I woke up slowly not gently, not peacefully. Every inch of me throbbed. My body felt like it had been run over by the very fate I kept cursing.
The light overhead buzzed faintly. The beeping of machines. A dull,clinical smell.
And pain.
My throat burned like fire dry, cracked. My head pounded. My ankle...I couldn't even move it without wincing.
I shifted a little and let out a quiet gasp. My entire side was sore I must've landed on it when I collapsed. Collapsed in the middle of the goddamn road. Like some forgotten creature that had reached her limit.
I blinked.
He was there.
Sitting on the side of the bed.
Elbows on his knees. Head bowed. Hands locked tightly like he was praying or pleading with something that might still love him.
Pathetic.
I didn't say a word.
I didn't even look at him properly.
My gaze stayed forward half-lidded and blank. Not because I didn't have anything to say.
But because he no longer deserved to hear my voice.
He noticed I was awake. The rustle of movement. His head lifted quickly.A sharp inhale. I didn't meet his eyes.
"Hey…" His voice was hoarse.Cautious. Almost tender.
I said nothing.
"You're awake…" he added, quieter.
Still silence.
I felt his eyes on me, scanning every bruise, every needle in my arm, every wince in my jaw.
"You scared the hell out of me," he whispered. "You collapsed… your ankle's broken. You've been out for almost eight hours."
I turned my head slightly not toward him. Away. Toward the blank wall.
Another stab of pain in my neck from the motion. I ignored it.
"I didn't know you drank. You never…" He stopped,as if realizing how stupid he sounded.
Of course I didn't drink. But I did last night. Because of him.
"You weren't even standing properly when I found you. You didn't listen. You just stormed off into the storm like the world wasn't trying to kill you."
Still nothing.
My chest rose and fell with tight, quiet breaths.
He reached out idiot his fingers brushing my wrist.
I flinched.
Barely. But he noticed.
He pulled back like he'd touched fire.
"I know you're angry," he said finally. "You hate me. You should. I deserve that."
Oh? So he knows?
I still didn't speak. Not even a sound.
"My men couldn't even stop you at the club," he said, trying to laugh softly. "And your friend looked like she wanted to kill me."
I could've.
I should've.
"I didn't mean to hurt you the way I did. I just… I thought I was protecting you."
I turned my face further away as far as my stiff neck allowed.
"I made so many mistakes," he continued. "And I kept expecting you to forgive me. Kept thinking you'd just… understand. Like always."
My nails dug slightly into the sheets.
"But last night… seeing you like that. Drunk. Screaming. Crying. Collapsing in the rain"
He broke off. I could hear him swallowing hard.
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Tears pricked at my eyes.
Not from his apology. But because even after all that— part of me still wanted to break and sob in his arms like a fool.
But I didn't.
I stayed quiet.
He waited.
And waited.
But I didn't give him anything.
Because I was hurt. Not just physically. Not just my ankle. Not just my aching body.
But my heart.
My mind.
My soul.
He stole my trust and broke it. He handed me something pure, only to stain it. He lit a fire in me just to watch it burn out.
So no.
He doesn't get my voice.
Not now. Not after what he did. Not after how he made me feel so disposable.
And as the silence stretched between us, I hoped it ate at him the way the pain ate at me.
Let him drown in it.
The walls were white, too white. Too quiet.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, biting the inside of my cheek. My throat still burned,my body sore and heavy like I'd been hit by a truck.
I didn't remember what I said.
The club. The alcohol. The music pounding like war drums in my skull.
Did I scream? Did I cry?
Did I tell her about the marriage?
God.
The thought made my stomach churn.
What else did I say?
I gripped the bedsheet tight, trying to remember… but my head felt foggy, like memories were floating just out of reach. Like someone had cut my night into sharp little pieces and scattered them in water.
Then...
A knock.
Soft. Almost hesitant.
The nurse stepped in with a clipboard in hand.
"Good morning, sweetheart," she said with a kind smile. "You're awake. That's good."
I gave her a barely-there nod. I didn't have the energy to fake a smile.
She walked in and checked the IV drip. Then hesitated.
"I have some information the doctor asked me to share with you," she said gently. "Would you be okay if we talk for a moment?"
I blinked, slowly shifting my eyes to her face.
"About what…?" My voice came out hoarse. Barely audible.
She pulled the chair beside me, calm and composed like she'd done this a thousand times. But her eyes told me this wasn't just routine.
"It's about your behavior… your mood changes, emotional shifts, reactions to stress," she said carefully. "Do you remember anything unusual over the past few months?"
I blinked at her. "I don't know. Everything about me is unusual lately."
She nodded. "Your husband Mr. Kim mentioned that sometimes you… get extremely sensitive. Emotional. You lash out, then go quiet. You're affectionate, then distant. You break down and then act like nothing happened the next day. Do you remember any of this?"
I felt my throat tighten.
"Why are you saying this…?" I whispered.
The nurse gave a small sigh and reached for the clipboard. "You were brought in unconscious, but during initial evaluation, the doctor noticed something. Your neural response under stress. Your body's reaction to trauma."
Then she looked me straight in the eyes.
"You might be experiencing a mood disorder," she said softly. "Most likely Cyclothymia. It's a form of bipolar spectrum your emotions can shift rapidly and unpredictably. Not extreme highs and lows like full bipolar disorder, but… noticeable enough to impact your life, relationships, identity."
My fingers gripped the bedsheet tighter.
"You're saying I'm… mentally ill?"
She shook her head. "I'm saying you're unwell, but not broken. And certainly not alone. It explains why you've felt like you're spinning out of control why sometimes you don't feel like yourself."
I swallowed hard. My lips trembled.
"So… it wasn't all my fault?"
The tears came before I could stop them.
She squeezed my hand gently. "No, it's not your fault."
The nurse squeezed my hand once more, her voice gentle.
"You don't have to carry the shame. This isn't weakness it's a condition, and it can be managed. You're not alone in this, alright?"
I nodded faintly, my throat still burning. A sob clawed its way up my chest, but I swallowed it down.
I hated crying in front of people.
I hated being pitied.
But then...