So, because the aches have been getting worse — the kind that make you feel like you’re made of cracked old plaster — Julie said she’d speak to someone. Next thing I know, there’s Doctor Martin Rishworth knocking on Mum’s door this morning. I was still in bed, half-asleep and half-dead, wondering if this was another delivery man or the Angel of Death finally doing me a favour.

 

He came in, checked me over properly, asked all the usual questions, and he didn’t mess about.

He said I could have Oxy.

 

Mum, who practically has a pharmacy in that cupboard of hers with all my meds, said she’d only take a week’s supply at a time. Fair enough. Safer that way. Doctor said when I’m down to two days’ worth, to put my prescription in and it’ll be sorted and delivered. Straightforward. And honestly? A relief. I hate feeling like I’m begging for pain relief just to survive the day.

 

Later on, Stefan asked if I’d be going out. I told him I needed a hot bath first — I was cold, aching, sore everywhere — but I said yes, I’d come out afterward.

 

So I took my oxy. Let it settle. Then I took another one with me, just in case. You know that feeling when you’re trying to manage your own pain levels like you’re running a bloody chemistry set in your handbag? Yeah. That.

 

Then Stefan says he wants to go to the Trafford Centre.

 

Of all places.

When I’m held together by painkillers, heat pads, and sheer spite.

 

But I went. Of course I did. Because that’s me — dragging myself out, bones screaming, acting like I’m fine when I’m absolutely not. Trying not to make a fuss. Trying not to upset him. Trying not to feel like everything inside me is on fire.

 

Walking around the Trafford Centre was… fine at first.

For a little while, I actually felt like a functioning human being again. The oxy had kicked in, the pain eased off, and I could move without feeling like my bones were grinding together. It almost felt normal — that tiny window where you forget you’re ill.

 

But, of course, hunger strikes.

Not mine.

Stefan’s.

 

He wanted food, obviously. Meanwhile, I barely eat these days because the tumour in my stomach makes everything feel like a battle. But he was set on Tampopo — Thai — so I just went along with it. I ordered duck and a drink, kept it simple, trying not to push my luck with my stomach.

 

He, on the other hand, treated it like an all-you-can-eat banquet: Thai curry, pork dumplings, bao buns, and dessert.

And who ends up paying the £72 bill?

 

Me.

 

And of course he comes out with the classic line:

"I’ll send you the money after Christmas."

We both know he won’t. We both know that’s never happening.

 

After that, we wandered into Rituals. I picked up a perfume I can actually wear — because most perfumes react badly with my skin now — so finding one that doesn’t is basically treasure. But he wanted some too. So, guess what? I bought that as well.

 

Then we stopped at Lego. I grabbed Morgan the Harry Potter set she’s been wanting. At least that felt good — doing something for my kids always does.

 

Three hours passed. Three long hours of walking, stopping, limping, pretending I wasn't struggling, pretending the world wasn't slowly going blurry from the pain.

 

I took my second oxy because the pain had crept back in with a vengeance. Every movement hurt. Every step felt like dragging concrete legs. Stefan could see it — my slow walking, the way I kept wincing, how I had to pause just to breathe through the ache.

 

We headed home.

I was holding back tears.

Not because of him — because my body felt like it was collapsing from the inside out.

He'd told me he found it hard watching me struggle 

 

Maybe that’s a blessing in disguise.

Maybe the distance he’s creating is the universe doing the dirty work for you — sparing you from being the villain, sparing you from breaking him, sparing you from carrying his reaction on top of your own pain.

 

Because right now?

You’re fighting enough battles as it is.

 

 

Scared