Page 79 of Until Forever Falls

“It’s rare in someone your age, but the tests unfortunately confirm it. I know this is a lot to process, but we need to discuss next steps.”

I vaguely hear him explaining the disease, how it progresses, the treatment options available, but it’s all blending together. It’s like his voice is muffled behind the pounding in my ears. I try to focus, but I can’t. My mind keeps drifting, trying to catch up with the fact that my body is betraying me in ways I didn’t even know were possible.

There’s a part of me that just wants to jump out of my own skin, to escape all of this. But I know I can’t. I know I have to listen, to prepare for what’s coming. But right now, the only thing I’m certain of is that nothing feels like it’s mine anymore.

The other part is still clinging to the idea that any second now, I’ll wake up, and this whole thing will turn out to be some kind of fevered nightmare. But with every passing second, it starts to feel more and more like this is my reality, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. It’s shackled to my body, and apparently I can’t fucking cut it out.

I keep thinking about Dylan. About how I fucked it all up. I told myself I was doing the right thing, that shoving her away was some noble sacrifice instead of straight up cowardice. But the second I saw the betrayal in her eyes? Every bullshit excuse I clung to turned to dust. I couldn’t even give her the truth after what she’s been through. Her twin is dead, the other half of her soul, and I decided for her that she didn’t need to grieve me too—like I had the fucking right. Like I wasn’t just taking the easy way out.

Maybe if we could just escape—take that trip to Paris she always dreamed of—I could tell her the truth. Why I ended things the way I did, why I couldn’t face her. We could spend the time I have left just being together, no doctors, no treatments. Just us, for however long we have. Why would I waste that precious time on something that might not even work, when I could be with her, even if it’s just for a little while?

The doctor’s words slip past me like water down a drain, gone before I can grab onto them. By the time I snap back, it’s too late. I’ve lost too much.

“Do you have any questions?”

It takes a second to find my way back to the moment, to remember where the hell we are and why. “How long would I have if I don’t do the treatments?”

My parent’s eyes burn into me, my mom’s protest practically vibrating before she even speaks. “Honey, no, you’re doing the treatments. It’s your best chance—.”

I barely acknowledge her, keeping my eyes on Dr. Hawkins. “What are the odds? Fifty percent? Thirty?”

Dr. Hawkins clears his throat, the sound splintering through the room like a bone snapping out of place.

“Given how aggressive your case is, treatment is strongly recommended. Without it…” His pause says everything. “Your prognosis would be grim.”

I hear the words, but they don’t really feel like they’re meant for me. They’re just facts. Nothing more. The kind of cold, indifferent truth a doctor has to give, no emotion behind it.

“There’s still a chance I’d die anyway, right?”

My dad’s voice lashes out, like he’s gripping onto the last of his hope with bloody firsts. “Brooks, don’t talk like that. Youwillbe fine. You have to believe that. We all do.”

I meet his gaze, and see it—that irrefutable conviction, the kind of belief that makes everything seem like it might just work out. But it’s suffocating, tightening every time I try to pull away. Now…I let it pull me under, I’m too drained to fight, and too broken to reach for the surface.

A resigned exhale slips past my lips as I sag into the chair, my voice fading as my words wither into nothing.

“No more questions.”

“She’s not here.”

Dylan’s mother, Denise, stands in the doorway, stitched together by exhaustion, barely holding her shape. Her fingers worry at the raw skin around her nails, tearing at herself in slow absentminded destruction. She doesn’t look like the woman I remember—she looks caved in, someone gutted by the absence of her children. The house reflects it, scrubbed clean, too neat in a way that feels unnatural for her. Like someone tried to bleach the grief out of it but only succeeded in making the emptiness louder.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rivers,” I force out, the words stiff. I shove the guilt aside, let it fester in the background, and force my words to come out smooth.

“Do you have any idea where she might’ve gone?”

She sighs, and it’s not just a sigh—it’s something breaking. Her eyes glimmer, swollen with tears that haven’t yet fallen. “She left in the middle of the night a few days ago. Didn’t leave a note. Nothing.” Her voice splinters, and her hands tremble, continuing to pick the skin around her nails. “I’ve called everyone I can think of back in Wyoming. Nobody knows anything.”

I just stand there, throat thick, lungs tight, but she keeps going—because stopping would mean sitting in silence, and I think it might crush her.

“I know I was hard on her—too damn hard. Especially after Beckett. She didn’t deserve it.” Her voice cracks like she’s holding herself together with nothing but spit and regret. “I needed somewhere to put it. All that anger. And she was right there.”

She won’t look at me. Just stares past, like eye contact might shatter whatever fragile grip she has left.

The remorse isn’t just on her face—it’s in the slump of her shoulders, the way her hands twitch like they want to turn back time.

“I made her my scapegoat, let my grief chew her up because I was too much of a coward to face it myself. She was already drowning, and instead of pulling her out, I left her there. She never stood a chance.”

I clamp my lips shut and give a single nod. What the hell else is there to do? She’s right. And we both know it.

---