“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly. No hesitation, no forced cheer. Just steady conviction. It almost undid her. Still, there were moments when exhaustion bled through — in him, not her. He’d fall asleep sitting upright, phone buzzing with messages he ignored. He missed meals.
He answered calls in the hallway that stretched on for hours. Sometimes, when she’d wake from the fog of medication, she’d find him staring at her like he didn’t know how to help anymore. It wasn’t cruelty, she told herself — just helplessness.
She hated that he had to see her like this, that the laughter they used to share had been replaced by sterile routines and small talk. She wanted to make it easier for him, to pretend she was stronger than she felt.
But the cracks were forming, fine lines beneath the surface that neither of them wanted to name. One afternoon, he came in dressed for a meeting. His hair was neatly combed, his tie straight. He looked like the version of him she remembered from before the hospital, and for a fleeting second she felt jealous of whoever would get to sit across from that man today.
“You look nice,” she said, forcing a smile. He smiled back, though his eyes were tired. “I’ll only be gone a few hours. I picked up another client.” “Don’t rush,” she said softly. “I’ll be here.” And she was.
Later that night, when he returned, she was too weak to sit up. He helped her sip water, held the glass steady when her hand trembled. He didn’t complain when she needed him to adjust her pillows again, or when the nurse asked him to step aside for another round of medication. He just looked at her — not pitying, not impatient, just… hollow.
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