fucking weeks. I don't know how long I can live like this. And you call me like I'm a project. A folder on a shelf. A checkbox on your form"

"That's not true. You're--"

"No. Let me finish. You're my doctor, okay? I know that. I've known that for a long time. But you're also the person I think about all day and all night. And I hate it. I hate it, doctor.... Hannah. Because you stay so distant. So kind. So perfectly professional. And it's driving me insane. It's driving me fucking insane."

Hannah inhaled sharply. Then said, more quietly, "Myra..."

"No," said Myra. Her voice was crystal clear. "You have no idea what this is like for me. How I walk into that consultation room and have to scrape myself off the floor afterwards. How I want to masturbate to the sound of your voice. How I see you in my dreams, how I wake up and feel sick with shame. And you know what the worst part is? That I know this is going nowhere. That you'll never feel the same. And I can't take it anymore. I don't want to. So I'm saying it now. Here. So you know. So I can still look at myself in the mirror."

Silence. Not hostile. Not door-slamming. But full. Charged.

Then Hannah said something. Her voice lower than usual. Cautious. Not accusing. Not afraid. "Myra... I know this is hard. But you have to understand I'm not a robot. I've felt things for you that I probably shouldn't have. And that's exactly what makes this so complicated."

Myra's breath hitched. "What did you say?" she whispered.

"I'm not saying it's right," Hannah said. "I'm just saying... I get it. Maybe you're not as alone in this as you thought."

To be continued