The Last Orange

Marin counted the pills on her nightstand—eighteen orange circles arranged like some pharmaceutical solar system. The vitamin C bottle stood empty beside them, its plastic shell gleaming in the morning light. Three months of treatment, and her skin had taken on the same sickly hue as the medication.

She hadn't spoken to Clara since the diagnosis. Her best friend had offered to come over, to sit with her through chemotherapy, to hold her hair back when the nausea came like a tidal wave. I'll bring you orange juice, Clara had said. Fresh-squeezed. Vitamin C helps.

Marin had ghosted her instead.

The doorbell rang.

Marin considered letting it echo through the empty apartment, another unanswered summons in a series she'd lost count of. But something about the persistence—the way the caller pressed the button again, held it—made her push herself from the bed.

Clara stood in the hallway, grocery bags in both arms. Her friend's hair was different. Shorter. Marin didn't remember it being that short.

"I figured you weren't answering your phone," Clara said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "So I brought breakfast."

She unpacked cartons of takeout—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Then came the fruit. A mesh bag heavy with tangerines, their skins impossibly bright against Marin's gray countertop.

"Your mom told me," Clara said, not looking at her. "About the recurrence."

Marin felt the room tilt. "She wasn't supposed to—"

"I know. She was trying to protect your privacy. But she also knows you haven't eaten in three days." Clara's hands stilled on the countertop. "You don't have to do this alone. That's the only rule I'm enforcing here. You can hate me. You can tell me to leave and never come back. But you don't get to die by yourself in this apartment while your best friend stands helpless outside your door."

Marin started shaking and couldn't stop.

Clara moved toward her slowly, giving her time to retreat. Instead, Marin found herself reaching out, fingers closing around the soft fabric of Clara's sleeve. They stood there while morning light painted the kitchen in shades of gold, the smell of citrus filling the silence between them.

"I'm tired," Marin whispered, the truth she'd been carrying alone for months finally finding voice. "I'm so tired of being sick."

"I know," Clara said, and wrapped her in a hold that said she wasn't going anywhere. "But you don't have to carry it alone. Not anymore."

Later, they would sit at the table. Marin would peel a tangerine, the essential oil misting the air between them, and for the first time in weeks, something would taste like something again. But that moment was still ahead.

For now, in the quiet kitchen, Marin simply held on.