Meredith's sister

46

Mia's POV

The days felt like shadows, drifting by without definition, without meaning. My body had become a stranger to me, a vessel that no longer obeyed the simplest commands. The chemo treatments, the pills, the endless tests—they all blurred together, a series of motions that I couldn't escape. But the hardest part wasn't the pain, or the fatigue. It was the realization that I wasn't getting better. And I wasn't going to.

I had always been strong. I had prided myself on my resilience, on my ability to face anything with a determination that wouldn't break. But the more I fought, the more the cancer drained me. Each day, I felt a little further from who I once was, and I couldn't help but wonder: what was the point of continuing to fight when I knew the end was inevitable?

Teddy had noticed it too. She was quieter now, her smile less frequent, her words more measured. She never said it, but I could see the fear in her eyes—the fear that she was losing me. And I wasn't sure how to comfort her anymore because I wasn't sure how to comfort myself.

One morning, I woke up to find the house quiet. The usual hum of activity, the sound of Allison's laughter, the clatter of breakfast preparations—it was all missing. I knew they were both here. I knew they were trying to give me space, but I couldn't shake the feeling that they were walking on eggshells, afraid to say the wrong thing, to make things worse.

I shuffled into the kitchen, holding onto the counter for support. Teddy was there, standing by the sink, her back to me as she stared out the window. She hadn't heard me enter, and for a moment, I simply watched her, taking in the lines of exhaustion that had started to appear on her face. The weight of everything was slowly suffocating her, just as it was me.

"Mia?" Her voice was soft, tentative, as she turned to face me. "How are you feeling?"

I wanted to lie. I wanted to tell her that I was fine, that I was holding on, that we were going to beat this together. But I couldn't. The truth was too heavy, and it was starting to feel unbearable.

"I'm tired, Teddy," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so tired."

She blinked, her face softening as she stepped toward me, reaching out to steady me as I swayed. "You don't have to do this alone," she said, her voice breaking. "You don't have to carry all of this by yourself."

I could see the tears in her eyes, the way her hands trembled as they gripped my shoulders. And I wanted to tell her that I loved her, that I was trying, but the words felt hollow. I couldn't promise her anything anymore. I couldn't promise that I was going to get better. I couldn't promise that I would be here much longer.

"I know you're scared," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I am too. But I don't think I can do this anymore, Teddy."

Her eyes widened, a look of panic crossing her face. "What do you mean? Mia, don't say that. You can't give up. We're going to keep fighting, we're going to find a way—"

"I'm not giving up," I interrupted, my voice quiet but firm. "I'm just... tired. I don't know how much longer I can keep fighting, Teddy. I don't know how much longer I can pretend that everything's going to be okay when I know it's not."

The silence that followed felt like an eternity. Teddy didn't say anything, but she didn't have to. She just pulled me into her arms, holding me tighter than she ever had before, as if she could protect me from the truth that was beginning to suffocate me.

Over the next few days, I withdrew even further. I stopped pretending that everything was fine. I stopped fighting to get out of bed every morning, stopped forcing myself to eat, to engage. I could see the way Teddy's worry grew with each passing moment, but I couldn't bring myself to care. There was no use in pretending anymore.

I spent hours staring out the window, watching the world go by, feeling disconnected from it all. It seemed like everyone else was moving forward with their lives, while I was stuck in a moment I couldn't escape. The idea of leaving them, of saying goodbye, became less terrifying and more... inevitable. I wasn't afraid of the end anymore. I was just tired of fighting it.

One evening, I sat on the couch, watching as Teddy tried to coax Allison into bed. The sight of my daughter, her small body wriggling in Teddy's arms as she giggled, was both a comfort and a pain I couldn't escape. Allison didn't understand what was happening. She didn't understand why her mommy was always tired, always sick, always too weak to play.

Teddy kissed her goodnight, tucking her in with a soft smile, but I could see the strain in her eyes. She was putting on a brave face for Allison, but I could see through it. She was exhausted, and I could feel it pulling at her, just as it was pulling at me.

When Teddy came back to the living room, she sat beside me. She didn't say anything at first, just sat in the silence, her hand resting on mine. I could feel the warmth of her skin, the connection between us, but it wasn't enough anymore. Nothing was enough.

"Mia," she said finally, her voice rough with emotion. "I can't lose you."

The words were raw, painful, and for a moment, I couldn't speak. But then, in the quiet of the room, I whispered, "You're not going to lose me. You already have."

The words felt like they had come from somewhere deep inside, a place I didn't want to visit but couldn't avoid. I felt the weight of them settle between us, a space neither of us could bridge, no matter how much we loved each other.

Teddy's hand tightened around mine, but I could see the tears starting to fall from her eyes. She didn't say anything else. Neither of us could find the words to fix this.

And for the first time in a long while, I let myself give in. I let myself admit that I was slipping, that the fight was over. I wasn't strong enough to keep holding on. I wasn't strong enough to keep pretending.

All I could do was wait for the end. And when it came, I would be ready.