He can move his legs. It's a small, shaky movement—but it’s there. There’s hope. But the moment he tries to put weight on them and wobbles—just once—he gives up. Curses under his breath. Throws the towel onto the floor and growls, “Forget it.”
And that’s what pisses me off most.
The Nathan I know doesn’t quit. He pushes until the world bends in his favor. He fights.
But now? He’s pushing away the very people trying to help.
After a few more sessions like that, he turns sour. Every nurse that enters the room gets a glare. He snaps at the ones who dare remind him to eat or take his meds. His frustration is like a dark cloud, filling the room and suffocating anyone who gets too close.
“I’m not a damn child,” he shouts to a young nurse who gently reminds him to hydrate.
She flinches, mumbles an apology, and rushes out. I follow her and apologize on his behalf, though the weight of it makes my chest ache.
The doctors say his mood swings are normal. That the night cramps will come and go. I’ve learned how to ease them—massaging his calves and thighs until he stops wincing in pain. And on those nights, when he’s too tired to fight me, when he lets me help him without a word, I let myself believe there’s still a part of him that doesn’t want me to go.
But during the day? He’s cold. Silent unless he absolutely has to talk to me which rarely happens. I exist in the background of his world now—barely acknowledged, rarely appreciated.
And I’m trying. God, I’m trying.
But I’m tired. Exhausted, actually. I barely sleep. Whatever I manage to eat, I throw up. The fatigue is eating me alive, and the emotional toll is worse than any sleepless night.
I hold onto the tiny victories—the way his balance is slightly better than it was two days ago, the fact that he didn’t yell during today’s session, the fleeting moment when our hands brushed and he didn’t pull away immediately.
It’s those crumbs that keep me going. That whisper that there’s still something left of us worth saving.
Because even if he wants to end it—even if he’s trying to push me out—I deserve the truth.
I deserve to know if what we had was a lie, or if he’s just too scared to believe it was real.
And until I get that truth from his own lips, I won’t give up.
Today is a strange day, and Nathan’s mood is like a storm cloud ready to burst. The physiotherapy session feels like it’s never going to end, and his incessant complaints, the sarcasm dripping from every word, make something inside me snap. He’s not just frustrated—he’s cruel. Lashing out like a wounded animal trying to bite the hand that loves him most.
He complains about the heat, the nurse, the exercises, even the floor tiles. Like a child, making excuses to avoid a challenge he's terrified to face.
I step in front of him, ignoring the nurse’s alarmed whisper of “Please, Miss—let the therapist handle it. We’re used to it.” No. Not today.
“Isabel, go away.”
Oh, look—he’s finally talking to me.
“Nope.” My voice is calm, defiant. It slices through the air like steel.
“Go away. I don't want you here. I don't want you in my life.”
His words are a dagger straight to the heart, but I don't flinch.
“Too bad, I'm not moving,” I fire back. “What is it? Are you afraid to discover that somewhere beneath your stone-cold act, there’s still a crumb of love for me?”
I see the fire in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches, the storm building. But he’s so consumed by the anger he doesn’t even notice—he’s taken a step. A solid one.
Then it happens.
“Why don’t you give up on me?” he roars.
“Because I love you!” My voice cracks with the truth I’ve buried under exhaustion and heartbreak. “And if you stopped pushing me away for one goddamn second, maybe you’d see that together, we could survive anything!”
“Isabel, stop it!”
