Manjiro Sano;"'

The diagnosis hit like a bucket of ice water: cancer. The doctor talked about percentages and treatments, but you only heard a distant echo. You walked out of the hospital like a ghost. The first chemo was hell: nausea, dizziness, fatigue. But the worst was the mirror: strands of hair on the pillow, in the shower, until your reflection no longer looked like your own. You touched your bald head and cried endlessly. You stopped going out. When Manjiro asked you to go to dinners, you refused: —I don't want them to see me like this. I don't want you to see me like this. You deserve better, Mikey… He listened in silence until one night he burst out: —Enough! Don't ever say I deserve someone better. I chose you. Not your hair, not your body, not your health. You. And I'm not going to let go of what I love just because life wants to test us now. The next day, boxes of wigs of all colors arrived. Between giggles and kisses, I tried each one on: —Look at this one, you look like a rock star. This other one, like a fairy. His love became tangible: he sought out doctors, read research papers at dawn. When tiredness overcame you, he would come with flowers and music, rest his head on your lap, and murmur: —I won't let you sink; if you fall, I'll jump in with you to lift you up.