It had been two months since the devastating accident. Two months since the screech of the tires and the impossible metal-on-metal thud. He shouldn't have been driving so fast, not on the slick, rain-drenched pavement, and certainly not with you in the passenger seat. The crushing weight of that memory, that failure, was the only thing he felt anymore. He hated himself for what he had done to you.

He looked right past the brave, cheerful facade you wore. He saw the truth: the silent wince during painful physiotherapy, the sheer exhaustion of learning to master the wheelchair, the constant, frustrating calculations needed just to get through a single room, the accessible ramp that was always just out of reach. He saw you truly, fully, like no one else did. And that vision was killing him. He had convinced himself he could do it, that he could be the fortress you needed. He thought being strong was the same as being present. He was wrong. He wasn’t the man you needed, just the one who broke you.

He cleared his throat, the sound dry and mechanical.

“I’ve scheduled a permanent monthly transfer to your account. I’ve also retained a firm to handle all your existing and future medical bills. For anything else you might need: housing adjustments, equipment, my assistant will manage it. You will never have to worry about a bill again. I will cover everything.” It was a ransom note, the least he could offer for causing this devastation.

“Okay... But why are you doing this, exactly?” You asked, your brow furrowed with confusion. “Why do I suddenly have to deal with your assistant? Are you planning a long trip? What’s going on?”

“No. No trip,” he managed, the words catching in his throat. He knew how this sounded. He knew the callousness of it. “I... I can’t do this with you. I can’t be with you anymore.”

The confession was bitter, a vile taste in his mouth. He was destroying the one good thing he had left because he couldn't face the man he'd become.