The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and the earthy musk of the flowers Ann had insisted on keeping by the window. I hated both— the reminder of sickness, and the reminder of a world that was still alive while I felt half-dead.
Every morning, Ann tried to coax me through rehab exercises. And every morning, I failed.
My right arm refused to lift beyond my chest. My leg— my once-reliable, steady leg— dragged like it belonged to someone else. I was trapped in a body I didn't recognize.
"Dennis," Ann's voice was soft but insistent, "just try again. Even if it's small."
I clenched my jaw. "Small? Ann, this is pathetic. I was supposed to walk you into a wedding hall. Now I can't even hold a glass without spilling it."
Her eyes darkened, but she didn't snap back. That somehow made it worse.
"Don't look at me like that," I muttered.
"Like what?" she asked.
"Like I'm fragile glass you can't drop."
She set the water glass down on the table beside me and crossed her arms. "Then stop pretending you're already broken."
Her words cut sharp. My pride smarted. I looked away, hating the hot sting at the back of my eyes.
Ann sighed and knelt in front of me. Her hand slipped into mine, the strong one, the left. "I'm not going to let you drown in this, Dennis. Even if I have to drag you through every exercise myself."
I laughed bitterly. "Maybe you should just let me sink. You'd be free then."
Her grip tightened. "Stop saying that."
Sometimes I wondered how many times I'd have to pull him back from that edge before he stopped trying to jump.
I saw the way guilt gnawed at him— the shadow in his eyes when my parents visited with food, or when Jacob joked about "old times," or when Roy dropped by to deliver college notes and left with a quick pat on Dennis's shoulder.
Dennis thought he was failing me. What he couldn't see was that I drew strength from him, even in his weakness.
That night, as I cooked a simple dal in our tiny kitchen, his voice came from the living room.
"Ann?"
"Yes?"
"Why are you still here?"
The spoon froze in my hand. I turned slowly. "What?"
He sat slouched on the couch, face half in shadow. "You could be anywhere. Living a normal life. With a man who can walk beside you, not limp behind you. With someone who doesn't depend on you for everything."
Anger flared in me, but so did sorrow. I walked to him, kneeling until my eyes met his.
"Do you think love is a bargain?" I asked.
He blinked, confused.
"You think I chose you because you were strong? Because you could hold doors open or dance at weddings? No, Dennis. I chose you because you see me. Because you make me laugh when I'm about to cry. Because when you look at me, I feel like I matter."
He swallowed hard. "But now… I can't give you—"
"You give me you," I cut in, pressing my palm to his chest. "Breathing, stubborn, frustrating you. That's enough."
His eyes glistened. He looked away quickly.
I leaned closer, whispering, "Don't push me away just because you hate yourself. I'm not leaving."
Her words should have comforted me, but instead they tangled inside my chest.
What if she regretted this later? What if her love now turned into resentment in a year, or five, when she realized how much she'd given up?
Jacob visited that weekend, plopping himself into the armchair like he owned the place.
"You look like hell, cousin," he said cheerfully.
"Thanks for the encouragement," I muttered.
Jacob grinned, then grew serious. "Look, I know you hate this. But you're still Dennis. You're still the guy who dragged me out of trouble a hundred times. Paralysis doesn't erase that."
"Tell that to Ann," I said bitterly. "She deserves someone who can actually stand beside her."
Jacob leaned forward. "She chose you, idiot. Do you think she's blind? She knows what she's doing."
I rubbed my temples. "I just don't want to ruin her life."
Before Jacob could reply, the doorbell rang. Ann let Roy in.
Roy greeted me with a warm nod, nothing pitying. He carried a stack of books. "Ann asked me to drop these off. But I wanted to see how you were doing."
I braced myself for awkwardness, but instead, Roy settled into conversation easily. He spoke of Ann's lectures, her passion in the classroom, how she quoted my words to inspire students.
"You don't realize," Roy said, "how much she draws from you. You think you're a burden, but I see her at work. She shines because she has something solid to hold onto— you."
I was stunned into silence.
Ann smiled faintly, eyes darting to me. She hadn't told me she talked about me like that.
Roy stood to leave, patting my shoulder lightly. "Don't measure your worth by what you can't do, Dennis. Measure it by how much you're loved."
The words echoed long after the door shut.
I saw the way Dennis's shoulders slumped after Roy left— not in defeat this time, but in something softer. Maybe surrender.
That night, as we sat quietly with the lamp casting a golden pool of light, he turned to me.
"Ann," he said slowly, "why do you keep choosing me?"
I smiled through my tiredness. "Because every time you ask me that, I fall in love with you all over again."
He laughed softly, shaking his head. Then, more serious: "I don't know if I'll ever walk you down an aisle. I don't know if I'll ever dance with you again. But if you can bear that future… then maybe I can, too."
I leaned my head on his shoulder, whispering, "That's all I've ever wanted. Just you. Whatever form you come in."
And for the first time in weeks, I felt the wall between us crack, letting a sliver of light seep through.