translated ♛ || a. griezmann

•trente deux•

Metastatic Brain Cancer.

These three words hang in my ears for god knows how long. My first thought is the survival rate. If I'm going to die, I might as well know how much longer I have left on this planet.

"It varies for each person." The doctor responds. 

That sure helps a lot, doesn't it?

"Your case is very mild, fortunately. The tumor that we discovered last month was benign, meaning it wasn't going to do any harm to you, and we managed to get it out. Because you're suffering from a metastatic fom of cancer, however, that means tumors are going to be much more common, benign or malignant." He continues. 

Great. After a whole month of testing, they finally figured out what I had.

"You aren't going to be restricted to this hospital bed, but you'll most likely have to come in for weekly checkups. Thankfully your case is weak, and we may be able to have surgery done to remove the cancer soon. In the meantime, don't do anything too physical, or anything that may trigger malignant tumors." He finishes.

I thank him, before walking out of the hospital room.

My face lights up when I see Antoine, who looks stressed. 

"How are you feeling?" He says. 

I return a sad smile, "Pretty good."

"Look, I'm so sorry about what happened, it's all my fault and I shouldn't have let you go on those rides if your head was hu-"

"Shhh." I silence him with a short, small kiss. 

"Let's not get all caught up in that. Plus, it was a month ago and it's not your fault. But I do have something to tell you." 

"What is it?"

"Let's go back to the stadium. I have to catch up on my Spanish work." I tell him. 

He seems to consider this thought for a moment, before realizing that what I just said isn't the "something" that I had to tell him. 

"Alright then."

The car ride is silent, as I think about how I'm going to break the news to Antoine. If I don't tell him, it's going to be like what happened with Belle. If I do tell him, he'll think it's his fault again. 

"You know, sometimes I wonder what would happen if I didn't step on your foot that day." He says to me in Spanish.

"Yeah, me too." I smile, responding in French and continuing to look out the window.

"Come on, the only way you're going to be fluent in Spanish is if you speak it regularly." He complains in Spanish.

"You can be my translator." I reply, again in French.

"Rosalieeeee," he pouts, extening the "e" sound at the end of my name. 

"What?"

"Speak Spanish to me." He says.

"Why? It's so bad. I wonder why it's so bad. Maybe because my language partner is just a horrible teacher and wants to kiss me instead of teaching me how to conjugate verbs in the future tense." I respond in rapid-fire Spanish.

He raises his eyebrows as his face goes a light shade of red. 

"Just kidding." I laugh, hitting him softly on the arm.

He smiles and parks his car in front of the stadium, before we both get out of the car. 

"Te quiero."