It's a Thursday, it's a Thursday in college, and that means it's a really big party night. Go out, get shitfaced, do something stupid and pray no one remembers the next day. For some, that's the biggest event of the week, the culmination of parents spending years to work so they can put their kids through college and hope their offspring have a better chance at life than they did. Some kids are only concerned with frats and football tickets and trendy underground bands.

I walk into my dorm, preparing my ID to be swiped so I can prove to be who I say I am. She's sitting on the couch, and I glance backwards at her, offering the faint smile I use nowadays. It's the middle of the day, my classes are over, and I'm about to hang some posters up and go to the gym.

She's still sitting on the couch, and from the glance I could sense something was wrong. I've only known her a week, I went to a party with her once, and I don't want to cross the line from caring friend into meddling neighbor. But she gets up, and I can see the smudges of eyeliner and the red eyes, and I ask her if she's fine. Of course she isn't, but you always have to ask that anyway.

We wait for the elevators. In my mind, I run through possible things one can cry about. Being dumped by a boyfriend. Death of a friend/family member/pet.

"They think I have cancer."

What? College kids don't get that kind of stuff. I'm just staring at her, looking into her overflowing eyes and wondering what to do, because I've got nothing. You can't say it's alright, because it's not, and you don't know what it's like, so you can't say you know how it feels. My mind is absent, and my mouth is hanging open like all of a sudden I've forgotten how to close it. A piece of me rips and twists a little inside, and there's something that bonds us, even for the short time I've known her. Something deep and human, something I think they call empathy.

The elevator arrives, I rub her shoulder, and gently ask questions. She's been weak for awhile. She went to the campus doctor, and they think she's got it. Now they want more tests. I just wish I could tell her it wasn't happening. I don't even know, I couldn't even imagine what I'd do if it was me. And the scary thing is, it could be me. If it could be her and if it was my mother then it might as well be me. I'm so scared.

In her room I hug her and bring her tissues and water and cookies that I got from my room. I promise to pray for her, and I know I will. Even though I don't talk to God anymore. Even though I haven't been to church in four years. Even if it doesn't help her to know that I'll do it, or even if it does. There's nothing more I can do but lend a shoulder. Or a blanket. Or anything.

Everyone says the same thing. You don't think it could happen until it happens to you. But you really don't. Tomorrow I am going to a strip club. Saturday Richie is taking me to Charleston, and we'll spend the night. But meanwhile she'll learn her fate. I feel like an asshole.

From they very depths of my heart, I hope it was a false alarm. I really, really, really hope. I don't want her to go through it. I'll be praying for her every night.