PART 2 — The Man in Bed 213
When I opened my eyes, the world came back in pieces.
First, the sound.
A steady beep. A soft hiss. Shoes whispering across polished floors. Somewhere far away, someone laughed, and the laugh felt offensive because I was not sure I was alive yet.crsaid
Then came the pain.
It bloomed under my ribs, dull and deep, like someone had planted a stone inside me and stitched my skin closed around it. I tried to move, but my body refused. My eyelids fluttered. The ceiling above me was white, blurred at the edges, haloed by fluorescent light.
“Jessica?”
A woman’s voice. Gentle. Professional.
I forced my eyes to focus.
Nurse Clara stood beside me, the same nurse who had checked my bracelet before surgery. Her gray hair was pinned tight, but one curl had escaped near her temple. Her eyes were wet.
That frightened me more than the pain.
“Am I…” My throat felt like sandpaper. “Am I dead?”
Her mouth trembled into a smile.
“No, sweetheart. You’re very much alive.”
Alive.
The word cracked something open in me.
I inhaled sharply, and the pain punished me for it. Clara lifted a straw to my lips.
“Small sip.”
The water tasted like mercy.
I swallowed and tried again. “Did they get it?”
She glanced toward the door.
“The surgeon will explain everything, but yes. The procedure went better than expected.”
I closed my eyes.
Better than expected.
Not perfect. Not miraculous. But enough.
Enough to keep breathing.
Enough to remember.
Evan.
His text came back like a blade sliding between my ribs.
We’re getting a divorce, Jessica. I don’t need the burden of a sick wife.
The pain in my body suddenly seemed honest. The pain from Evan was dirty. Cowardly. It had no right to exist inside a hospital room where people fought so hard to stay alive.
Then another memory surfaced.
Mark.
The chair by my bed.
His calm voice.
The trash in your life has finally taken itself out.
My insane joke.
If I survive this, maybe we should just get married and call it a day.
His answer.
Okay.
My eyes opened.
“Mark,” I whispered.
Clara blinked. “What?”
“The man in the next bed. Mark Grant. Is he okay?”
Something changed in her face.
It happened so quickly I almost missed it. Surprise first. Then disbelief. Then something dangerously close to panic.
“You remember him?”
“Of course I remember him.” My voice was faint, but irritation gave it strength. “He was kind to me when my husband decided to become a villain at three in the morning.”
Clara pressed her lips together.
“Jessica…”
“Where is he?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation made my heart stumble.
“Is he dead?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No. He’s alive.”
“Then where is he?”
Before Clara could answer, the door opened.
A doctor stepped in, tall and silver-haired, wearing the expression of a man who had delivered both good news and bad news so often that his face had learned how to reveal neither too early.
