Chapter 3 Regrets

Richard lay on his side of the bed-his side, though the bed felt like a battlefield now, its empty half a reminder of everything unspoken.

He hadn't closed his eyes since the call.

Early. The word echoed uselessly in his mind. Like it made any of this better.

They hadn't spoken in months s. Maybe longer, if you didn't count the clipped arguments or icy silences in shared spaces. Anger had taken up residence in their home like an unwelcome guest neither knew how to kick out.

But now, all Richard could think about was her face. Not the angry one she'd worn last time they fought, but the one from years ago-smiling under golden afternoon light, barefoot in the kitchen, humming some stupid song he couldn't remember the name of.

He sat up, unable to stay still any longer. The room was too quiet, the sheets too cold. His hand ran through his hair as he stared into the dark. Regret sat heavy on his chest, heavier than anything he'd let himself feel in months.

Why hadn't he asked her if she was okay sooner?

Why hadn't he noticed?

He got up and paced to the window, looking out at the sleeping city. Cars passed like whispers. she was lying in a bed or curled on her couch, maybe scared, maybe angry. Maybe still hating him.

But he didn't care.

He just wanted to be there.

And for the first time in a long time, Richard realized he didn't want to fight anymore.

He just wanted her to know-he still cared. And if she'd let him, he'd prove it.

Even if it was too late to fix everything, it wasn't too late to start over.

The next day, they both left for the hospital. On their way, they were both quiet throughout their journey; the atmosphere was so weird as if two strangers met. This continued until they got to the hospital, parked the car, and entered the elevator.

They were going to the fourth floor, but someone from the second floor wanted to enter the elevator, so it stopped immediately.

The silence between them in the elevator was heavy, the kind that had become far too common. Dera stood with her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the glowing floor numbers. Richard leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, jaw tight.

They hadn't said a word since leaving the house.

"Seventh floor," the robotic voice announced.

As the elevator slowed, Richard suddenly straightened, his eyes narrowing toward the doors like he saw a ghost.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "It's George. Don't move."

"What?" Dera turned, confused.

He ignored the bite in her voice and stepped toward her. "Just pretend. Please."

Before she could protest, he gently took her face in his hands, lowering his voice. "Just for a second. I need this to look real."

The elevator chimed. The doors began to part.

His face moved closer-not touching, just close enough to suggest affection. His hand grazed her waist like it used to, but with none of the old fire.

Dera's heart stuttered. Not because she wanted him to kiss her, but because of how well they could still fake something they'd both given up on.

A woman passed the opening with a polite smile, taking in the intimate moment without stopping. The doors slid shut again.

Richard stepped back immediately, his mask falling. "it was George," he muttered, moving to his side of the elevator again.

The elevator closed back, and he withdrew himself. Dera asked what the meaning of what he did was, and he said it was because the person who was about to enter was George. I guess he stopped because of the situation he saw us in.

Dera swallowed hard, adjusting her coat. "You were always good at pretending."

The elevator opened again, and they went straight to the doctor's office. When they entered, they greeted the doctor.

The doctor asked if it was her husband she had come with, and she answered, 'Yes, he is.'

The doctor went straight to the point.

He said, 'Will it be okay?' If he talks about her condition in front of her? Then she answered yes.

"We've run all the tests. It's serious," he said, voice low, as if saying it quieter would make it less true. "We'll need to act quickly, and it won't be easy."

The room seemed to dim for a second. Serious. The word echoed in her mind like a bell tolling somewhere far off. Her chest tightened, not from the illness, but from something more immediate-more painful.

Richard sat next to her. Not close. Not distant either. Just... there. Like he always was lately, hovering in that no-man's-land between resentment and duty. They hadn't really spoken in weeks-small talk, logistics, silence. Their home was quieter than it had ever been, and somehow, louder than she could stand.

Dera's eyes flicked toward him for the briefest moment. He was staring at the floor, jaw clenched, as if bracing for news he'd already expected.

Fear surged, raw and unfiltered, and she almost gasped-but didn't. She wanted to cry, to fall apart, to be held and told it would all be okay. But the man sitting next to her wasn't the one who used to do that anymore. They were broken, tired, bitter in all the ways two people could be. Still, he was here.

So she did what she always did: she swallowed it down.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said evenly, her voice steady even as her fingers dug into her palms. "What's the next step?"

The doctor explained, but the words melted into a blur. She nodded, asked the right questions, kept her posture straight. Every breath felt like effort. Richard didn't speak. He didn't reach for her hand.

She asked the doctor if her treatment could be delayed a little because she needed to sort some things out.

Richard was so out of it that he shouted at her, asking what was more important to sort out than her life.

Dera kept calm and told the doctor that they would visit him again as soon as possible.

Immediately, Dera informed the doctor that they would take their leave now, said goodbye, and asked Richard if he was not leaving, as he was still sitting like someone who was lost in thought.

He hesitated but eventually stood up, and they both left.

Richard had a lot of things to say to Dera but held them in until they got into the car.

He asked her if she was going to continue to be like this until the end, why did she always do what pleased her, and why did she always act like others' opinions didn't matter? Richard said a lot, but she kept a straight face and she was.

Richard tightened his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles white against the leather.

He had so much to say, his chest was full of it.

Not anger. Not entirely. Just... weight. The kind that builds when your words bounce off someone who doesn't seem to care. Or won't show they do.

Dera sat beside him, Her head leaned lightly against the glass, her breaths shallow but steady. She hadn't spoken much all day-just shrugged when he offered her tea, given a faint nod when he asked if she was ready to leave. No warmth. No softness.

That used to be different.

He wanted to tell her how tired he was of feeling like a shadow in his own marriage. Of her brushing things off with a laugh or a sigh when he reached out. Of the way she turned away-emotionally, sometimes physically-when he needed her to face things with him. He wanted to ask if she still loved him with the same fire, or if it had cooled without either of them noticing.

He wanted to say he felt alone sometimes. That being in the same house didn't mean they were still close. That he missed her.

But she was sick. And tonight, even as the cold shoulder stung more than the night air, he couldn't bring himself to speak it aloud. Not while she looked so fragile. Not while the color had drained from her cheeks and her eyelids fluttered with exhaustion.

So he drove. Silent.

Instead, he turned the heater up a notch. Slowed a little over the speed bumps so she wouldn't jostle. And when they reached home, he came around to her side, opened the door gently, and offered his hand.

She looked up at him then, surprised. A flicker of something behind her tired eyes. Maybe gratitude. Maybe guilt.

Maybe the start of a conversation.

He said nothing.

But in the quiet, his actions whispered what his mouth could not: I'm still here. I still care. Even if I'm hurting too.