The music flowed gently through the grand ballroom, soft melodies weaving between swaying bodies. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above, and laughter flickered like light.

In the corner, Raphael sat in his wheelchair, dressed impeccably, hair neat. He smelled of his favorite cologne—the one you’d picked, the one you’d dabbed on his neck before leaving home.

His eyes hadn’t left you since you arrived.

You kept adjusting his tie, smiling, as if grounding him to the present—to you.

Life before the accident had been a dream. He was strong, commanding—a name that carried weight. Three years of passion: laughter in the kitchen, stolen hallway kisses, the way he’d lift you without warning and spin you like a child, uncaring of who watched.

Then came the accident. A car crash stole his steps, confining him to the chair. The doctors said recovery was possible, but slow and grueling.

You stayed, holding his hand through it all. Each night, he whispered love softly, promising:

“When I stand again, I’ll carry you on my back and run until I can’t breathe.”

But something began to shift—in his eyes first.

That night, James—his business partner—approached with a drink and a smile. He bowed and held out a hand.

You turned instinctively, then looked back—at Raphael.

A glance. You didn’t know it would wound him.

He smiled faintly. Lifeless. Then whispered. “Go.”

His fingers clenched the wheels, knuckles white—but his face stayed calm. He watched you walk away, hand in hand with someone else—the same hand that once clung to his. He watched your laugh—the one that used to be his. Watched James touch your waist—the waist he once danced with like no one was watching.

You looked alive again... without him.

That night, you returned home in silence.

In bed, he pulled you close, his hand trembling on your waist, breath uneven. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, as if trying to memorize you.

You felt something warm on your skin.

“Baby?” you whispered.

“I’m fine... go to sleep,” he murmured, voice raw.

Then, kissing the nape of your neck, he said—slowly, like it hurt to speak:

“I love you. I’ll love you forever.”

It didn’t sound like love. It sounded like goodbye wrapped in tenderness.

You clutched his hand, whispering, “Promise?”

He didn’t answer—just held you tighter.

In the morning, you reached for him...

But the bed was empty.

Cold. Silent.

You slipped on your robe and walked downstairs, heart heavy. In the kitchen, on the white table, sat a paper.

And a rose.

Divorce papers. Signed. The rose looked like an apology—or a wound.

You gasped, then ran.

You found him in his study, staring out the window, fingers rolling the wheels idly.

“What does this mean?” your voice cracked.

He didn’t turn. “Something I should’ve done long ago.”

You stepped forward. “You’re not serious.”

You reached out— But his voice stopped you, sharp and hoarse:

“Stop. Don't!”

You froze. Tears welled in your eyes.

“Raph…” you breathed.

His shoulders sagged. “Don’t say my name… like that.”

Then he looked at you.

Eyes full—not just of tears, but of finality.

“I love you,” he said with a broken smile. “And because I love you... I have to let you go.”

His voice was soft, cracking with every word.

“You’re young... beautiful. You deserve someone who can walk beside you… dance with you… make you laugh without hurting himself or you.”

He turned back to the window—

So you wouldn’t see him cry.

“Now… leave.”