Chapter 5 The Test Results

As I walked in to the cafe, it all seemed different. The familiar warmth of the Hometown Café felt subdued, the golden light that splashed through the windows now long and heavy shadows across the wooden tables. I was in my regular place, with the sketchbook open but not drawn upon, and my coffee cooling, and I remembered feeling something like terror. My fingers moved unconsciously in circles on the page, but my mind was elsewhere, snared in the sentences Dr. Carter had spoken only moments before.

Terminal. Limited time. Make arrangements.

The words reverberated in my mind, each one a rock that dropped into the pit of my stomach. I'd sensed it coming - had felt it in the way my body had been letting me down more and more each day - but hearing it said out loud was different. It was real now, undeniable. A timeline I couldn't escape.

I looked around the café, at the strangers I'd drawn hundreds of times. The fedora man had returned, sipping his espresso as if he lived forever. A young couple laughed over pastries, brushy hands but casual, like they'd never fretted a care. Life continued as if nothing had happened inside my heart.

There was a cough that bubbled up, sharp, insistent. I held my scarf to my mouth and muttered through it but the ache remained in my chest. I felt tired, bone tired, soul weary tired. But I couldn't let it show. Not here. Not now.

The bell above the door jingled and I looked up to see Alex enter, his guitar case swinging off his shoulder. His gaze instantly found mine, and that lopsided grin lifted up his mouth and chased away some of the shadows on my soul. He didn't know - he couldn't know - what I'd just discovered. And I wasn't prepared to tell him.

"Hey, artist girl," he said, plopping onto the other chair across from me. "You look deep in thought. Sketching something new?"

I smiled coldly, snapping my sketchbook shut. "Just... daydreaming, I guess."

He leaned in and looked at the screen, intrigued. "About Paris?"

I chuckled, but it was a weak chuckle. "Maybe. Or perhaps just the next cup of coffee."

Alex laughed, but his eyes were still on me, as if he could feel that something was wrong. "You okay? You're a bit ... quiet today."

I shrugged, waving it away. "Yeah, just tired. Late night."

He did not sound persuaded, but he didn't press the issue. "Well, I have something that might make you feel a little bit better. I have a gig tonight - more people, actual stage lights, that sort of thing. You should come."

I was warming to the challenge, and a glimmer of excitement cut through the gloom of talking portals. "Really? Where?"

"It's at The Blue Note, down there. Nothing fancy, but it's better than here." He smil ed, and his excitement was indeed contagious. "But I would really like you to join us. Maybe I'll even play that song you like."

This time, I smiled for real. "The one with the girl in blue?"

"That's the one." He winked, and for a slice of a second, I forgot the doctor's words, the ticking clock. For that moment, it was just Alex and me, two people sharing a table and a dream.

"I'll come," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Good." He leaned across the table and his hand brushed against mine and a current of warmth shot through me. His touch was light, but it rooted me, tugging me away from the edge of the chasm I'd been staring into all morning.

We sat in comfortable silence for some time, drinking coffee, the whir of the café enveloping us like an old blanket. I couldn't help but look at Alex's hands - rough and worn from years of playing guitar, a sign of his commitment. My own hands were small in comparison, smudged as they were with charcoal and paint, while they also had stories to tell, too.

"What inspires you, Emma?" "Alex? Alex said, his voice timid. "What makes you just pick up a pencil and draw?

I considered it a moment, running my finger around the rim of my cup. "It's the small things, I believe. How light falls on a face, or the curve of a smile. Moments that feel... alive. I want to document them before they go away."

Without breaking eye contact, he nodded. "Music is what I treat that like. It's like grasping for some ephemeral thing, something that may escape if you don't snag it."

"That's it!" I said, and was once more amazed at how intuitively he grokked things. "It's how to let the temporary last a little bit longer."

Alex smiled, but it was a sad smile, a shadow that mirrored mine. "Yeah. I get that."

I wanted to ask him about that shadow, about the pain I felt lurking behind his music, but before I had the chance, a wave of fatigue hit me. My vision went black for a moment, and I grabbed the side of the table, willing it to go away.

"Emma?" Alex sounded concerned and his voice was sharp. "You okay?"

I nodded, my head was heavy. "Just... a little dizzy. Maybe I should eat something."

He didn't look convinced. "Let's get some air. Come on."

He put his arms around me and I accepted, lifting the weight off my feet. We emerged into the cool late afternoon air and the city sounds of traffic and voices in the distance. Alex escorted me to a bench, his arm firm around my shoulders.

We sat together, and I leaned into him, seeking solace in his heat. He didn't say a word, just clung to me, and for a second I allowed myself to picture a world where this could be my life - where I could be with him, unburdened by the heft of what was about to happen.

But reality staggered back into the room, stone cold and unremitting. I could only hide from it for so long. But sitting here with Alex, I felt that brittle hope stirring in me, a whisper that maybe, just maybe, I could have this - one last adventure, one last dream.

"Alex, I whispered, barely louder than the city atmosphere. "What would happen ... if I did go to Paris. What if I took that chance?"

He looked up at me, eyes wide with surprise and something more hopeful, maybe. "Then I'd say go for it. And if you want some company, I'm there."

I chuckled, but it was not without sadness. "You would really throw away everything to come with me?"

"In a second," he said, with a steady look. "Emma, life is too short to wait."

It was like a gut punch to me, his words. In truth, he had no idea how right he was. I turned my head, my throat restricting, and nodded. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's time."

We sat in reverent quiet a while longer, drenched in the sights of the passing world, our hands clasped and fingers interlaced atop the bench. I knew I could't guarantee anything to him or to myself - no promises - but for the first time in a long while, I felt a glow of promise. Some semblance of courage.