Mark claimed to have severe clinical depression, frequently shutting down and disappearing into ice-cold silent treatment without warning. Every time he vanished, my heart lived in my throat. Yet I never dared blow up his phone with calls or frantic texts, terrified that the slightest pressure would push him over the edge. Until I picked up his tablet by accident and saw his message thread with his childhood best friend, Trista. Mark: “In five days, let’s just say Cassidy passed this round of the test.” Trista: “Hold the line, okay? You’re the heir to a massive family fortune. What if all of Cassidy’s patience and devotion is an act because she’s angling for your money?” Trista: “Trust me on this. Keep faking the crippling depression. Put her through the wringer.” Trista: “Don’t go soft! If you do, our friendship is over!” Mark: “Alright, alright, whatever you say. And stop talking about ending our friendship—we made a pact, remember? You and me, for life.” The tablet slipped from my palms. Two years. Two agonizing years of scrimping, surviving on pocket change, and walking on eggshells around his fragile psyche—all of it had been a staged performance. My body trembled uncontrollably, my heart thudding violently against my ribs until it ached. A chime echoed from my phone. A text from Mark. “Living feels so pointless. I just want to see blood—red, warm blood. Why don’t you bleed for me?” “Cassidy, you say you love me. Prove it.” In the past, I would have broken down in tears, begging him not to hurt himself, yielding to whatever impossible demand he made just to keep him safe. This time, I stared at the glowing screen, pressed the power button, and shut the phone down. I was done passing his tests. 1 The second the screen went black, silence rushed in to claim my world. Inside my head, the taut wire—the one strung so tight with constant terror, worry, and sleepless vigil—finally snapped. I no longer had to wonder if Mark had enough money to eat today. Where he was sleeping tonight. If someone on the street had hurt him. Whether he remembered his medication, or if he was huddled in some dark, desolate corner of the city, drowning in despair. The truth had ripped him out of my heart by the roots. I drew a long, warm bath, sank into the softness of my bed, stretched my aching limbs, and let my eyes close. In two years, this was the first night I didn’t hold my breath. I slept deeply, peacefully, without a single dream. When I woke and powered my phone back on, Mark’s call tore through the stillness almost instantly. I took a steadying breath and answered. Before I could part my lips, his fury crashed over me. “Cassidy! Do you have any idea your mother collapsed at the train station? What kind of daughter are you, keeping your damn phone off all day? If a good Samaritan hadn’t used her phone to call me and I hadn’t rushed over, she could have died! You’d be living with regret for the rest of your life!” “In this blistering heat, she hauled heavy baskets of home-cooked food and fresh groceries, standing on a crowded train for hours just to bring you a taste of home. And you? What were you doing? Your phone was off the entire time.” 2 A deafening buzz filled my ears. Every rehearsed confrontation evaporated in an instant. “How is she? Where is she?” Mark let out a caustic laugh on the other end. “Oh, so now you panic? What were you thinking when you powered down? Did you think about your mother? Did you think about your boyfriend?” I bit down hard on my inner lip, swallowing my pride just to know where she was. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I didn’t know she was coming today. I shouldn’t have turned off my phone.” “Please… just tell me which hospital she’s at.” “Mark, I’m begging you.” A deliberate silence hung on the line as he savored my surrender, soaking in my desperation, before languidly tossing out the hospital name. When I burst through the hospital ward doors, Mark was gently feeding my mother broth with a spoon. Before her pale, frail form, his movements were immaculate—gentle, infinitely patient, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin after every careful sip. The moment my mother saw me, she scrambled to sit up straighter, but Mark gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Rest, Mrs. Foster,” he murmured softly. Still, determined to look stronger than she was, she braced her back against the pillows, her voice thick with guilt. “Cassie, look at you, sweating through your shirt. Come sit. Mom’s fine, don’t you worry. Just got a little dizzy in the heat. A little rest and I’ll be good as new.” “It’s all my fault. I should have called ahead.” “You kids work so hard, under so much pressure… I just wanted to come make a few hot meals for you and Mark, scrub down the apartment, fill your freezer with homemade food before heading back. I wanted to lighten your load. I never meant to become one.” I dropped to my knees beside her bed, tears spilling over before I could stop them. For twenty-six years, it had just been the two of us against the world. Neither of us could bear the thought of burdening the other; we were each other’s only tether. Five years ago, she had been diagnosed with early-stage liver cancer. After surgery