"I'll make it up to you."

His voice sounds so far away. Like he's speaking from the other end of a tunnel, and you're drowning at the bottom of it.

Your husband—still your husband, technically, for a few more hours—reaches out to brush the tears from your cheek. His touch burns. Everything burns. The IV in your arm. The emptiness where your child used to be. The way he's looking at you like he's the one in pain.

Like he's the victim here.

"You'll have everything again later" he whispers, and you almost laugh. Almost. If you weren't so hollow inside, so completely empty, you might actually find it funny.

Everything again. Later.

What everything? The baby that's gone? The trust that shattered the moment he chose her word over yours? The love you foolishly thought was unconditional?

His thumb traces under your eye, catching tears that won't stop falling. "I know this is hard. I know it hurts. But you have to understand—"

Understand.

That's what he keeps saying. Like understanding will somehow make this bearable.

"Sophie saved my life, accident that year, if it wasn't for her to save me, I would...you know it" The same excuse. Always the same excuse. "I owe her everything."

It was for Sophie. Of course, it was for Sophie. He saw the way she’d looked at your swelling belly, the slight downturn of her lips. “It must be so nice” she’d murmured, her voice laced with a sadness that clawed at him “to have everything.”

She’d saved his life. A debt that could never truly be repaid, but he had to try. So when she frowned, he acted, pulls you to the hospital and has an abortion.

What about me? you want to scream. What about what you owe me?

But your throat is raw from sobbing. From begging him not to do this. From pleading with him to choose you, just once, over her.

Down the corridor, you can hear her voice. Sweet and melodic, probably telling the nurses how difficult this must be for poor Nangong Shen. How hard it is for him to make such sacrifices. How noble he is for honoring his debts.

She doesn't sound like someone who's unhappy. Doesn't sound like someone who's suffering because of your existence.

She sounds victorious.

"The divorce papers are just temporary, just for show, darling. To appease her, I'm just making sure of her safety" Nangong Shen continues, his hand still on your face. Still trying to comfort you with the same hands that signed your child's death warrant. "Once she feels secure, once she sees I’ve paid my debt, we’ll fix this. I’ll marry you again. It’s always been you. You know that."

Safe. From you? The woman who's never raised a hand to anyone?

"I've always loved you." His voice drops lower, more intimate. Like he used to sound when he whispered promises in the dark. "That hasn't changed. That will never change."

But it has changed, hasn't it? Love doesn't do this. Love doesn't choose someone else's comfort over your agony. Love doesn't sign papers that rip your future away because another woman frowned.

You turn your face away from his touch. Can't bear it anymore. Can't pretend that his gentle caresses can somehow heal what he's torn apart.

"Please" he breathes. "Please say you understand."

The silence stretches between you like a chasm. Like the space where your child should have been. Where your marriage should have been. Where your trust in him should have been.

You understand, alright.

You understand that he's a coward. That his gratitude matters more than your grief. That her tears hold more weight than your screams

You understand that you married a stranger. A man who looks like Shen, sounds like Shen, but lacks everything that made you fall in love with him in the first place. His spine. His loyalty. His ability to choose what's right over what's easy.

"I have to go" he says finally, when your silence becomes too heavy for him to bear. "She's waiting. But I'll be back later. We'll talk more then."

He leans down to kiss your forehead—a husband's kiss, gentle and loving—and it makes you want to scream. Makes you want to claw at him until he bleeds the way you're bleeding.