Chapter 13 Promises
Promises
ADRIAN
I’d spent the last few hours sitting beside Eli’s bed, hands clenched over the edge of his blanket, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. The monitors kept their endless vigil. Each beep was a lifeline and a punishment.
I thought I’d built a good life for us. A life that was safe, comfortable, and controlled. But staring at him now, motionless, pale, caught in a purgatory I couldn’t reach, I saw it for what it really was.
I’d spent years pretending I knew what was best for him. Pretending every decision I made—every late night, the new house, staycations instead of vacations—was for us. For him.
But it wasn’t.
It was for me.
To quiet the guilt that came from always being gone, always putting something else first, convincing myself that providing was the same thing as loving.
My throat tightened.
He’d tried to tell me. God, he’d tried so many times.
The house was proof enough of that.
I remembered the day we found the bright, modern two-story with its sleek white walls and glass stair railings. It had looked expensive, impressive, the kind of house you were supposed to buy when you’d “made it.”
I thought Eli would love it. I thought he’d see it as a promise.
Instead, he stood in the doorway, quiet for a long time before saying, “It’s beautiful, Adrian. But it doesn’t feel like us.”
I’d laughed, brushing it off. “You’ll see once we move in. It’s a fresh start.”
He’d frowned, looking at the wide, echoing space. “I liked the little blue one. The one with the crooked porch.”
“That place was falling apart,” I’d said, too quickly. “You deserve better than something that needs fixing.”
He’d met my eyes, steady, patient, too kind for his own good. “Maybe I like things that need fixing.”
I caught the tremor in his voice, the way it hovered on the edge of frustration and sadness. I’d waved it away, distracted by remorse I barely admitted to myself. I’m doing this for him, I had thought. He’ll be happy when he sees our things here.
Eli had wanted the old house, the one that reminded him of our happy beginning on Decatur Street. Ugly, imperfect—He wanted us, in all our mess and warmth, not my sterile fantasy of perfection.
The first fight in the new house hit with the force of a slammed door, echoing through empty rooms.
“I can’t believe you didn’t even ask me before signing the mortgage!” Eli’s voice bounced off the walls, sharp enough to sting. His hands trembled as he gestured toward the pristine counters, the floor that gleamed too perfectly. “This isn’t us, Adrian. This isn’t our home.”
I ran a hand through my hair, the familiar surge of defensiveness rising. “I thought… I thought you’d like it. I wanted something nice for you—for us.”
“You thought for me? You didn’t listen, Adrian! You never listen until it’s too late!”
His words cut deep. I swallowed the heat rising in my throat. I wanted to reach for him, to fix it, but the space between us felt like a chasm.
Now, sitting there beside him, I saw how small that argument really was, and how enormous.
It wasn’t about the house. It was about us.
About the way I mistook control for care, silence for peace, and guilt for love.
I had heard his words, but I’d ignored the meaning behind them.
The house had been just another failure, another reminder that I prioritized contrition and appearances over understanding him, over seeing him fully.
How many times had I done that?
How many fights had blurred together into one long stretch of stubborn quiet?
When had I started tuning him out?
I remembered his face when he had tried to explain it to me, and I had nodded, distracted by some minor practical detail, my mind already cataloging reasons why my choice was “better.” God, I had been so wrong.
Now, with Eli lying unconscious, I saw it with brutal clarity. Had I ever really seen him? Or had I only seen what I wanted him to be? My idea of perfection, my carefully edited version of us? The unbearable remorse burned through me, leaving me hollow and raw.
My mind reached back, sifting through the years until it landed on something simple—our very first fight, way back in college. I was heating cheap noodles in the microwave, and I’d almost melted the styrofoam cup while trying to study before starting my next rotation.
He’d laughed teasingly. “You can’t just fix everything by working harder, you know.”
And I snapped. “That’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t understand what it takes.”
He’d gone quiet then, hurt flickering across his face before he whispered, “I just wanted to eat dinner with you, Adrian.”
The hush that followed was long and awkward. I felt like shit for hurting him. We’d made up, of course. Kissed and promised to do better. But I never really learned how.
