Chapter 2

Jessica stepped forward, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Mark's arm. Her expression was one of deep, theatrical concern, but her eyes, when they met Sarah's, were cold and sharp with malice.

"Honey, don't," she said, her voice a soft coo meant for him but loud enough for Sarah to hear every condescending syllable. "She's obviously not well. Look at her." She gestured vaguely at Sarah's worn-out cardigan and pale face. "It's sad, really. What happens to people when they let bitterness consume them."

Then she turned her full attention to Sarah, her smile a weapon.

"Sarah, I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding," she said, her tone dripping with fake sympathy. "But you have to understand, Mark has been through so much. That time when he was sick... it was terrible. For him to see you now, after you... left... it just brings back all that pain. Maybe it's best if you just go."

The words hung in the air, thick and poisonous. After you left. Jessica had cemented the lie, painting Sarah as the villain in a story where she had been the silent, sacrificial hero.

The cafe's noise faded into a dull roar in Sarah's ears. Her mind recoiled from the present, tumbling back through time, seeking refuge in a past that felt more real than this waking nightmare.

Four years ago. Their tiny, cramped apartment. It wasn't a studio, it was a home, filled with the smell of turpentine and Mark's cheap coffee. He was an aspiring programmer then, his fingers flying across a second-hand keyboard, building worlds out of code. She was painting, capturing the light that fell through their single dusty window, convinced she could paint their future into existence.

They were poor, but they were rich in a way that had nothing to do with money. They shared corner-store sandwiches on their fire escape, dreaming aloud about the day his app would take off, the day her paintings would hang in a gallery. He'd trace the lines on her palm and tell her they led to a mansion. She'd laugh and tell him all she needed was a room with good light and him in it.

The memory was so warm, so vivid, it made the cold reality of the coffee shop even more brutal. She blinked, and the image of their shared past dissolved, replaced by Mark's current, hostile face.

The pain in her back flared again, a sharp, insistent signal. It pulled her back further, to a darker time.

The call from the hospital. Mark had collapsed at his part-time library job. His kidneys were failing, the doctor said. The words were clinical, detached. Acute renal failure. Dialysis. Transplant list. Each term was a hammer blow, shattering their carefully constructed world of dreams.

She spent every waking moment at his bedside, holding his hand, reading to him, her own art forgotten in a corner of their apartment. She watched him grow weaker, the vibrant energy that had defined him draining away day by day. He was terrified, and so was she. The waiting list for a kidney was a lottery, and his time was running out.

She got tested. It was a wild, desperate hope, a one-in-a-million shot. She told no one, not even him. She didn't want to give him a hope that could be so easily crushed.

One rainy afternoon, a doctor with kind, tired eyes sat her down in a small, sterile office. Dr. Evans. He slid a file across the desk.

"You're a match, Ms. Miller," he'd said, his voice gentle. "A perfect one, actually. It's quite rare."

Hope bloomed in her chest, fierce and bright. She could save him. She could pull him back from the edge. The decision was instantaneous, absolute. There was no other choice.

"I'll do it," she said, her voice clear and steady.

"It has to be an anonymous donation if you're not family," Dr. Evans explained. "And you need to understand the risks. You'll be living with one kidney. It requires a lifetime of care. There are potential complications."

She didn't care. All that mattered was Mark's life. "I understand," she said. "He can't know it was me. He'd never accept it. He's too proud."

The memory was a secret she had carried alone for four years, a heavy, sacred trust.

Her vision swam back into focus on the present. Mark was looking at her, his expression a mixture of anger and pity. Jessica was now holding one of his new, ridiculously expensive leather gloves, a smug look on her face.

"So, the transplant you need," Mark said, his voice laced with skepticism. "You have proof of that?"

Sarah's heart leaped. Maybe, just maybe, if he saw the proof, he would understand. She fumbled in her oversized tote bag, her fingers shaking. She pulled out a folded, slightly crumpled letter from her doctor. It was a referral for a transplant evaluation, detailing her diagnosis: chronic kidney disease, end-stage. A direct, though delayed, consequence of her donation.

She held it out to him, a fragile peace offering. "Here."

He took it reluctantly, as if it were contaminated. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the medical terms. For a heart-stopping second, she saw a flicker of something in his face-confusion, maybe even concern.

But Jessica was faster. She leaned over his shoulder, her perfectly shaped eyebrow arching in mock surprise.

"Oh, my," she said, her voice dripping with scorn. "Look at this, honey. It's from a clinic downtown. You can get anything printed up at those places for a few hundred bucks. How very... resourceful of you, Sarah."

Sarah stared at her, stunned by the casual, vicious cruelty. "It's real," she insisted, her voice trembling. "You can call the doctor. Dr. Evans."

Mark's face, which had softened for a moment, hardened again at Jessica's words. The seed of doubt she planted sprouted instantly into a tree of angry conviction. He looked from the paper to Sarah's desperate face, and all he saw was a con artist.

"A clinic downtown," he repeated, his voice low and filled with disgust. He crushed the paper in his fist. "You really think I'm that stupid? You think I'd fall for such a cheap, pathetic trick?"

He threw the crumpled ball of paper onto the table in front of her. It landed next to her untouched cup of tea, a symbol of her rejected truth.

"You're a liar," he spat, his voice rising, drawing the attention of the other patrons. "You're a manipulative, greedy liar. You were then, and you are now. I'm done. Don't ever let me see your face again."

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, Jessica gliding behind him, her hand once again possessively on his arm. At the door, she glanced back at Sarah, a final, triumphant smirk sealing her victory. They disappeared into the night, leaving Sarah alone in the sudden, ringing silence of the cafe, with the crumpled lie of her truth sitting on the table in front of her.

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