He knelt in front of my wheelchair.
Not dramatically. Not like a man in a movie.
Just carefully, slowly, like someone whose own heart had become too heavy to carry standing up.
“I am so sorry,” he said. “I thought I was doing something beautiful. I didn’t realize I was hurting you.”
I wiped my cheeks, but the tears kept coming.
“Why separate rooms?”
“Because I needed space to work at night.” He gave a sad little laugh. “And because I’m terrible at keeping secrets. If I stayed beside you every night, I would have told you everything in three days.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
That part was true.
James once gave me my birthday gift two weeks early because he said the box looked “lonely” in the closet.
“But why say you were afraid of hurting me?” I asked.
His eyes filled.
“Because that was partly true too.”
I went still.
He looked down at our joined hands.
“After the accident, everyone worried about you. And they should have. But I became terrified of doing something wrong. Helping you wrong. Touching you wrong. Moving too fast. Sleeping too close. Every time you winced, even if it wasn’t because of me, I felt like I had failed you.”
My anger softened into something more complicated.
“James…”
“I didn’t want you to feel fragile,” he said. “So I never told you how scared I was. I tried to be strong. Useful. Cheerful. But lately, when your pain got worse, I started waking up every time I moved in bed. I kept thinking, what if I kick her? What if I make it worse?”
“So you left the room.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“But you made me feel unwanted.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know that now.”
