Chapter 1
602words
Sunlight sliced through the blinds, casting zebra stripes across the floor—a perfect mirror of the strange five years between Nathan and me.
His full weight bore down on my overtaxed right shoulder, my muscles quivering from the strain.
Each step was like dragging through quicksand—heavy, exhausting, endless.
Sweat beaded on his clenched lips before dripping onto my hand where I gripped his arm—scalding at first touch, then oddly cold.
"One… more… time!" he hissed through clenched teeth, veins pulsing at his temples.
The crash didn't just shatter his spine—it broke something gentle inside him, leaving only obsession and rage in its wake.
I held him up in silence, every muscle straining to keep us both from toppling over.
The purple bruises on my left wrist—marks from when he'd lashed out during therapy days ago—looked especially stark under the harsh lights.
For five years, these marks had appeared and faded like silent medals, chronicling how I'd dragged him back from the edge of oblivion.
The medical staff clapped with practiced enthusiasm, tossing out words like "miracle" and "remarkable"—the standard script for Nathan's progress.
Their eyes held concern, yes, but mostly the polished indifference of those who've seen too much suffering.
Only I knew the truth behind this "miracle"—countless sleepless nights and the complete surrender of my identity as I dissolved into his broken existence.
After a dozen shaky steps that drained his reserves, he suddenly shoved me away.
The push caught me off-balance. I stumbled back, my spine cracking against the metal exercise equipment. Pain exploded through my body, darkening my vision as I bit back a cry.
"Don't use that damn patronizing tone with me! I'm sick of it!" He gasped for air, chest heaving, his voice raw with a viciousness that seemed desperate to erase any memory of weakness. "I am NOT broken!"
I gripped the cold metal bar and straightened slowly. The pain in my back forced a sharp intake of breath, but my face revealed nothing.
Five years. Nearly two thousand days and nights. My life from twenty-five to thirty—gone.
My prime years sacrificed to antiseptic smells and the cold touch of medical equipment.
While my peers climbed career ladders, fell in love, and started families, I mastered massage techniques, nursing skills, and how to tell from a single glance whether his pain was physical or emotional.
After his outburst, he watched me suffer in silence. Something flickered in his eyes—perhaps regret—but it vanished instantly beneath a cold entitlement.
He turned away, fussing with imaginary wrinkles on his designer suit. "Tonight's celebration is also our engagement party," he said with the detachment of someone addressing a stranger. "Don't wear that black dress again. It looks cheap. Buy something new." He paused. "The company will cover it."
I glanced down at my beige outfit.
Three years old, washed until the color had faded, with tiny pills forming along the cuffs.
Something in my chest felt like it was being stabbed with a thousand tiny needles—not enough to kill me, just enough to make every breath hurt.
That "cheap" black dress he now despised? He'd bought it with his entire bonus when his company landed its first million-dollar contract.
He'd held me tight then, voice shaking with excitement: "Wendy, this is my victory trophy and your battle dress! We're only going up from here! When we go public, I'll give you the wedding of the century!"
Turns out trophies tarnish and battle dresses go out of style.
Just like promises. Just like love.
"Fine," I heard myself say, my voice like sandpaper.
