Days blurred together inside the quiet walls of the hospital.
The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air, the same way silence clung between us. But Calix never left.
Every morning when I opened my eyes, he was there, sometimes dozing off in the chair beside my bed, sometimes scrolling absently through his phone, sometimes just staring at me as if making sure I was still breathing.
He didn't talk much after that day.
He didn't need to.
His presence said enough.
He helped me stand when I couldn't.
He caught me when I lost my balance.
He brought me food that wasn't from the hospital kitchen, small, thoughtful things like strawberry yogurt and soft bread because he knew I hated hospital meals.
Sometimes I caught myself watching him.
The curve of his shoulders, the way his hands trembled when he fixed the strap of my brace, how careful he was, as if afraid he might break me again.
Maybe he already had.
Maybe I'd already forgiven him a little for it.
–
One afternoon, the nurse wheeled me to the hospital's small courtyard for some air.
The sun was warm but soft, and Celeste's absence felt heavier than my healing leg.
Calix followed quietly behind, keeping his distance until I stopped and gestured for him to sit.
For a while, we just sat there. Watching the sky.
Listening to the world move without us.
Finally, I said, "You didn't have to stay."
He turned to me. "I know."
"Then why did you?"
He exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because I wanted to. Because walking away from you never felt right."
I looked down at my hands, fingers fidgeting with the hospital bracelet. "You hurt me, Calix."
"I know," he said again, his tone quiet, steady. "And I'll never pretend I didn't. But I want to be better, not just for you, but because of you."
His words sank deep, slower than truth but heavier than air.
For a long moment, I didn't reply. I just closed my eyes, letting the wind brush against my face, and tried to remember what it felt like before everything broke.
Trust.
Peace.
Control.
All the things I once held so tightly, gone, replaced by something I couldn't name but could feel whenever he was near.
Maybe it wasn't trust yet.
But it wasn't hatred anymore either.
When I opened my eyes again, I caught him watching me.
Not like before, not the playful gaze of a man used to being adored.
This was different.
Quiet.
Careful.
"I'm not ready to forgive you," I said softly.
"I know."
"And I still don't know if I can ever love you the same way again."
He nodded, swallowing hard. "Then I'll love you enough for both of us."
The words shouldn't have moved me.
They should've made me angry, or tired, or bitter.
But instead, they made my chest ache, not from pain, but from something painfully close to hope.
—
A week later, they released me.
I walked, slowly, carefully, out of that hospital with him beside me.
He didn't hold my hand, didn't say anything.
But his pace matched mine, step for step, patient and unhurried.
When we reached the car, he opened the door for me. I looked at him for a second before saying, "You really don't know how to give up, do you?"
A faint grin tugged at his lips. "Not when it comes to you."
I rolled my eyes, but I didn't look away.
Because maybe, somewhere deep down, the part of me that still believed in strength and control and pride, that same part was learning that love wasn't weakness.
It was choosing to stay, even when leaving would've been easier.
And as the car pulled away from the hospital, I looked out the window, quietly whispering to myself,
Maybe this time, I'll let myself try again.