“Goodnight,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure who I was saying it to, him, or the version of us that still existed somewhere in my head.
Eli stirredwhen I brought coffee into the room, blinking at me as though he wasn’t sure if I was real or something his mind had conjured out of habit. His hair was sticking up in the back, the blanket half-twisted around his waist. He looked small in our bed, smaller than I’d ever seen him.
“Morning,” I said softly, setting the mug down within reach. “Pain level?”
He gave a vague shrug, voice rough. “Manageable.”
“Good.”
He watched me as I moved around the room, adjusting the blinds, checking the time on my phone, sorting his medication bottles even though I’d done it twice already. Motion was easier than stillness. Doing was easier than feeling.
The clock on the dresser ticked loud enough to count the seconds between us. When I finally ran out of excuses to move, I sat on the edge of the bed. I felt his hand twitch, as if he wanted to reach for me, but stopped himself halfway there. Thespace between us stretched taut, a thread pulled thin enough to hum.
We were here—together, alive, breathing—but every heartbeat carried the echo of something we used to be. Something I kept trying to resuscitate.
Today was his first PT session. I should’ve been encouraging, upbeat—something other than this trembling mix of hope and shame. Instead, all I could think about was the way his body would strain, how pain would shadow every small victory. I wasn’t sure which of us I was trying to prepare.
He drew a ragged breath. “Adrian,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to keep doing all this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
Because it’s the only way I know how to love you.
Because if I stop, I’ll have to feel how close I came to losing you.
Because fixing you is the only thing keeping me from falling apart myself.
But all I said was, “Because I want to.”
He looked away, eyes shining, lips pressed tightly, holding something back.
I reached for his hand, but he turned his head toward the window. Morning light pooled around him, softening his face, drawn tight from pain, and I saw the twitch in his jaw, the quiet defiance of someone who didn’t want to be anyone’s burden.
“PT’s at ten,” I said after a while, my voice too even. “I’ll drive you.”
He gave a small nod, and that wasthe end of it.
But as I watched him sip his coffee, it hit me. He wasn’t the only one learning how to stand again.
The PT sessionwent worse than I’d hoped.
Eli tried—God, he tried—but every movement looked like punishment. His jaw clenched, breath coming in tight, uneven bursts. Sweat rolled down the side of his face, catching in the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. I wanted to reach for him, to steady his elbow or take some of the weight off his leg, but every time I took a step forward, the therapist gave me that polite little smile that said,don’t interfere.
So I stood back, useless, watching the man I loved fight through pain that felt as much my fault as his injury.
The therapist, Cindy, was bright, cheerful, and endlessly optimistic. She chattered through it all.
“You’re doing great, Eli. And aren’t you lucky to have a doctor for a husband? I mean, the two of you are just the cutest. He’s so devoted, it’s inspiring.”
Eli didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up. His knuckles whitened on the parallel bars, eyes locked on the floor.
By the time we left, he was pale and shaking, every muscle trembling. I helped him into the car and buckled him in when his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. He didn’t speak the entire drive, just stared out the window, jaw ticking.
I tried to fill thevoid, to make it normal again. “Do you want to stop for a smoothie? The place you like?—”
He cut me off, voice sharp and breaking. “We can’t keep pretending this is the same thing, Adrian.”
