Thoughts Of Pain
Two people.
Two women I cared about—both in hospitals.
One slipping through my fingers.
The other barely holding on.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to run into the night and never come back.
But I didn’t.
I went to the car, started the engine, and drove like hell.
When I got there, they told me she was unconscious.
The doctor said the heart attack had been severe and she might never wake up again.
I sat beside her bed, and for the first time in over a decade, I held her hand.
She was pale.
Breathing slow.
And I realized how fragile life really was.
How easily everything could fall apart within the blink of an eye.
I went home that night.
The first time in days.
The silence in the house nearly killed me.
Remi’s scarf was on the couch.
The twins’ toys were scattered across the living room.
I stepped into the kitchen and stared at the spot where she used to make her late-night tea.
Where she used to sit and laugh about my bad coffee skills.
And I cracked.
I sank to the floor, hands trembling.
And I wept.
For her.
For my grandmother.
For all the things I never said.
I loved her.
God, I loved her.
But I never told her right.
Never showed her enough.
And now…
Now she might wake up and forget everything we built.
She might forget that we fought and made up and chose each other again and again.
She might forget that I changed. That I was changing.
For her.
I curled my hands into fists, pressing them against my forehead.
It was my fault.
All of it.
I let her go once.
Treated her like a pawn.
Then dragged her back in when I thought I could fix it.
And now she might never come back to me.
I was slipping.
I felt it—darkness curling around the edges of my mind.
And this time, I wasn’t sure if I could pull
myself out of it.
Not if I had to face this world without her.
Not again.
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