Now I sat here, decades later, and the truth settled heavier than lead in my chest. I’d wasted so much time chasing stability instead of living it. So much time working to make things perfect instead of making memories. And for what?
Eli was lying here, suspended between worlds, and I was drowning in the one we’d built wrong.
I looked at his hand resting on the sheet, at the IV taped to his skin, and thought about every hour I’d spent chasing things that didn’t matter.
Every late shift. Every text I didn’t answer because I told myself I’d ‘get to it later.’ The quiet looks from him I ignored because I didn’t want to face what they meant.
The monitors clicked, steady and infuriating. I wanted them to stop. To scream. To do something. Anything to break this unbearable stillness. My jaw clenched. I could feel the anger building—not at him, not even at fate, but at myself.
“I thought I was doing it for us,” I said, my voice rough and strange in the quiet. “Every decision. Every late night. Every time I said, ‘Just a few more months, and things will calm down.’”
My throat closed around the next words, but they came anyway. “I thought I was fixing things. I thought I was protecting you. But all I did was disappear.”
The room was suffocating me, the plain walls closing in, making me open my eyes to a harsh reality I wasn’t ready to face. My reflection wavered in the dark monitor glass—hollow-eyed, unshaven, a man I didn’t recognize.
“I bought that house because I thought it made me a good husband.” My voice broke. “But I didn’t ask you what you wanted. I never asked.”
I shot to my feet, pacing the narrow strip of floor beside the bed, fingers clawing at my hair. “I can still see you that day,” I whispered. “Standing in the doorway, smiling like you were trying not to ruin the moment. I was so proud of myself. So sure I’d given you everything you could want.”
I pressed a hand against my chest where the ache had settled deep, immovable.
“You didn’t need a house, did you?” The words came softer than a confession. “You just needed me.”
Pain bubbled up inside my chest and leaked from my eyes. How could I have mistreated such a beautiful heart?
“I should’ve known,” I said. “I should’ve—God, Eli, I should’ve heard you.”
My legs gave out before I realized I was falling. I caught the edge of the bed, sliding down until I was on the floor, forehead pressed to the back of his hand. The linoleum was cold against my legs.
“I wasted so much time,” I said, voice breaking apart. “So much time being angry, being right, being gone.” Tears spilled, hot and relentless. “I thought I was saving us. But I was just—” letting out a ragged breath. “I was just losing you slower.”
The sound that came out of me didn’t feel human, somewhere between a sob and a curse. I stayed like that, gripping his hand, whispering every apology I should’ve said when it mattered.
For the house. For the isolation. For the nights I let my pride fill the space where love should’ve been.
For the first time since he’d fallen silent, I started talking—really talking.
About the time I saw him practicing for his interview in the bathroom mirror with shaving cream on his face, the way he hummed off-key when he cooked, the stupid inside jokes we hadn’t said in years.
How I was mildly obsessed with watching him after he showered, standing naked in front of the foggy bathroom mirror, studying his reflection, primping his hair.
The words poured out of me in uneven waves. Small, desperate offerings of remorse.
“Just come back,” I whispered. “You can yell at me, you can leave me, you can hate me—just come back and let me say it to your face.”
A moment passed. Then another. Nothing changed.
Still, I stayed there. Because that’s what he would’ve done. Because this time I wasn’t walking away.
I stayed there until I lost track of time. The world outside that room could’ve burned, and I wouldn’t have noticed. All that mattered was the rise and fall of his chest, the proof that he was still here. That I still had something to lose.
My fingers were stiff from holding his; my throat raw from too many words that came too late. My scalp itched, and I reeked of BO and bad breath, but still I stayed.
I pressed my lips to the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice cracking. “For all of it. For not being better. For making you carry us when I should’ve been right there beside you.”
The tears came slower now, heavier, because they’d finally reached the bottom of me. I didn’t even try to stop them. I just let them fall, let myself finally break where he could see me.
That’s how his parents found me.
Collapsed and broken on the floor, clutching their son’s hand as if it were the only thing keeping me alive.