I hadn't left his side in three days.
The nurses tried to convince me to get some rest, to take a walk, maybe grab a meal that didn't come from a vending machine. But I couldn't. I wouldn't. What if he woke up and I wasn't here? What if he opened his eyes and thought I'd given up on him?
Daniel lay still on the hospital bed, the soft hiss of oxygen and the steady beep of monitors the only sounds breaking the silence. His face—bruised and pale—looked unfamiliar, but his hands, even now, looked just the same. Strong, gentle... the hands that once held me like I was something breakable. Precious.
There were flowers everywhere.
Lilies. Roses. Daisies. Bouquets crowding the table, the counter, even the windowsill. Get-well cards taped to the wall fluttered slightly from the breeze drifting in through the cracked window. Everyone loved Daniel—he was that kind of man. Respected, admired, the kind people didn't just send flowers to... they prayed for.
And yet, through all this warmth, I felt cold.
Not one of those cards had my name on it. Not a single message asked how I was holding up. I wasn't the grieving wife to them. Just the shadow beside the bed.
I stood up, stretching my legs. My back ached from sleeping in the chair. I began tidying up, rotating the wilting stems and emptying old water into a plastic pitcher. I didn't want him waking up to something dead.
That's when I saw them.
Orchids.
Tucked behind a towering arrangement of white roses, almost hidden. My breath caught as I reached out and brushed my fingers against the golden petals. They stood tall, proud, bright against the sterile white of the room.
Daniel always remembered. He once joked that orchids reminded him of me—
I noticed a small card tied to the ribbon.
"Maybe the orchid doesn't mind. Maybe being beautiful, even briefly, is enough.Maybe not every life needs to leave something behind".
I pressed the card to my chest, blinking fast, willing the tears not to fall. I didn't know who sent it. . Maybe a friend.
I sat back down, took his hand in mine, and whispered, "I'm still here. I never left."
And then I heard them—heels clicking sharply against the polished floor outside the room.
Rebecca.
The door creaked open, and I barely had time to stand.
She swept in like winter wind—sharp, cold, and already looking for someone to blame.
20 February 2022
Rebecca came to visit us that day.
Daniel's mother—the woman who once promised my father she'd treat me like her own daughter. That promise dissolved like sugar in rain six months after our wedding, the same day I buried my father. After that, she told me not to call her mother—said it was disrespectful to the memory of my late mom.
She walked into our home like she always did: eyes scanning the room with judgment, lips curled in silent disapproval. "This house still looks so... cheap," she muttered, not even trying to mask the disdain.
I had told Daniel to come home early. I knew how cruel her words could be, how they scraped against the skin like broken glass. But he was swamped at the hospital again—lately, he always was. And I didn't want every return of his to be met with another war.
"So," she began, settling onto the couch with a sigh, "no luck?"
Her words hit like a dart.
"We're trying, Rebecca," I said, voice tight. "We're doing our best." It had been two years. Two years of trying. Hoping. Praying. I had begged Daniel to try—because I was lonely. Because something in me needed to be filled. Rebecca leaned forward, massaging her temples theatrically. "When will I see the face of my grandchild? Why are you punishing me like this?" Her voice trembled, accusing. "Is it because I told you to leave him back then? I apologized, didn't I?"
"Rebecca, please. Why would I—?" I bit my tongue, forcing the tears to stay where they belonged. "I'm trying. We're trying. Having a child isn't just a switch to flip. It's hard. "That's when she said it. "You know... I always preferred Catherine over you. Is that why you're being so stubborn on ending my family line?"
Catherine.
She said her name. The room spun with heat. I stood abruptly, tray in hand, and walked to the kitchen, anything to get away But she followed. "Why are you avoiding the question? Is this the reason?" "No, Rebecca," I snapped. "I know I'm not Catherine. But I love your son just as much as you do. I would never take the joy of a child away from him. "Her grip came suddenly—tight on my wrist. She wasn't scolding anymore. She was pleading. "Hailey, I beg of you... please leave my son alone. I saw the reports. You're barren. Just because you can't doesn't mean he can't experience fatherhood."
