He gave a quiet laugh that didn’t sound like one. “And do what? Sit here and watch you sleep?” The words hit harder than he meant them to. His face softened immediately, guilt flickering across his eyes. “I didn’t mean that.” She nodded, pretending it didn’t hurt. “I know.”
But later, as the nurse adjusted her IV and the lights dimmed, Clara replayed those words again and again. Sit here and watch you sleep. He didn’t want to be here anymore — not really. He wanted his life back. And part of her couldn’t blame him.
Evan still came by, but something had shifted. He’d stop by with a paper cup of coffee, set it on her bedside table, and scroll through his phone as she spoke. Sometimes he’d forget to look up when she asked him a question. Once, when she reached for his hand, he didn’t even notice — his thumb kept moving, typing a message she couldn’t see.
“Work again?” she asked softly. “Always,” he said, without looking up. When he finally did meet her eyes, there was a flicker of guilt — but no apology. Just exhaustion, and something else she couldn’t name. Distance. One evening, after her treatment, he came in late. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie missing, his cologne sharper than usual — a scent she didn’t recognize.
He kissed her forehead and sank into the chair with a sigh. “You okay?” she asked quietly. He nodded, rubbing his temples. “Just tired. It’s been a long week.” She hesitated. “You’ve been gone more than usual.” He laughed — short, defensive. “I can’t be everywhere at once, Clara. I’m trying.” The way he said it stung.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “You don’t understand what this is like for me. Watching you like this, day after day — it’s… it’s killing me.” Her chest tightened. “I didn’t ask you to stay,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t. That’s what makes it worse.” He exhaled, leaning back. “I just — I have needs, Clara. I can’t do this forever. I’m not built for it.”
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