The classroom smelled of chalk and paper, the soft hum of murmuring students filling the air. My hands trembled slightly as I adjusted the stack of notes on the podium. This was it —my first day as Professor Ann Matthews.
The students looked up at me with curiosity, eyes bright, notebooks open. I cleared my throat and began.
"In literature, every story begins not with perfection, but with conflict. It is the struggle that defines the characters, not their ease."
As the words left my lips, I thought of Dennis. His struggle. His fight. My heart ached even as I smiled at the students. I wanted to run to him, tell him about this moment, about how I felt his strength inside me even as I spoke.
But deep down, I also wondered if he was alright. Was he eating? Was he pushing too hard in therapy? Or was he lying there, drowning in silence?
The therapy hall stank of antiseptic and sweat. Parallel bars gleamed under the harsh lights, mocking me.
"Come on, Dennis. One more try," the physiotherapist urged, holding my torso as I attempted to drag my useless leg forward.
It didn't move. Not even a twitch. My arm shook, my head spun, my body screamed betrayal.
"Again!"
I growled, forcing all my energy into the motion. Nothing. My knee buckled, and I collapsed onto the chair with a strangled cry.
Useless. Broken. Trapped.
I slammed my fist against the armrest, ignoring the pain. "What's the point?!" I roared. "I've been trying for weeks! Nothing works!"
The therapist sighed, crouching in front of me. "Recovery isn't linear, Dennis. Some days will be worse. But if you give up—"
"Don't lecture me!" I snapped, my voice trembling. "You're not the one who has to look at his fiancée every night and wonder if she regrets everything!"
When I entered his room that evening, my heart sank. His jaw was tight, his eyes bloodshot, his body radiating fury.
"Dennis?" I whispered gently.
He didn't look at me. He stared at the ceiling, fists clenched.
I set down the food I'd brought. "I… I wanted to tell you about my first class. It went well. The students—"
"Ann." His voice cut sharp, almost cruel. "Don't."
I froze. "Don't… what?"
"Don't come here with your stories of classrooms and bright-eyed kids. Don't tell me how alive you felt. Do you know how I felt today? Like a corpse they keep forcing to walk."
Tears stung my eyes. "Dennis… you're trying. That's enough."
"It's not enough!" he shouted, turning toward me, his face twisted with pain. "I can't move, Ann! I can't walk, I can't even twitch my leg! What kind of life is this? What kind of husband would I be to you like this?"
Her tears fell, but she didn't back away. She never backed away.
"Dennis," she whispered, her voice trembling but firm, "I didn't fall in love with your legs. I didn't fall in love with your strength. I fell in love with you. The man who listens to my silly stories, who believes in my dreams, who makes me laugh when the world feels heavy."
Her words cut through me, but they didn't erase the rage boiling in my chest.
"And what about my dream, Ann?" I spat bitterly. "My dream was to stand beside you on our wedding day. To hold you, to dance with you, to build a life where you didn't have to play nurse. That dream is dead. Don't you see?"
She shook her head violently, clutching my hand. "It's not dead. It's only changed. And I'll fight with you, every step, until you see that too."
I wanted to shake him, to scream, to pour all my strength into him. But instead, I leaned closer, my voice soft but fierce.
"You think you're failing me? No, Dennis. You're failing yourself by believing that struggle makes you less. You are not less. You are not useless. You are mine. And that is enough."
He looked away, tears burning his eyes.
"Ann… I'm so scared."
Finally, the truth spilled. The anger cracked, revealing the raw wound beneath.
I pressed my forehead to his. "Then let me be your courage. That's what love is, Dennis. Not perfection. Not easy roads. Just this— standing together when everything else falls apart."
That night, as he finally drifted into sleep, his grip on my hand did not loosen.
And though the road ahead was still jagged and uncertain, I knew this: his hope was broken, but not gone. And I would spend every day teaching him— not as a professor to her students, but as a woman to her beloved— that brokenness could still shine.