I stood frozen. The word barren echoed in my chest like a gunshot. Then came Daniel's voice. Sharp. "MOM." He stormed into the kitchen, eyes blazing, voice thunderous. "Leave my wife alone. Get out of my house."
Rebecca, now all tears, wrapped herself around him like a tragedy. "I just came to visit... she's the one who got furious when I mentioned Catherine." I looked at him, horrified—pleading without words. It wasn't true. He didn't say anything. Just guided her out to the car, quietly. Their driver, a man who'd seen too much, bowed with awkward sympathy. From the window, I watched as mother and son argued. She cried. He stayed firm. Eventually, she gave in. He looked... tired. I turned from the window before he saw my face. Went back to the kitchen. I didn't want to add to his burdens, not tonight. I was rinsing dishes when I felt him behind me. His arms wrapped around my waist—warm, soft, firm. He turned me gently to face him.
His eyes searched mine, full of sorrow and something else—love, maybe. His thumb brushed my cheek and he placed a soft kiss where the tears had almost fallen. He pulled me into his chest, cradling my head.
"It's not your fault," he whispered.
I broke and cried for hours in his arms that night.
(present)
I heard the shuffle of heels before the door swung open with unnecessary force.
Rebecca.
She entered like a storm in silk—flanked by Daniel's father, who walked behind her with his usual silence and folded arms. Neither of them looked at me. Not even once.
"I told you," she said, her voice breaking the stillness like glass underfoot. "I told you, didn't I? Something like this was bound to happen."
She stopped at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on her unconscious son. Her perfectly manicured hands trembled as she clutched her purse.
"Rebecca, please," I started quietly, standing up, "he's resting—"
"Don't you dare speak to me," she snapped, her voice sharp and sudden, as if she'd been holding it in for days. Her eyes turned to me now, blazing. "Three days! And I walk in to see you sitting here like some grieving widow?"
I stepped back, breath caught in my throat. My fingers curled into themselves.
"You're the reason he's here. You!" she pointed at me like a prosecutor in court. "Ever since he married you, his life has gone downhill. He started drinking, lashing out—losing control. I should've stopped this marriage the moment I sensed it."
I couldn't speak. The lump in my throat felt like a stone.
"I warned him," she continued, her voice trembling now, but not with grief—with fury. "I begged him. But no, he wouldn't listen. And now look at him—broken, bruised, unconscious. Because of you. Because you weren't enough."
Her words hit like daggers. Not because I hadn't heard them before—but because some small part of me had feared them, whispered them to myself in the dark. Maybe I wasn't enough.
"You pushed him," she hissed, stepping closer. "You, with your accusations. Your tantrums. Your inability to give him what he needed. A wife. A child. A life."
"I never meant to hurt him," I whispered, the tears I'd been holding back finally slipping free.
"Your intentions don't matter anymore. Look at him!" she gestured toward Daniel. "My son is lying in a hospital bed while you cry crocodile tears in your perfectly ironed blouse. How convenient."
Her husband finally placed a hand on her arm, murmuring, "Rebecca, that's enough."
She shook him off.
"No. Let me say it. She needs to hear it. I lost my son the moment he married her. She took him away from me."
I stood there, numb. Silent.
She turned to go, but paused at the door.
"If he doesn't make it through this..." she looked over her shoulder, her voice lowering to a poisonous whisper, "I will never forgive you."
And then she was gone—heels clicking like war drums down the hallway, dragging her resentment behind her like a veil.
I sat back down, my legs trembling beneath me. Daniel didn't move, didn't flinch. But I held his hand tighter. Because even in that moment, I still loved him. Even when the whole world blamed me—I stayed.
The beeping changed.
Just slightly—but enough to jolt me from my daze. I sat up straighter, my hand tightening around the lukewarm mug of hospital coffee I hadn't touched in hours.
His fingers twitched.
"Daniel?" I whispered, almost afraid to believe it. I leaned in closer, the dim light from the hallway casting a soft halo around his face. His eyelids fluttered once... twice... and then slowly opened.
