The Absorption Rate

Maya sat on the edge of the bathtub, watching her hair fall into the water in dark clots. Three rounds of chemotherapy had taken what the radiation hadn't already claimed. She ran her fingers over her scalp, feeling the soft fuzz that remained—a cruel reminder of who she used to be.

'This isn't working,' she whispered to her reflection.

downstairs, David was organizing what he called her survival kit. Rows of vitamin supplements—D3, B12, iron, zinc—lined the kitchen counter like a small apothecary of hope. He'd spent hours researching each one, convinced the right combination would rebuild what the cancer had stolen. His faith in science had become its own kind of religion.

She heard him coming up the stairs, his tread careful on the hardwood.

'Maya? You okay in there?'

She didn't answer. Instead, she turned on the faucet, watching the water rise around her feet. For months, her body had been a battlefield—cut, poisoned, radiated. Now she just wanted to feel clean again.

David opened the door slowly, his eyes finding her in the mirror. The silence between them had grown lately, filled with things they couldn't say. He looked at the water, then at her scalp, then at his own hands.

'I found that new vitamin,' he said quietly. 'The one from Japan. The specialist said it might help with absorption rates.'

Maya turned to face him. 'David. Stop.'

He froze, the bottle still in his hand.

'I don't want another vitamin. I don't want another specialist. I want to know if you still see me when you look at me.' She stood up, water dripping down her legs. 'Or am I just a problem you're trying to solve?'

The truth of it hung between them, heavy and suffocating. David had always been a fixer—it's what made him a brilliant engineer, what made him successful. But you couldn't engineer away mortality, and you couldn't supplement your way out of grief.

He set the bottle on the counter and crossed the small bathroom space, pulling her wet, trembling form against his dry, clothed body.

'I see you,' he said, his voice breaking. 'God, Maya. I only see you. I just... I don't know how to watch you disappear.'

She buried her face in his shirt, feeling for the first time in months that they were in this together—not as patient and caregiver, but as two people learning how to live with the weight of what they couldn't control.