Chapter 22 Unspoken Words #2
I didn’t know which version of him broke my heart more—the boy dreaming of what we’d become, or the man still trying to keep that promise long after it fell apart.
“The MRI looked good. The swelling’s continuing to go down. You’re healing.”
Healing. I wasn’t sure I liked the word. Healing implied wholeness on the other side, and I didn’t feel whole. I felt stitched together by grief and morphine.
I watched him for a long moment, his profile sharp against the pale sky, the soft crease between his brows that never really went away. He looked tired in a way no amount of sleep could fix.
“I keep thinking I should remember it,” I said. “The accident. The crash. But I don’t. Just… headlights and noise. And then you.”
His throat worked around something he didn’t say. “That’s enough.”
The way he said it made my chest ache.
I glanced down at my wrist. The bracelet caught the light, a dull, worn gleam against my pale skin. “You put this on me.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “Because you loved it once.”
I turned my wrist slowly. The rough wood felt warm from the sun. “We were happy then.”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “We were.”
The quiet that followed was heavier than words. I wanted to reach for him, to tell him I still felt the tether between us, frayed but unbroken, but I couldn’t find the strength or the courage.
Instead, I asked softly, “What happens now?”
He looked up, startled by the question. “Now?”
“When I’m discharged. When I go home.” I swallowed. “What happens to us?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For a moment, I thought I saw tears catch in his lashes, but when he blinked, they were gone.
“We’ll take it one day at a time,” he said finally. “You’ll focus on getting stronger. I’ll help however I can.”
I nodded, pretending that the answer was enough.
A leaf drifted past. I reached out and caught it clumsily in my lap. Adrian smiled faintly, the kind of smile that used to mean I love you, but now meant I’m trying.
“I missed this,” he said quietly.
“What, the garden?”
He shook his head. “You. Breathing.”
Something inside me broke all over again.
I looked away, blinking fast. “You should go home soon. Get some rest.”
“Maybe later.”
“Adrian—”
He reached over then, his hand finding mine, firm and warm and familiar. “Don’t ask me to leave yet.”
So I didn’t.
I just sat there with the sunlight spilling over my lap, his fingers around mine, both of us pretending for a little while that we were still the people who made love under the vines and believed the future was ours to shape.
The hospital quieted after dark. My room was dim but restless. I should’ve been asleep hours ago, but my mind wouldn’t settle.
Adrian was still here.
He’d promised he’d head out after the transfer paperwork, but instead he’d rolled his chair closer to the bed and started typing notes into his tablet, pausing every few minutes to check the drip or my chart.
His hair was flattened because he’d run a stressed-out hand through it a hundred times, and the shadows under his eyes had turned the kind of purple usually reserved for bruises.
It was almost funny—my doctor, my husband, my almost-ex-husband—always impeccable, unflappable, looking as if he were the one involved in the wreck instead of me.
A half-eaten protein bar sat on the table.
I watched him with a familiar twinge of anxiety.
When was the last time he slept? Ate? Breathed without bracing?
And then the equally familiar shame spiraled in behind it.
God, am I really doing this again? Worrying over him when he won’t even worry about himself?
Adrian scrubbed both hands over his face, and the motion made something dangerously tight twist in my chest. He winced as he pressed the heel of his palm to his temple, the start of one of those headaches he always swore was “fine.”
“Adrian,” I croaked.
His head shot up instantly. “Eli. Hey. You okay? Need water? Pain meds? Want me to call—”
“Visiting hours ended a while ago,” I murmured. My voice was scratchy from disuse.
“Perks of having hospital privileges.”
The hush stretched, heavy and full of all the things we hadn’t said in months.
Finally, I asked softly, “Why are you still here, Adrian?”
That made him pause. After a long, shuddering breath, he said, “Because… I don’t know how to stop.”
Something coiled in my chest, tight and jagged.
Love. Fear. Remorse. Anger. All of it tangled so tight it hurt to breathe.
I finished the thought for him silently: I don’t know how to stop loving you.
How to stop feeling guilty—responsible. How to stop worrying, trying to hold everything together because I feel like I’m spinning out.
I don’t know how to stop you from leaving me.
His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with fatigue. “Every time I think I’ve done enough, there’s something else I should’ve done better.” He gave a dry laugh. “Guess that’s not a great quality in a husband. Turns out it’s worse in a doctor.”
I wanted to reach for his hand, but didn’t trust myself. Didn’t know what reaching would mean.
He stood, adjusted the blanket over me with clinical precision, then checked the monitor one more time, even though everything was stable. Always needing proof I was still here.
“You should rest,” he said so quietly I almost missed it.
He turned to go, and I almost let him. Almost.
“Adrian,” I said. My throat caught on his name. “When did you last sleep?”
That stopped him. He blinked. “What?”
“You look exhausted.”
He waved that off as casually as if I’d mentioned the weather. “I’m here, taking care of you, worried about you—” He said it as if it were the most logical thing in the world. As if devotion were the same thing as self-preservation.
I pushed myself up against the pillows, wincing. “Yes. And who’s taking care of you?”
For a second, his expression went blank, as if the question didn’t compute. Then it softened, not with understanding, but with alarm.
“Eli,” he tried, “don’t start. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” I said. “Your eyes are bloodshot, you look like you haven’t eaten a meal since last Tuesday, and you’re rubbing your head the way you do when your blood pressure spikes.”
He flinched, barely, but I caught it.
“You’re worrying me,” I hissed. “And I’m literally in a hospital bed trying to recover. That’s the last thing either of us needs.”
His jaw clenched. “I’m supposed to worry about you. That’s what you do when someone you love is—when something happens.” His voice cracked, and he forced it steady. “I don’t get to think about myself right now.”
“Why not?” I asked, heat creeping into my tone. “Why don’t you get to take care of yourself? Why do you think loving me means destroying you?”
Adrian’s mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head like I was being unreasonable.
“I’m not destroying anything,” he muttered. “I’m here. That’s what matters.”
“And I love that you’re here,” I said, trying to stay calm. “But look at what it’s costing you.”
He refused. His gaze slid to the window, to the monitors, to anywhere but me.
I exhaled slowly because anger wasn’t the point; fear was.
“You think I can get better if all I do is worry about you falling apart?” I asked.
His eyes flicked to mine, defensive at first, then wounded.
“I don’t want you worrying about me,” he said. “Not when you should be focused on healing.”
“Then take care of yourself,” I said simply. “Because if you don’t… I will. And that’s the problem, Adrian. You’re making me worry. You’re hurting yourself to take care of me, and I can’t—” My voice caught. “I can’t watch that. Not again.”
He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. Adrian looked scared. Not for me. For himself. And maybe, finally, for us.
He sank into the chair again, but this time he ran a hand over his face as if the truth was finally landing.
“I didn’t…” He swallowed. “I didn’t realize it was scaring you.”
“It does,” I whispered. “Every time.”
He let out a shaky breath and nodded.
“I’ll try,” he said. “I swear I’ll try.”
Could I believe him? Adrian had made that same promise many times, and he’d broken every one of them.
He left shortly after; the door clicking shut softly behind him. I lay there in the half-dark, watching the screens blink their green lullaby, wondering if this was what healing would feel like. Wanting someone to stay who might be staying for all the wrong reasons.