The first week of lectures had flown by in a blur of notes, chalk dust, and bright-eyed students. Every morning, I dressed carefully, tying my hair neatly, slipping into professional attire that made me feel capable, strong, unstoppable.
It was hard leaving Dennis for even a few hours. Each step away from his apartment felt like a battle. And yet, I pushed myself forward, because he had asked me to— asked me to live, not merely exist beside him.
One afternoon, after finishing a lecture on English literature, I packed my notes and laptop into my bag.
"Professor Matthews?" a voice called behind me.
I turned and saw Roy, a tall, confident man in his early thirties, holding a folder. He worked in the same department, and I had only exchanged formal greetings before.
"Yes?" I asked politely.
"I just wanted to say your lecture was… inspiring. The students seem really engaged. You have a gift."
I smiled politely. "Thank you, Roy. That's kind of you to say."
He hesitated for a moment, then added, "I hope I'm not being forward, but… would you like to have coffee sometime? I'd like to discuss ideas for the curriculum with you— maybe outside the office."
I blinked, slightly surprised. "Um… sure, Roy. That sounds… fine."
Meanwhile, Dennis struggled in the therapy hall. His frustration was boiling over. Weeks of effort had led to minimal progress. His left leg moved a little, but his right arm refused any command.
The physiotherapist encouraged him gently, "Dennis, remember, your body needs time. Don't give up."
"Time?" I snapped, slamming my hand on the parallel bars. "Time is what she doesn't have to wait for me. She has her life. She's living her life while I'm… stuck in this prison of limbs that won't obey me!"
The tears burned in my eyes. My chest ached, my body screamed at me for giving up. But I couldn't. I couldn't stop thinking about her, out there in the world, without me, free, shining— and maybe… someone noticing her in ways I could no longer.
That afternoon, I met Roy at the quiet café near campus. The hum of conversation and the aroma of coffee felt oddly comforting.
"I wanted to discuss ideas for the literature curriculum," Roy began, but his gaze lingered on me longer than necessary.
I smiled, keeping it professional. "Of course. Let's start with the syllabus for the upcoming semester."
As we spoke, I realized how natural it felt to discuss ideas with him. He listened attentively, respected my suggestions, and added thoughtful insights.
"Ann," he said finally, leaning back in his chair, "I hope I'm not overstepping, but… I find your dedication inspiring. You bring passion not only to your students but… to everyone around you. I admire that."
I nodded politely, my mind briefly flashing to Dennis. He's proud of me. I can't let anything shake that.
Roy smiled warmly. "Maybe we could collaborate on a workshop or a seminar? I think our combined perspectives could really inspire the students."
"I'd like that," I replied, trying to focus on the professional aspect, but I couldn't deny a small flutter of excitement at the possibility of collaboration.
When I saw her that evening, coming in with her bag and her confident, professional aura, I felt pride— and fear.
"You look… beautiful," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
She smiled softly. "Thank you, Dennis. You'll like my first lecture notes— they're full of your favorite passages."
I laughed lightly, but it was hollow. "Good. I like them… but don't forget who's holding the house down while you're out there teaching your students."
She knelt beside me, pressing her hands to mine. "Dennis, I promised I'd balance both. You're my life— I won't let anyone or anything come between that."
"You okay?" I asked gently.
"I'm fine," he muttered, avoiding my eyes.
I knelt beside him. "Dennis… I can feel it. Talk to me."
"I'm angry. Frustrated. Every day I try, and nothing changes. And you… you're out there, living, while I'm stuck here," he whispered, tears threatening.
I held his hand firmly. "Dennis… progress isn't measured in leaps. It's small steps. You're fighting. That's what matters."
He shook his head. "It's not enough… I feel like a burden."
"You're not. You're my life," I said softly. "We'll face this together, one day at a time."
I stared at the ceiling. She was out there, independent, strong, brave… and I was lying here, half my body refusing to obey.
The fear gnawed at me: what if she struggles because of me? What if she's weighed down by my paralysis?
I gripped the bedsheet. "I have to push harder. I can't fail her."
She kissed him on the forehead before leaving. "I'll be back soon. Don't overdo therapy," she whispered.
I watched her walk to the taxi, her posture straight, confident. I smiled faintly. She was living her life, just like I asked.
But I wondered how long he would stay frustrated, how long before the weight of helplessness crushed him further.
Dennis's grip on the bedsheet loosened slightly, a small spark of determination flickering. I would start working harder in rehab. I would push through the pain— for Ann, for us.
And Ann… she was finding her strength, quietly, without him even noticing. The balance of their love and life was being tested— not by others, but by circumstance itself.