The day I was discharged from the hospital, my wife was nowhere to be seen. Just as I was reaching for my phone to call her, I saw her latest post on social media. She was wearing a breezy summer dress, smiling radiantly by the side of a yacht. Her boss stood behind her, his arms lightly wrapped around her waist, their heads tilted close, whispering as if no one else existed. Caption: “You jump, I jump.” My heart froze, but I still gave the post a like. No sooner had I tapped “like” than my phone buzzed. It was Heather. I stared at the flashing screen for what felt like an eternity before finally answering. “Feeling better today?” she asked, her voice casual. I opened my mouth, hesitating. There were so many things I wanted to ask, but I didn’t know where to start. Sensing my silence, Heather quickly added, “Don’t overthink it. That photo with Mr. Daniels was just for the company yacht promotion.” She paused briefly, and then continued, “Since you’re awake, why don’t you order some takeout? I’ve got work today and can’t come see you.” Her words stung like a knife. I reminded her softly, “Today’s the day I’m being discharged.” Heather went quiet for a long moment before sighing in exasperation. “Elliot, you should’ve told me sooner. I could’ve planned for it.” My grip tightened on the phone. “I told you three days ago.” I glanced at the discharge paper sitting on the nightstand. The nurse had personally handed it to her when she visited me. But she hadn’t even looked at it. She’d been glued to her phone then, her fingers typing furiously, her face lighting up with sweet smiles every now and then. The paper had ended up stuffed in a drawer, forgotten. I knew who she was texting—her boss. The distinctive notification chimes from her phone made it impossible not to notice. My response clearly annoyed her. “The hospital gives out so many papers. How was I supposed to know that one was your discharge notice?” “Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll come pick you up now, okay?” Before I could respond, she hung up. With my leg in a cast, I slowly packed my things with the help of a nurse. Hours ticked by as I waited for Heather on the hospital bench. Day turned to night, but she never showed up. Exhausted, I strapped my luggage onto my wheelchair and painstakingly made my way to the hospital entrance. By the time I reached the curb, my arms ached, and I was gasping for breath. When I finally got home, I opened the door to find Heather lounging on the couch, casually watching TV in her usual skimpy loungewear. Anger surged through me. “This is what you meant by coming to pick me up?”
Heather’s face turned cold. “I’ve been running around all day. I’m exhausted, okay? Couldn’t you have just stayed at the hospital for one more night?” “Besides,” she added, crossing her arms, “you made it back on your own, didn’t you?” I let out a bitter laugh. Did she think the hospital was some kind of hotel you could extend your stay at on a whim? This wasn’t the first time she’d bailed on me. Last month, she’d craved steamed crab, so I’d gone out of my way to visit a seafood market on the other side of town just to get her fresh ones. She promised to pick me up afterward, but I ended up waiting in the parking lot until ten at night. She never showed. I had no choice but to take a cab home. The moment I walked through the door, she burst in after me, crying and apologizing about some “difficult client” she had to deal with. I’d believed her then. Felt sorry for her even. But now, thinking back, I realized this pattern had long become routine. Frustrated, I raised my voice. “Heather, I let it slide every other time. But this was my discharge day! I’m in a wheelchair with a freaking cast!” Heather’s expression froze. Then, her tone softened as she hurried over to take my suitcase. “I’m sorry, okay? It won’t happen again. You must be starving. Let’s eat first.” She wheeled me over to the table. On it sat a takeout box of leftovers, the contents mixed together into an unappetizing mess. I suppressed a wave of nausea and tossed the chopsticks onto the table. That set Heather off. She jabbed a finger at the box. “Elliot, who do you think you are? This is food from The Blue Harbor Grill! Their signature dishes! If it weren’t for Mr. Daniels, do you think someone like you, with your measly salary, could even dream of eating their crab legs?” I stared at the soggy seafood casserole, littered with fish bones. My chest tightened. Sure, The Blue Harbor Grill was pricey, but I wasn’t so broke that I needed someone else’s leftovers. I wheeled myself to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Before I could take a sip, Heather snatched it from my hands. “Elliot, stop acting like a child! I already told you—I had work to do, which is why I couldn’t pick you up!” “Work?” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “So cuddling with Mr. Daniels on a yacht is work now?” Heather’s face flushed red with anger. “Cuddling? Are you serious? The company is investing in yacht tourism, and that was just a promotional photo shoot! Mr. Daniels was holding me to make sure I didn’t fall into the water!” She glared at me, her voice dripping with disdain. “You’re just jealous because you’re a nobody. Don’t blame others for your own failures!” Her words made me laugh bitterly. A nobody? Did she forget why I ended up in the hospital in the first place?