and localized therapy, she had recovered remarkably well. Yet the word “recurrence” had remained a guillotine suspended above my neck, held by a fraying thread. Watching the tears stream down my face, Mark set the bowl aside and handed me a tissue, his voice losing its abrasive edge. “Don’t cry. The doctor said it shouldn’t be anything major. They ran a couple of standard scans; she just needs to be observed overnight and she can go home tomorrow.” “If you fall apart like this, she’ll only feel worse.” Mark was right. The only person in this room whose heart would break at the sight of my tears was my mother. I took the tissue without looking at him, wiped my cheeks, and forced a bright, trembling smile onto my lips. “Mom, you came at the perfect time. I was just about to take my vacation days to come visit you anyway. I’ve been craving your cooking like crazy.” A faint flush of color returned to my mother’s pale face, melting some of the shame in her tired eyes. “All right. Tomorrow, as soon as they discharge me, I’ll cook for you.” After tucking her in and watching her settle against the mattress, I unfolded the squeaky vinyl cot beside the bed and turned to Mark. “You can go. I’ll stay here tonight.” He didn’t move. Instead, he took a seat on the edge of the cot. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. Let’s head back together in the morning.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. “You don’t have anywhere to go?” A trust-fund billionaire with access to luxury penthouses, waterfront villas, and five-star suites—and he was still playing the destitute, devoted pauper squeezed onto a hospital cot with me. Did he find this charade amusing? I opened my mouth, ready to tear the veil away, when my mother stirred in her half-sleep behind me. She cracked an eye open, looking at Mark and me, and let out a faint, contented sigh. “Seeing you two so good together… makes my heart rest easy.” With that, she drifted back under, a peaceful smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. That whisper was a heavy brass padlock. It sealed the rage right back down my throat. Looking at her fragile, paper-thin face, how could I bear to light a match and burn her peace to ashes? I told myself to swallow it down. I had endured two years of his performance; I could endure a few more days. I would wait until my mother was safely on her way back home, smiling and content. Then, and only then, would I tear this entire farce to the ground. Mark lay on his side on the narrow cot, patting the sliver of space in front of him. “Come here.” 3 I glanced at the tiny gap on the cot, shook my head, and pulled a wooden chair right next to my mother’s headboard. Leaning my head back against the cold hospital wall, I closed my eyes. In the dead of night, the test results were finally ready. I rose quietly, using the dim glow of my phone screen to illuminate the path to the door. As I passed the cot, it was empty. I frowned faintly, but didn’t dwell on it. I slipped downstairs to retrieve the printouts. At 3:00 AM, the hospital lobby was a cavern of fluorescent white and hollow echoes, punctuated only by the low hum of the automated kiosks. I stood before the machine, my palms slick with cold sweat, a sudden, suffocating dread seizing my chest. “Her annual checkups were clear,” I told myself like a mantra. “She’s fine. It’s just the summer heat.” Yet my pulse hammered against my ears, my breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps. When the machine spat out the crisp white paper, my fingers shook so hard I could barely grasp it. Taking a shuddering breath, I slid the page out and forced my gaze down the column of numbers. “Alpha-fetoprotein (AFP): 10,780 ng/mL.” The number felt like a nail driven straight into my skull. It was high enough that I didn’t need an oncologist to interpret it. I had walked through chemo with my mother five years ago. I knew every marker by heart. Normal was under 10. The cancer was back. And it had metastasized aggressively. The flimsy sheet of paper suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, crushing the air straight out of my lungs. A tidal wave of sheer terror crashed over me, dragging my knees toward the polished linoleum. “I can’t fall apart. If I collapse, who protects her?” Instinctively, my trembling fingers brought up my phone. The screen rested on one contact. The man who had spoon-fed my mother soup just hours ago. The man I had sworn to leave. “Mark.” I stared at his name for three agonizing seconds, tears burning behind my eyelids. Even if his poverty was a game, even if his depression was a sick lie—we had lived in the same cramped apartment for two whole years. Two years of our lives weren’t an illusion. The warmth of his arms in the winter, the cadence of his breath against my neck—those were real. I tapped the call button. I prayed he would pick up. Just to steady my shaking hands. Just to keep me from falling into the abyss. “Beep—” A single ring, and then the line went dead. Desperate, clutching at the thinnest thread of hope, I redialed. Canceled. Redialed. Canceled instantly. Until finally, the automated operator informed me that the number was unreachable. Mark had blocked me. Clutching the