The room felt smaller, closing in around us as I digested her words. “Complicated how?” I pressed, needing to know more, to understand what had brought us to this moment.
She sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly as if the weight of her answer was too much to bear. “We were… involved,” she admitted, her voice trembling just a fraction. “But I didn’t know he was married. Not until recently.”
Her confession hung in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the hospital room. I felt a surge of emotions—anger, betrayal, sorrow—warring within me, each demanding to be heard.
But instead of lashing out, I took a deep breath, trying to maintain a semblance of composure. “Did he know about… this?” I gestured vaguely to the medical equipment, the IV line snaking across her arm.
She shook her head, her eyes filled with regret. “No, he doesn’t know. I haven’t been able to reach him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her words struck a chord, echoing the unanswered calls and messages I’d left for Thomas over the past few days. It was as if he’d vanished, leaving behind only fragments of his life and the chaos he had wrought.
I glanced at the chart once more, noting the details scrawled in neat handwriting. Her name, the diagnosis, the expected recovery time. Pieces of a puzzle that I was only beginning to understand.
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