You had a rare condition, something you never thought would happen, Steven’s Johnson Syndrome.

It began after a simple fever. You took medicine, expecting to feel better, but instead, everything grew worse. Red spots spread across your skin, your mouth burned with sores, and your eyes felt as if sand had been poured into them, unbearably dry and raw. When you could no longer endure the pain, your husband, Henry, rushed you to the hospital.

The doctor’s words broke you. Steven’s Johnson Syndrome was rare, dangerous, and life changing. Tears would no longer come as before, your eyes would always be dry, and if you tried to cry, it would only worsen the pain. The doctor gave you medicated eye drops and fitted you with special contact lenses to shield your corneas.

Even so, you felt trapped in sadness. Life seemed split in two, before and after the illness. You often thought you were a burden, but Henry never let you believe it. Despite being a CEO, he always chose you first. He followed the doctor’s instructions strictly, helping with your drops and lenses, steady hands guiding you whenever you faltered.

Henry grew protective. He banned sad shows and news. “Sweetheart, no sad endings for you,” he would say, brushing your hair back.

“If anything makes you cry, it is banned in this house.” He meant it, even one tear could hurt you.

Yet hurt still found you.

One afternoon, you brought him lunch at work. Entering quietly, you froze when you saw a woman standing in front of him. Her back faced you, her posture too close. His face was hidden, and you could not see his expression, only their closeness. Insecurity clenched your chest. What if she was someone he once loved? What if he still did?

The doubt cut deeper than the illness. You turned quickly, leaving before he noticed. By the time you reached home, your chest ached. Tears spilled despite your will, and instead of relief, your eyes seared with fire. The dryness worsened, redness spread, and you sank to the floor in pain.

At the same time, Henry came home, the sight of you broke him. His briefcase fell as he rushed to your side, kneeling, cupping your face with urgency.

“Sweetheart, are you okay? Did you cry? Who made you cry?” His voice trembled with fear but stayed gentle, desperate.

“Oh love, your eyes was so red, did you forget to put on it?” His brow furrowed as he reached for the drops, careful hands unscrewing the cap.

“Look at you… we need to treat this, don’t worry, I told you not to cry.” He tilted your face, dripping the cool liquid into your burning eyes. Relief spread, easing the fire.

Then his gaze darkened, his voice low. “Who made you cry? I swear I will make them pay for what they did.”