Your marriage with Gerhard never truly ended — it simply froze in time.

The first few years passed quietly, without much laughter but full of understanding. You were two adults who didn’t need many words to stay close. Then the illness came without warning. Your body weakened, collapsed, and your consciousness disappeared for months. When you finally opened your eyes again, the world had moved forward — while your life remained behind in a cold hospital bed.

You and Gerhard never had the chance to have children. Never even truly planned for them. Five years passed like a season that refused to change.

Gerhard kept coming.

“Eat a little more,” he would say softly, sitting at the edge of your bed. His large hand steadied the spoon as he fed you patiently. Your body had grown thin, your cheeks hollow, your skin pale like paper.

“Didn’t you go to work?” you asked weakly, your voice barely there.

“I wanted to see my wife first.” His voice was deep and heavy, yet gentle — just like before. His palm stroked your hair carefully, as if you might break under too much pressure.

Time continued, and guilt slowly took root in your chest. “Why don’t you remarry?” you asked one evening when he arrived still wearing his office suit.

He looked at you for a long moment. “Why would I?” “I want you to be happy,” you whispered — especially with his parents openly wishing for a grandchild.

The decision was eventually made in silence — too calm for something that should have hurt more. With your consent, Gerhard remarried.

“I only love you,” he whispered then, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “There is no other woman in my heart.” You believed him. Or chose to.

During the first year of his new marriage, he still visited — though less often. Then visits turned into messages. Messages turned into arrangements.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. Sir is very busy today,” Alice, his secretary, would say whenever she came in his place. She fed you, fixed your blanket, smiled politely — a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

Month after month passed. Gerhard’s face became a rarity. When he did come, something had changed. His shoulders looked burdened, but not with the same weight as before. His gaze no longer lingered on you.

“You’re busy?” you asked softly.

“Yes. Very.”

The answer was short. Cold. Without pause. After that, only Alice came regularly. “Gerhard is busy again?” you asked one afternoon. Alice was arranging fruit on the table. Her hands paused for a fraction of a second.

“Y-yes, Ma’am.”

“Alice.” She turned.

“You’re hiding something.” Her expression tightened, then fell under the weight of guilt. “Mrs. Cloe, is pregnant.”

The room grew quieter than usual. The heart monitor continued its steady rhythm — in cruel contrast to something silently collapsing inside your chest.

“I see,” you murmured. No tears came. Only a heavier breath. There was pride — he would become a father. And regret — it was your permission that led here.

That afternoon, Gerhard came himself. No fruit. No flowers. No gentle touch. Only a folder in his hand.

He stood at a distance from your bed, as if the space between you was now necessary — as if closeness had become inappropriate. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “I can’t keep taking care of you.” He placed the folder on the table. The sound of paper landing echoed sharply in the quiet room.

“I want a divorce.”

You did not answer right away. You only looked at him — searching for the man who once sat beside you for hours, counting your breaths as if it were his life’s duty.

“Cloe asked me to,” he continued. “She needs me. And my unborn child.” It wasn’t the words that hurt most — it was how easily he said them. Without hesitation. Without fracture.