“Forget it,” Heather sighed, sounding exasperated. “I’m too tired to argue with you. Let me help you to bed.” I pushed her hand away, ignoring the frustration that flashed across her face. Without a word, I wheeled myself toward the stairs. At the base, I switched to my crutches and prepared to climb. Behind me, I heard a familiar ringtone—a custom one she’d set. “Zach? What’s up?””What? I’ll be right there!” Heather ended the call and rushed toward the stairs, brushing past me without a second glance. Her sudden shove sent my crutch off balance. Before I could steady myself, I tumbled down the stairs. “Zach’s not feeling well. He’s sneezing like crazy—probably caught a cold from all the wind on the water earlier. I’m taking him to the hospital!” Her voice trailed off as she hurried out the door, leaving me sprawled at the bottom of the staircase. The house fell silent, save for my ragged, pained breaths. The fresh wave of agony from my injuries was unbearable. Blood seeped through the gauze on my leg, staining the floor beneath me. I knew the wound had reopened. Pulling out my phone, I dialed for an ambulance. At the hospital, the nurse on duty looked at me with concern as she examined my injuries. “You need to be more careful. If you don’t take proper care of your leg, there’s a chance it might never fully recover. You could lose the ability to travel and take photos—your passion.” Her words hit a raw nerve. I bit my lip, feeling a bitter ache in my chest. As she replaced the blood-soaked bandages, the memory of the accident came rushing back. It had been a month ago, on a quiet evening. Heather and I had gone out for a walk after dinner, just like we always did. The road was wide and empty, newly paved and barely used. Out of nowhere, a car had lost control, barreling toward us like a missile. Instinctively, I had shoved Heather out of the way. But I hadn’t been quick enough to save myself. The car clipped me, and as I fell, my clothes got caught on the bumper. I was dragged across the asphalt for what felt like miles. The searing pain of my skin tearing against the road, the warmth of my blood pooling around me, the world going blurry until everything went dark—those sensations were still vivid, like it had happened yesterday.
After the check-up, I wheeled myself out of the exam room and spotted Zach Daniels sitting on a bench in the hallway. Heather was crouched in front of him, her face filled with worry. Her delicate hands held a water cup in one hand and pills in the other. Her ruby-red lips hovered over the steaming water, softly blowing on it to cool it down. Over and over, she blew gently, her every movement tender and intimate. I sat there, watching the scene unfold. It was picturesque, almost poetic—if only it didn’t tear at something deep inside me. Zach noticed me first. He smiled faintly and said to Heather, “Your husband really loves you. Even with a broken leg, he insisted on coming here to see you.” Heather snapped her head around at his words, catching sight of me. Annoyance flickered across her face. She stood abruptly and marched over, her expression sharp. “Elliot, are you following me? Even like this, you can’t keep your obsessive need for control in check, can you?” “You’ve been in the hospital for a whole month, and I’ve been there for you every day. What more do you want?” “I’m a person too. I have my own life. I can’t just sit around catering to you all the time!” I stared at her, momentarily stunned. I thought back to the days after the accident, when I’d first woken up. Heather had clung to me, sobbing, calling me her hero. During those weeks, she never left my side. She cooked meals for me—something she’d never done before—bringing homemade food to the hospital every day. Her care had been meticulous, unwavering. But as time passed, I started telling her to rest more, to stop overexerting herself for my sake. Apparently, my thoughtfulness had only given her license to drift further and further away. Heather continued her tirade, venting her frustrations with no regard for the people around us. I stared at her, my voice flat. “You’re mistaken. I’m not here to spy on you. I fell down the stairs and came back for a check-up.” Zach reached out, gently pulling Heather back. His voice was calm, soothing. “Let it go. He’s still recovering. Why don’t you both head home? I’ll be fine on my own.” Heather’s face softened as she turned back to him. “No way. The doctor said you need to take your medicine on time and rest properly tonight. I need to make sure you stick to that. Otherwise, you’ll just end up working until midnight again!” Zach hesitated, glancing at me. “But your husband—” Heather cut him off with a dismissive laugh. “He made it home by himself earlier, didn’t he? It’s not like he doesn’t know the way.” I chuckled darkly. “Yeah, you’re right. At some point, I’ll have to learn to navigate the road ahead on my own.” Heather looked at me, her brows furrowing. She reached out, as if to push my wheelchair. But I turned it myself, moving away from her touch. “Mr. Daniels clearly needs your care more than I do,” I said coldly. “After all, he’s got such a… serious cold.” I dragged out the last two words, letting the sarcasm hang in the air. Without waiting for their response, I wheeled myself away. I didn’t go home that night. Instead, I went to my photography studio and sat there until dawn. The quiet of the studio was comforting, a stark contrast to the chaos my life had become. As sunlight filtered through the windows, I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in a long time. “Professor Monroe, I’ve made my decision. I’ll take the position with National Geographic in Lathria.”
