A small marble sprouting on the right side of your right boob that you wiggle every morning as you brush your teeth. Three centimeters in diameter; likely nothing but likely something you’ve been told to keep your eye on. To keep your finger on. No family history, but extensive friend history—can you catch the Big C from a shared cappuccino? From a tear spilt on the shoulder of your favorite Christmas sweater? How about a quick kiss with a stranger you met in the library? The one who said he hoped his hair would never grow back?

Does it pass through sweat? There was that one time at the gym when you forgot to wipe down the elliptical. You were too busy flipping the channel to Jeopardy. You hate running—it’s no use, they’ll still disfigure your figure. Big C will turn your C cups into teeny cups and then your waist won’t ever be the smallest part of your body again.

There will be drawers full of cupped lace that you’ll never have to open. Magazine ads you can skip right over—glossy pages of leopard prints and zebra stripes and that godawful shade of magenta you’ve always secretly admired. You squeeze your chest tightly, try to memorize the curves.

At least now you’ll know if he loves you for your mind.