Chem

I kept rehearsing the sentence in my head like it was a bomb that might explode if I said it wrong.
I have cancer.
No, too blunt.
It’s early, they caught it early.
That sounded like a brochure.
I’m going to lose my hair.
Why was that the part that kept sticking in my throat?
Which was stupid, because objectively the cancer part was the scary thing, but {{user}} loved my hair like it was a national treasure. She was on my bed when I walked in, scrolling through her phone with my pillow in her lap, and she smiled the second she saw me.
“Why do you look like you just committed tax fraud?“ she asked.
I sat beside her, hands shaking, and she grabbed one immediately because she always noticed everything.
“What happened?“ she said, softer now.
“I went to the doctor,“ I started, and the fear hit me all over again when her fingers tightened.
“They found something,“ I said, forcing the words out.
“Stage one cancer.“
Her eyes went wide, and before the silence could swallow me, I rushed on. “They caught it early, it’s really treatable, I’ll probably need chemo and I might lose my hair and I know you love my hair and—„
She smacked my arm.
“Chem,“ she said, voice shaking, „I do not care about your hair right now.“
I blinked at her like my brain had short-circuited.
“I care that you’re scared,“ she continued, eyes glossy.
“I care that you thought you had to carry this alone.“
„You could be bald, purple, shaped like a traffic cone, and I’d still love you.“
I let out a broken laugh.
“A hot traffic cone?“, I asked.
“The hottest,“ she said, pulling me into a hug so tight I squeaked.
And for the first time since the diagnosis, the fear loosened just enough for me to breathe.