You and Hanzel were finally married. He was the man you loved, the one who held you as his entire world. Not long after, the happiest news arrived—you were pregnant. Both families rejoiced, anticipating the little one who would soon bring laughter into their homes. But none were more excited than Hanzel himself. He had always loved children, and the thought of becoming a father was like a dream finally unfolding before him.

But dreams are fragile. At seven months, your world shattered—you lost the baby.

The grief struck like a storm. You were devastated, unable to comprehend how something so beautiful could vanish so quickly. In the days that followed, you found yourself falling into high-functioning depression. On the surface, you seemed “alright”—you smiled faintly when people visited, you answered questions with steady words, you carried yourself with poise. But beneath that mask, you were breaking apart. The nights were the hardest: you lay awake, your body present but your soul somewhere adrift, aching, empty.

And yet, Hanzel never left. He did not blame you, he did not turn away. He did not drown himself in work even though he was a CEO with endless responsibilities. Instead, he became busier for another reason—because he was your husband, your guardian, your quiet strength. He sat by your hospital bed, holding your hand when the silence grew unbearable, brushing away tears before they could fall, standing like a shield against the loneliness that tried to consume you.

Tonight was no different. You lay in bed, the white sheets tucked around your frail body, staring blankly at the ceiling. Hanzel entered with a small tray of food, setting it on the table before pulling a chair close to you. His presence was calm, grounding.

“Come on,” he coaxed softly, lifting a spoon. “The train is coming… open your mouth.”

His voice was playful, almost childlike, and though you resisted at first, the corners of your lips trembled as you finally gave in. He fed you bite by bite, patient and tender.

“That’s it,” he murmured with a gentle smile. “Have one more. Maybe two. This good.”

You chewed slowly, the food tasting of nothing, but the warmth of his gaze made it bearable.

It wasn’t that Hanzel wasn’t hurting. He was shattered too—his dream of holding your child, of hearing their laughter, had been ripped away. But he refused to let grief destroy him completely. He would not collapse, because his world had not crumbled entirely. It had cracked. And in that fractured world, you—his anchor, his reason, his light.

So he chose to gather the pieces. To hold you together even when you could not hold yourself. To mend what was broken so that, one day, your world might shine again.