His eyes searched the ceiling for a second before shifting—finding me.
And then came the softest movement: his hand reaching out across the sheets, brushing against mine. It was instinct, maybe even longing, but my body... it betrayed me.
I flinched.
Pulled away.
The motion was small, subtle—but loud enough in the silence of that room. His hand froze mid-air, fingers curling slightly as if they knew they'd overstepped.
His voice cracked as he tried to speak. "Hailey..."
I looked down at my hands, ashamed and confused, heart thudding against my ribs. "I—sorry," I whispered, barely audible. "I didn't mean to."
But I had. Not with thought, not with malice, but with muscle. With memory.
Something in me recoiled before I could stop it. A warning. A shield.
He looked at me—really looked at me—eyes heavy, but aware. There was confusion there, sadness maybe... or guilt. But no words followed.
I stared at the hospital sheet. My throat felt tight, like it was holding back everything I didn't want to say yet. Not while he was weak. Not while he was hooked up to wires and medicine.
So I reached for the cup of water instead. "Here," I said gently, "just a sip. Your throat must be dry."
He didn't move.
He just looked at me as I held the cup to his lips, carefully tilting it. Water trickled in, and he swallowed with a quiet wince. Then he whispered, "You stayed."
"I did."
"Even after—"
"Don't," I said softly, pulling the cup away. "You need to rest."
The orchids were still by the window, catching the moonlight .
I stood and gently pulled the blanket over his chest. "You should sleep. I'll be right here."
But as I sat back down, he didn't reach for me again.
And I didn't move closer.
We were in the same room... but suddenly it felt like an ocean lay between us.
13 August 2016
"I really don't understand, though," Jane said, pushing her tray forward in the cafeteria. "Out of all the good colleges, why this one? It's only known for its medical program."
I just smiled, twirling the straw in my juice. "Umm... that's a secret," I said softly, biting back the grin that was threatening to give me away. "I'll tell you someday."
What was I supposed to say? That I chose a college not for its prestige or program rankings, but because he was here? That I'd quietly traced his name in my old notebooks since the eighth grade, watched him play piano during school events, and dreamt of the day we might finally cross paths like something out of a movie?
The horticulture department was small—practically invisible compared to the flood of med students roaming the campus in their white coats—but I didn't mind. I liked plants, and I loved the idea of walking the same halls he did.
That morning, the air buzzed with first-week excitement. People rushed past, papers flew, and someone dropped a whole folder of notes in the quad. But my eyes were locked on him—the guy with the charcoal-gray hoodie and messy hair, walking with a textbook tucked beneath one arm, looking every bit like the Daniel I remembered and yet more real than ever.
Then it happened.
We collided near the anatomy wing—I was turning the corner too fast, my arms full of textbooks—and the next thing I knew, my papers were in the air and our hands touched.
"I'm so sorry," he said instinctively, bending down to help me. His voice was lower now, more mature, but still carried that same calm depth I remembered from the hallways of high school.
He didn't recognize me.
But I knew everything about him.
His eyes met mine for a second—a long second—and I felt like I forgot how to breathe. He smiled politely and handed me my notes before jogging away.
To him, it was nothing. Just another bump in a hallway.
But to me?
It was magic.
The first real moment.
(present)
I don't know when his touch became so unbearable.
There was a time I longed for it — craved the warmth of his hand in mine, the way his fingers used to trail gently down my spine when I was anxious, the comfort he offered without a single word. Back then, his touch felt like home.
Now... it makes my skin crawl.
Tonight, when he reached for my hand in that hospital room, something inside me recoiled before I could stop it. I flinched — not out of choice, but instinct. My body remembered something my mind didn't want to face.
I hated it.
Not him. Not entirely.
But the way his presence suddenly felt foreign. Cold. Like being held by a stranger wearing the mask of the man I once loved.
Or maybe it wasn't one moment.
Maybe it was the slow unraveling — the drip of disappointment, the decay of love —