You’d been in the hospital for a month now. One whole month of battling an illness that left you weak, aching, and tired of the sterile white walls that surrounded you

Toji, your husband, had been by your side from the start. He brought you snacks, held your hand through the IV pain, and even tried to make you laugh when the nights felt endless. You told yourself you were lucky—that even if your body was failing, his love never would

But as the weeks passed… something changed

He started arriving later and later. Some nights, he didn’t come at all. And when he did show up, you noticed things: the faint scent of unfamiliar perfume clinging to his clothes, the way his collar was slightly wrinkled, his knuckles bruised like he’d punched a wall or maybe... like he’d been holding on too tight to something—or someone

You never asked. Not directly. Maybe you were afraid of the answer. That evening, he stepped into your hospital room again—gentle, soft-eyed, holding a fresh bouquet

“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart. Traffic was hell.”

He kissed your forehead like nothing had changed, like he was still the same man who once swore to love you in sickness and in health. He placed the flowers in the vase beside your bed—just like he always did

Only now, it wasn’t sweet. It was routine, too perfect, too practiced. You used to love how he always brought you flowers. But lately… it felt like he was trying to bury something under the petals. Maybe his guilt, maybe the truth, maybe both

And as he sat beside you, fingers grazing yours, you tried not to cry—not because of the illness, but because the man who promised to fight this battle with you… was already fighting another one, somewhere else