The morning sun was unforgiving, spilling through the thin curtains of my room and reminding me of a truth I had been carrying like a second skin: I hadn't really slept in weeks. My body knew the rhythm of exhaustion too well now— wake, walk, fight, wait, hope, collapse, repeat. My eyes stung from the strain of long nights at Dennis's bedside and long days in lecture halls where my voice carried lessons that sometimes felt far away from the hollow beating of my heart.
I tied my hair in a loose braid, my hands trembling not from nerves but from fatigue. The smell of ink clung to my fingers; I had graded assignments at midnight between Dennis's bouts of restless sleep. My students looked at me with bright eyes, unknowing of the heaviness I carried. They only saw their professor, not the fiancée who was slowly watching her world unravel in the sterile white walls of a hospital.
Today was another day of rehab. Another day of hope and despair mingling like oil and water. Dennis had been transferred from the ICU weeks ago, and though his voice had returned in halting, fragile tones, his body refused to follow the will of his spirit. The stroke had chained one half of him in silence, leaving his right side limp, unresponsive.
And yet… he was alive. And because of that, I breathed.
I reached the hospital early, as always. The corridors greeted me with their familiar sterility— the faint scent of disinfectant, the soft squeak of nurses' shoes on polished floors. I whispered a prayer as I always did before walking toward his ward: Give him strength today. And if not him, give it to me.
But before I entered, I noticed someone waiting by the gate.
It was Roy.
For a moment, my tired mind struggled to process the sight of him outside the rehab center, leaning casually against the wall, but his expression betrayed something deeper— hesitation, perhaps guilt, perhaps courage dressed in nervousness.
"Ann," he greeted softly, straightening as I approached. His eyes were gentle, but I caught the undercurrent of concern in them. "I hope I'm not intruding."
I adjusted the dupatta over my shoulder, unsure what to say. "Roy? What are you doing here?"
He offered a half-smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I… I know this isn't my place. But I wanted to be here. Not to interfere, Ann. Just to… stand beside you. Even if it's at a distance."
My chest tightened. His words stirred a mixture of gratitude and unease. After all, he had once confessed feelings that had shaken me, feelings I had firmly turned away with Dennis's name on my lips. Yet here he was, not vanishing into pride, but showing up again— not as a suitor, but as something else entirely.
"Roy," I began cautiously, "this is not easy. For him. For me. I don't want you to feel…"
"Don't worry," he interrupted gently, lifting his hand. "I'm not here to… complicate anything. I know where your heart lies. I just… I couldn't stay away knowing you've been carrying so much. If I can take even an ounce of weight off your shoulders— then let me. As a colleague. As a friend."
The sincerity in his tone disarmed me. I lowered my eyes, my throat tightening. A friend. The word felt like a balm on a wound I didn't know was bleeding.
I nodded slowly. "Alright. But don't expect Dennis to… welcome you easily. He doesn't like feeling watched."
Roy smiled faintly. "Then I'll be invisible. Just— let me try."
Together, we entered the rehab wing.
Dennis sat in his wheelchair by the wide windows, sunlight brushing across his pale skin. His hair had grown unruly, his once strong frame now thinner, frailer. Yet his eyes— those storm-grey eyes— still carried the fire I had fallen in love with, though dimmed by frustration.
He glanced up when I entered, his lips curling into the faintest smile. "You're… here." His voice cracked, soft, but enough to stir the ache in my heart.
"Always," I whispered, kneeling beside him, touching his hand— the hand that still answered me, still clutched back when I held it.
But then his gaze shifted. He noticed Roy.
"You brought Roy here?" His voice was low, rough, edged with suspicion.
I swallowed. "He just wanted to watch… to encourage. Nothing more."
Dennis's eyes narrowed, and for a moment I feared his temper would flare. But he only looked away, muttering, "Unnecessary."
Roy bowed his head slightly, his tone respectful. "I know I'm not needed. But I admire your strength, Dennis. And Ann's. I thought… maybe I could lend mine, even if only by standing in the corner."
Dennis didn't reply, his lips pressed into a thin line.
The therapist entered, breaking the silence. "Good morning, Mr. Mathews. Today we'll continue with assisted standing exercises."
Dennis's jaw tightened. I had seen this scene so many times— the attempt, the hope, the failure. And each time it broke him a little more.
Two nurses helped him onto the parallel bars. His left hand gripped tightly, his body trembling as he tried to coax life into his right leg. Sweat dotted his forehead within minutes, his breath ragged.
"Come on, Dennis. Just one step," the therapist urged.
His muscles strained, his face twisted in effort, but his right foot refused to lift. His body sagged against the bar, defeated.
"Damn it!" His voice cracked like glass. "I can't—"
"Don't say that," I whispered, rushing to his side, holding his trembling hand. "You're trying. That's enough."
He shook his head violently, tears of rage in his eyes. "No! Enough is when I can walk you down the aisle. Enough is when I can hold you with both hands. Enough is when I'm not… this!"
My own tears burned, but I forced strength into my voice. "You're still Dennis. My Dennis. Don't you dare reduce yourself to what your body can't do."
For a long moment, the room held only his ragged breaths.
And then, quietly, from the corner, Roy spoke.
"Dennis," he said firmly, his voice carrying unexpected weight. "I know I'm a stranger to your pain. But I'll tell you this: Ann deserves your fight more than your surrender. You think you're sparing her by giving up? You're wrong. You'd be breaking her."
Dennis turned sharply, glaring at him, but Roy didn't flinch.
"You think you're less of a man because you can't walk her to the altar?" Roy continued, his voice unwavering. "I think you're more of one because she still chooses you every morning she wakes up. Don't dishonor her love by making it smaller than your pride."
Silence fell.
My breath caught in my throat. The words struck like arrows, painful yet true. Dennis's lips trembled, but he said nothing. His head bowed, shadows hiding his eyes.
I slipped my arm around his waist, whispering against his ear. "Listen to him. Listen to me. You don't have to carry this alone."
He exhaled shakily, leaning into me, broken but breathing.
Roy stepped back, his face unreadable, but his eyes softened when they met mine. No desire, no rivalry— only respect.
And in that moment, I realized something profound: love does not always wear the face of possession. Sometimes, it is the quiet hand that steadies from the background.
That night, after Dennis had fallen into restless sleep, I sat by his bedside, my fingers entwined with his good hand.
My voice was a whisper, a prayer meant only for him: "Even if the world needs three people to hold us up, I'll still call us unbreakable."
And though he did not stir, I thought I saw the faintest smile on his lips.