The lecture hall buzzed with energy as I stepped to the podium. Chalk in hand, I began scribbling on the blackboard, my voice steady, weaving through theories and ideas.
"Education isn't just about knowledge," I told my students, "it's about transformation. It's about shaping minds to see possibility where the world shows limits."
As I spoke, a part of me wasn't here. It was at home, where Dennis sat by the window in his wheelchair, fighting battles the students couldn't imagine.
The class clapped as I closed, but inside me, a guilt gnawed. Every hour I spent here, I wasn't with him. Every time I smiled for my students, I wondered if he was struggling without me.
During break, Roy approached, carrying a stack of papers. "Great lecture, Ann. The students really connect with you."
"Thank you," I replied, forcing a smile.
He noticed my distracted expression. "He's on your mind again, isn't he?"
I nodded. "Always."
Roy's eyes softened. "You're doing more than most could handle. Don't be so hard on yourself."
But my heart remained heavy. I wasn't sure if I was doing enough— for Dennis, for myself, for this fragile world we were building.
The house felt too quiet without her.
Jacob tried to fill the silence, cracking jokes, bringing tea, setting up the TV. But it wasn't the same.
I rolled to the window, staring out at the children playing in the street. Their laughter stung me. Once, I was like them— free, careless, full of life. Now I was tethered to this chair, waiting for hours until Ann came home.
When she finally walked through the door, books and papers in her arms, her smile tired but warm, my chest ached.
"You're back," I muttered, trying not to sound desperate.
"Of course," she said softly, setting her things aside and kneeling beside me. "How was therapy today?"
"Pointless," I snapped before I could stop myself. "Without you there, it's just… empty."
Her eyes flickered with hurt, and guilt slammed into me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, running a shaky hand over my face. "I just… I hate that you have to do everything, Ann. Work, teach, take care of me. It's not fair."
She reached up, brushing my cheek. "Fair or not, Dennis, this is what love looks like. And I'm not going anywhere."
Her words soothed me, but deep down, I wondered— how long could she keep balancing these worlds without breaking?
Dinner was quiet that night. He ate slowly, his hand trembling as he tried to hold the spoon. I reached to steady it, but he shook his head stubbornly.
"I can do it," he muttered.
I let him try, even when half the food spilled. His pride mattered more than a clean table.
Later, as I graded essays, he wheeled over, eyes dark.
"Ann," he said quietly, "what if… what if I never recover enough? What if you spend your whole life tied to me?"
I looked up, meeting his gaze. "Then I'll still be the luckiest person alive, because I'll be with you."
His lips trembled, torn between gratitude and despair. "But you deserve more. You deserve freedom."
I shook my head fiercely. "I don't want freedom without you. Don't you understand? My world is with you."
Her words should have healed me, but they only deepened the ache.
At night, when she finally fell asleep beside me, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. I thought of her standing in lecture halls, commanding students' respect, shaping young minds. She belonged to that world— a world of brilliance and possibility.
And me? I was an anchor, dragging her back into the mud.
I clenched my fist. Tomorrow, I told myself, I'll try harder. I'll walk farther. I'll give her reason to believe this isn't the end.
Because if she could balance two worlds for me, the least I could do was fight to meet her halfway.
The next morning, as I tied my dupatta before leaving for college, Dennis caught my wrist. His eyes were fierce, determined in a way I hadn't seen in weeks.
"Ann," he said, his voice trembling but firm, "don't ever stop living your dreams for me. Teach. Shine. Be who you're meant to be. And I'll… I'll keep fighting, so one day I can stand beside you again."
Tears blurred my vision. I leaned down, kissing his forehead.
"You already stand beside me, Dennis. Always."
And as I left for class, the weight in my chest felt a little lighter, as though love itself was strong enough to balance our two fragile worlds.