The classroom was alive with questions, the air buzzing with energy. I moved from one side of the room to the other, answering, guiding, correcting. My students looked at me with admiration in their eyes— the kind of gaze that said they thought I had everything under control.
If only they knew.
When the last bell rang and the students filed out, I leaned against the edge of my desk, exhaustion washing over me. My smile faded. I wanted to lie down right there and sleep for a week. But home waited. Dennis waited.
As I gathered my books, Roy appeared at the door. His timing was uncanny these days— always catching me just when I was too tired to mask the weight on my shoulders.
"Ann," he said softly, "you were brilliant today. Your students are lucky to have you."
I forced a polite smile. "Thank you, Roy. That means a lot."
He hesitated, then stepped inside. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but… how are you? Really?"
I blinked, caught off guard. No one asked me that anymore. Everyone asked about Dennis, his progress, his therapy. Hardly anyone asked about me.
"I'm… managing," I said, adjusting the stack of assignments in my arms.
Roy's eyes softened. "You don't have to manage alone, you know. Sometimes even the strongest people need someone to lean on."
I looked away quickly, not wanting him to see the shine of tears threatening to escape. "I've got someone," I whispered.
He nodded, almost respectfully, as if reminding himself of the invisible boundary that separated us. "Right. Dennis. He's lucky to have you."
Lucky. That word echoed in my mind as I left the college building. If only Dennis felt lucky.
The therapist had left hours ago, but her instructions still rang in my ears. "Lift your arm higher. Don't give up. Again."
I tried. God, I tried. But my left side refused to cooperate. My hand dangled uselessly, my leg dragged like dead weight.
And then the anger hit. I slammed my good fist against the armrest of the wheelchair. The sound echoed through the room, hollow and pathetic, just like me.
"Damn it!" I shouted, the words tearing out of me. "Why won't you work?!"
The silence after my outburst was deafening. My chest heaved, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I might collapse right there.
I caught my reflection in the mirror across the room— half-slumped, pale, weak. Not the man Ann had agreed to marry. Not the man who had promised her forever.
And yet, she came home every day with a tired smile, juggling a career and me like I was just another responsibility. How could I do this to her?
I hated myself for needing her to help me bathe, to change my clothes, to cut my food into bite-sized pieces. I hated that her hands, meant to hold books and chalk and a future, were trapped in caring for me.
And worse— I hated that deep down, part of me wanted to push her away before she realized what a mistake it was to stay.
When I entered the house that evening, I sensed it immediately— the heaviness in the air, the residue of Dennis's anger. He sat in his wheelchair, head bowed, his knuckles red from where he'd struck the armrest.
"Dennis…" I whispered, setting my bag down. "Rough day?"
His head jerked up, his eyes blazing. "Every day is a rough day, Ann! Look at me! I can't even lift a glass without spilling it. What am I even good for anymore?"
My instinct was to comfort him, but before I could step closer, his voice cut sharper.
"You work all day, Ann. You shine. You inspire. And then you come home to this—" he gestured bitterly at himself "—to a man who can't even stand without falling. Tell me honestly— don't you wish you'd chosen someone else? Someone whole?"
The words sliced through me. For a heartbeat, I couldn't breathe.
I walked to him slowly, kneeling down so my face was level with his. My hands trembled, but my voice didn't.
"Don't you dare," I whispered fiercely. "Don't you dare reduce yourself to this chair. You are Dennis. The man who made me believe in love, who held my hand when I was afraid, who dreamed with me under the stars. You are not just a broken body. You are my heart."
He shook his head violently. "Your heart deserves better than this misery!"
"No," I said firmly, tears spilling now. "My heart deserves honesty. It deserves loyalty. It deserves the man I chose— and that's you. Only you. Always you."
His chest heaved, his lips quivered, and for a moment, I thought he might yell again. But instead, he broke. His face crumpled, and he whispered, "Ann… I don't know how to do this anymore."
I pulled him into my arms, holding him tight against me. "Then don't do it alone. Do it with me. Always with me."
Her arms around me were both a comfort and a wound. Comfort, because she meant every word. Wound, because I didn't know how long I could let her carry me like this.
I closed my eyes, breathing in her scent, feeling her heartbeat steady against mine.
"I'm scared," I admitted, my voice breaking. "Scared you'll wake up one day and realize I'm nothing but an anchor dragging you down."
Her grip tightened. "Then let me be anchored. I'd rather sink with you than sail without you."
The tears I'd been holding back finally spilled. And for the first time in months, I let her see all of it— my shame, my fear, my despair.
And in her arms, somehow, the silence didn't feel so fractured anymore.
That night, after he finally drifted to sleep, I sat beside him in the dark, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. His words still echoed in my mind, but so did mine.
He thought he was broken. I thought he was fighting the bravest battle I'd ever seen.
Yes, our home was heavy with struggle, but it was also stitched together with love. And I would fight every day, every moment, to remind him of that truth.
Because he wasn't alone. He never would be.
Not while I still had breath in my body.