crumpled report against my chest, I stumbled to my feet. Every step felt like wading through deep water. I drifted aimlessly across the hollow lobby, directionless, numb, not knowing where to turn or what to do next. As I passed the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, a sharp glare from the parking lot caught my eye. A luxury customized Sprinter RV was parked under the streetlamp. The blinds were wide open, the interior bathed in warm, ambient light. I stopped dead in my tracks. Through the glass, the boyfriend who had just sent my calls straight to voicemail was lounging effortlessly on a plush leather sectional, his posture entirely relaxed. Beside him sat a woman with long, glossy waves and a sharp, delicate profile. Trista. She was smiling, playfully feeding a plump red strawberry into his mouth. Mark parted his lips and took the bite with natural, practiced ease—a gesture repeated a thousand times before. Something was said, and both of them dissolved into easy, intimate laughter. My feet moved on their own, carrying me toward the vehicle. With every step across the tarmac, the muffled voices through the cracked awning window grew crystal clear. 4 Trista’s voice was dripping with playful smugness. “Well? Isn’t the RV a million times better? Ice-cold AC, memory foam mattress… I honestly don’t get why you insisted on playing the martyr in that dreary hospital room all night.” Mark stretched languidly, chuckling. “Testing Cassidy is one thing, but her mother is innocent. She’s an elder, after all. You’ve got to put on a bit of a show.” Trista rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Are you really going back in there later? What a drag.” “Cassidy is rotten to the core, if you ask me. I bet she secretly hopes her mom gets even sicker just so she has a tragic excuse to cling to you. Case in point: blowing up your phone over and over tonight. If someone’s dying, call a doctor! Why call you? It’s not like you’re an oncologist.” Mark paused, his casual demeanor tightening for a split second. “Cassidy called me just now?” Trista waved a dismissive hand. “You were in the shower, so I hung up for you. Don’t mention it, babe.” Mark considered this for a moment. There were nurses and on-call physicians on the ward—what could possibly happen? His smile returned, that indulgent, affectionate look he always gave his lifelong friend, and he reached out to pinch Trista’s cheek fondly. I stood outside in the dark. The moonlight cast my long, solitary shadow across the pavement. My fingers curled tightly into fists. The heart that had been submerged in icy terror, trembling so hard it couldn’t hold a piece of paper, suddenly went dead quiet. I didn’t knock on the door. I didn’t cry out. I just stood there, watching them through the glass for a few silent seconds. Then I turned around and walked back into the hospital alone. The on-call doctor sat behind his desk, studying the lab report. His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes lingering on the figures before he silently turned the pages of her medical history. A long, heavy silence hung in the small office. My blood ran cold, my voice breaking into jagged shards. “Doctor… let’s admit her. We’ll start treatment immediately. We beat it once before, five years ago, right? If we do everything we can, we can beat it again, can’t we? I… I can work overtime. I just got promoted last month, my salary went up. I’ll pay whatever it takes. I’ll do anything.” The doctor slowly took off his glasses. His eyes held a quiet, unbearable sympathy, and his voice was hushed. “Hospitalization… won’t change the outcome, miss. Her condition is fundamentally different from five years ago. The metastasis is widespread and extraordinarily aggressive. Aggressive interventions at this stage will only amplify her physical suffering and might even hasten…” He trailed off, taking in my bloodshot, hollow eyes, before gently concluding: “If you truly want to do something for her, focus on making her remaining days as comfortable and happy as possible.” My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, burying my face in both hands, my shoulders shaking violently, yet not a single sob escaped my throat. The doctor reached down, resting a warm, steady hand on my shoulder. “Go back up to the ward. Don’t let her wake up to an empty room and start worrying.” In a trance, I pushed open the ward door. Mark was already back on the vinyl cot. Seeing me walk in, his voice was tight with irritation. “Cassidy, seriously? You made this whole grand speech about staying to care for her, and then you just vanish into thin air? Leaving an outsider like me to sit by her bed all night?” Still reeling from the terminal verdict, I had zero energy left to argue or explain. I merely frowned, my voice flat and icy. “Lower your voice. Don’t wake her.” Mark bolted upright, trying to keep his voice down but failing to suppress his indignation. “Are you actually blaming me? I’m dealing with severe depression, sitting here watching your mother, and you come at me with an attitude? Cassidy, where the hell is your gratitude?”
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “621510”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply