Dawn
The fight started over something small.
It always did.
I could tell something was wrong the moment the call connected. Earl's face was tense, jaw set, eyes not quite meeting the camera. The room behind him looked the same, white walls, narrow desk, curtains half drawn but, he felt farther away than usual.
"How was today?" I asked gently.
He shrugged. "Fine."
That was never a good sign.
I waited a beat. "Just fine?"
"They changed the treatment again," he said, sharper now. "It's louder. The machine. And afterward everything sounds wrong. Like I'm underwater."
"I'm sorry," I said. "That sounds really frustrating."
He exhaled hard. "You always say that."
I blinked. "Say what?"
"That you're sorry. That you're proud. That everything will be okay." His voice cracked, then hardened. "You don't actually know that."
There it was. The fear, finally breaking the surface.
I felt the sting of his words, but I didn't raise my voice. "You're right," I said quietly. "I don't know how this will end."
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Exactly."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and awkward.
"You don't get it, Dawn," he continued. "You still have your life. Practice. School. Friends. I'm stuck here counting days by appointments and test results. Sometimes I can't even tell if what I'm hearing is real."
My chest tightened, but I stayed where I was. " Babe, I know I'm not there," I said affectionately "And I hate that."
He ran a hand through his hair, breathing fast. "Then stop acting like a phone call fixes it."
I closed my eyes for a second, not to shut him out, but to steady myself.
"Earl," I said calmly, "I'm not trying to fix this. I'm trying to stay with you while you go through it."
He looked away. "I don't want to be a burden."
"You're not," I said immediately.
"That's easy for you to say."
I leaned closer to the screen. "Then let me say it again. You are not a burden. You're someone I care about who's having a really hard time."
His shoulders slumped, like the fight was draining out of him now that it had nowhere to go.
"I hate feeling like this," he admitted. "Angry all the time. Scared. I didn't mean to snap at you."
"I know," I said. "And it's okay to be angry. I just need you to tell me when that's what's happening instead of pushing me away."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "I was scared today. They ran more tests. I thought… what if this is it? What if this is as good as it gets?"
My voice stayed steady even though my heart was racing. "Then we deal with that together. Just like we're dealing with this together."
He finally looked back at me. His eyes were tired. Vulnerable. The fight had left him raw.
"I don't want to lose you," he said.
"You're not," I replied. "Not because you're struggling. Not because you're scared. Not even because you get mad sometimes."
A small, shaky smile tugged at his mouth. "You're really patient."
"I'm not perfect," I said. "I just love you."
That did it. His eyes softened completely.
"I'm sorry," he said again, more sincerely this time.
"I know," I said. "Thank you for telling me how you're really feeling."
We didn't talk much after that. We didn't need to. The storm had passed, leaving behind something quieter... tender, a little bruised, but still standing.
Before we hung up, he said, "Can you stay on the line for a bit? Even if we don't talk."
I smiled. "Of course."
The distance was still there. The treatment was still hard. Nothing had magically changed.
But I hope we'd face the worst of the moment without breaking.
And that mattered more than winning any fight ever could.