“That’s fantastic news!” Professor Monroe’s voice practically leapt through the phone. “I always said you were wasting your talent in that little studio. The editor-in-chief at National Geographic over in Marindale has been raving about your work ever since he saw your photos.” “You’ve made the right decision, Elliot. Just sit tight—I’ll get the paperwork started right away!” Photography had been my passion for as long as I could remember. Growing up, I’d spend hours wandering through parks, camera in hand, capturing every fleeting moment nature had to offer. One summer during high school, I was at the park taking pictures when Professor Monroe happened to walk by. He stood behind me, offering pointers on framing and lighting. That brief encounter marked the beginning of my connection with him. When I got into college, he became my mentor and repeatedly encouraged me to study abroad. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. My friends and family were all here in Arborville, and the thought of starting over in a foreign country, surrounded by strangers, felt unbearably lonely. At the time, I said no. And then I met Heather. She was elegant, soft-spoken, and carried a quiet warmth that drew me in instantly. Falling for her was effortless, and before I knew it, we were inseparable. Once we started dating, the idea of leaving became impossible. I wanted to stay close to her, so I rented a small photography studio downtown and began taking freelance portrait gigs. Professor Monroe was frustrated, to say the least. He called me stubborn, said I was wasting my potential. But in the end, he couldn’t change my mind. That was five years ago. Even though I didn’t go abroad, I never stopped honing my craft. I built up an online presence, growing a modest following on social media. Heather, however, never supported my work. She’d suggest—no, insist—that I give up photography and find a “real” job. We fought about it constantly. Still, I refused to give in. Photography was the one thing I wouldn’t compromise on. Looking back now, I’m so grateful I didn’t listen to her. If I had, I wouldn’t be in a position to take this next step in my career. Lost in thought, I picked up my phone and opened my social media app. I was about to click away from the “people you may know” section when a profile picture caught my eye.
The profile picture showed a man and a woman standing on a beach, their backs to the camera. A strange feeling gripped my chest as I clicked on the account. The most recent post was a photo of a woman’s back. She was holding a bottle of medicine in one hand, while her other hand was extended behind her, as if she was leading someone forward. The caption read: “Even when you’re sick, having someone by your side makes you feel strong again.” I scrolled down further. “Some people are so easily satisfied. Take them out for a little fun, and they’re over the moon.” My breathing grew shallow. I couldn’t explain what I was feeling—anger? Sadness? Betrayal? I kept scrolling. There was a photo of a beachfront villa. In front of it, the man and woman were locked in an embrace. Her hair, usually long and smooth, was tied up in a messy bun. The account belonged to Zach Daniels. And the woman in the photo? Heather. I couldn’t stop the trembling that overtook my body. My hands shook as I scrolled further, consuming every post like I was punishing myself. Underneath each one, there was a comment from the same account: Heather’s. She told me she didn’t use social media. She said it was pointless, a waste of time. I believed her. I never even mentioned my own account to her because I thought she wasn’t interested. But now, as I clicked on her profile, a side of her I’d never seen unfolded before me. “Does this outfit work? Think the aloof boss will like it?” The photo showed a black, furry costume with cat ears. I gripped my phone tightly, trying to steady my breathing, but a coldness spread through my chest that I couldn’t shake. I wasn’t blind. I’d noticed Heather’s growing indifference toward me. Once, early in our relationship, I’d tried to surprise her with a silly joke—a playful suggestion about roleplaying. Her reaction had been scathing. “Elliot,” she had said, disgust lining every word, “what kind of person do you think I am? Can you be serious for once? You’re making me sick.” Her words had cut deep, and I’d never brought it up again. I thought she hated those kinds of things, so I did everything I could to respect her wishes. But now I realized it wasn’t the idea that had revolted her. It was me. I numbly switched between their profiles, piecing together their timeline. Post after post, photo after photo, I traced their relationship back to its beginning. Eventually, my phone died in my hands. I looked up, startled to find that night had fallen. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights outside the window.
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