63
EVA
The letters saton my bedside table, pristine white paper turned grey in the fluorescent hospital lighting. I’d read them so many times I could recite their noble, self-sacrificing bullshit by heart.
Be happy,kitten. Be free.
This is for the best.
You deserve better than me.
Fucking cowards.All their apologies for blackmailing me, for leaving me, for controlling me, and what had they done? Decided for me fucking again.
The rage that burned through me had nothing to do with my failing heart and everything to do with three men who claimed to love me but didn’t fucking trust me to make my own decisions.
With each passing day, my strength grew—and with it, my certainty. They were wrong, so fucking wrong.
Nurse Santos showed me how to silence the heart monitor’s alarms when I pulled myself up to sitting. First, it was just for thirty seconds, sweat beading on my forehead, muscles trembling as if I’d run a marathon instead of just sitting upright in a hospital bed. The second day, I managed a full minute before the room started spinning.
“Easy there,” Nurse Santos cautioned, her firm hand on my shoulder. “Recovery isn’t a race.”
But it was. Every second I spent in this hospital bed was another second they believed their decision was right.
By day three, I could sit up long enough to feed myself. My fingers fumbled with the plastic cutlery, but I refused help—a small victory, but I counted each one.
Dr. Kouassi frowned at my progress notes but couldn’t argue with my improving numbers. “Your cardiac output has improved twelve percent since admission,” he said, his accent thickening with concern. “Don’t trigger another episode in your hurry to get out of here.”
Even my dad noticed my determination, accompanying me on longer and longer walks around the cardiac unit, my fingers white-knuckled on the IV pole. The first lap around the nurses’ station left me gasping, legs quivering like a newborn foal’s.
“Maybe we should head back,” Dad suggested, worry etching deeper lines around his eyes.
“One more,” I insisted, each step burning through my thighs, my heart pounding, but not setting off the alarms.
By the end of the week, I could make two full circuits before needing to rest.
Massi brought coffee—the exact ridiculously sweet concoction Cole knew I loved. The first sip burned my throat, but the familiar taste flooded me with memories.
“He didn’t send it,” Massi insisted when I raised an eyebrow. “Just said you liked it.”
Liar.
I wanted to scream. If Cole cared enough to remember my coffee order, surely he cared enough to show up. But noble self-sacrifice was easier than facing me, wasn’t it?
Haruto left novels that could only have come from Alek, who cared enough to pay attention to my reading preferences but not enough to fucking come and say hello.
A stuffed kitten appeared while I slept, which couldn’t be from anyone but Tristan. It had a hockey jersey with his number, for fuck’s sake. I wanted to set it on fire.
Each gift that everyone around me swore had nothing to do with my men made my heart race in ways that had nothing to do with my condition. The machine beside me would betray me, beeping frantically.
They cared, it was so fucking clear they cared, but they were too cowardly to face what they’d done and ask me what I actually wanted. Just like always—controlling and manipulating me while pretending they were giving me a choice.
The group chat brought my finals to my hospital room. I worked through equations and essays as an IV dripped medication into my veins. My professors had been surprisingly accommodating, though I suspected Cole’s influence there. Even after the death of his father, his name carried weight.
I pushed through the brain fog, forcing myself to focus when words swam before my eyes.
Physical therapy was a special kind of torture. Not because of the pain—I’d learned to work through pain long ago—but because every movement reminded me of them.
“Squeeze the ball,” the therapist instructed, placing a stress ball in my palm.
