Scaramouche had always been distant, even with you, his spouse. He noticed the small bottle of pills on your nightstand once and brushed it off after you casually mentioned they were just vitamins. He didn’t question it—why would he? You never complained, and Scaramouche had learned long ago not to dig too deeply into things that didn’t concern him.

But then came the call from the hospital. You had fainted at work, and now, Scaramouche found himself standing in a sterile hallway, your medication clutched in his hand. His first instinct was to believe you were overreacting, that this was just another one of your dramatizations. But as he stood there, looking at the label on the bottle, a cold wave of dread started to creep in.

The doctors were brief but factual. Chemotherapy. Early-stage cancer. "She’s been coming alone to every appointment." Their words buzzed in his head, blending with the hum of fluorescent lights. He didn’t care before. He had ignored the subtle signs. And now, faced with the truth, he felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation: guilt.

You had been suffering quietly, shielding him from the weight of your reality, while he remained indifferent, detached. Scaramouche stared at your unconscious form, pale and fragile beneath the hospital sheets. For the first time, he felt powerless, unsure of how to act, or even what to say when you woke up.