The morning sunlight spilled softly across the curtains, scattering patterns of gold across the floor. I sat at the dining table, spreading butter over toast without realizing how many times I had circled the knife. My mind wasn't on breakfast. It was on Dennis. It was always on Dennis.
He had been restless through the night, tossing, waking with a quiet groan, then pretending he was fine. I knew the truth though— his rehab sessions were grinding him down. Not just his body, but his spirit. Each day he went and returned with less patience for himself, for the process, for the painfully slow pace of progress.
As I looked at the half-burnt toast on my plate, I thought of my students. Yesterday in class, one of them had asked a question about poetry and I had laughed, really laughed, in that free way that feels like a sudden song bursting inside you. For that moment, I had felt alive, outside the cycle of worry and responsibility. Then the guilt rushed in. How could I allow myself joy when Dennis was struggling?
The sound of the front door clicking open pulled me back. My parents had arrived for their regular Saturday visit. Mom carried a basket of fruits and vegetables, insisting the local market had fresher produce than the city shops. Dad followed, slower, but with that gentle smile of his, the one that reminded me that no matter how heavy the world felt, there was always an anchor.
"Ann, sweetheart," Mom's voice was warm but watchful. "You look pale. Are you sleeping enough?"
I forced a smile. "Of course, Mom. Just… long days at work."
Dad patted my shoulder. "Your work, and then your second work here. Don't think we don't notice."
Their words were loving, but I heard the concern woven beneath. I busied myself arranging the basket, pretending not to catch the look they exchanged. I knew what they were thinking. That perhaps my life was shrinking into something smaller than it should be. That maybe I deserved more freedom, more joy.
But what they couldn't understand— what no one could— was that Dennis was not my burden. He was my choice.
Still, I couldn't deny the exhaustion dragging at me, the way my shoulders always felt heavy, as though I carried not just books and papers, but Dennis's fears, his unspoken guilt.
When I finally went to check on him, he was sitting by the window, staring at the street below as if searching for answers in the movement of strangers. His cousin Jacob was with him, trying to lighten the mood with stories about some ridiculous incident at work. I leaned on the doorway, watching.
Dennis smiled faintly at Jacob's antics, but I saw the stiffness in it. When Jacob excused himself and left, Dennis turned his face toward me.
"You didn't eat properly again," he said, noticing the untouched toast I had carried absentmindedly.
"I wasn't hungry."
He gave me a look. Not sharp, just tired. "You can't keep doing that."
I crossed the room and sat beside him. "Neither can you."
We sat in silence, the kind that felt both intimate and heavy, until finally I reached for his hand. His fingers twitched, hesitating, but then they rested over mine. That tiny act of connection gave me strength I didn't know I still had.
The day blurred into shadows and small interruptions— Jacob leaving, Ann hovering, her parents speaking in soft tones. All of it pressed against me like reminders of my failures.
I hated rehab. Not the idea of it, but the helplessness it exposed. Each exercise was a battle against a body that no longer obeyed, and every failure was a mirror reflecting how far I had fallen. The therapist tried encouragement, but her optimism only irritated me. She didn't know what it was like to have once been strong, confident, whole.
When Ann's parents arrived earlier, I caught the way they glanced at her— subtle, yet full of meaning. They loved me, I didn't doubt that. But their love for Ann was greater. And that love whispered in their hearts: maybe she should not be chained to me, to my brokenness.
It gnawed at me.
Later in the evening, when Ann stepped into the kitchen, I sat slumped against the couch, replaying every failure. I didn't hear the knock until the door opened and Roy walked in, holding a stack of Ann's lecture notes she had forgotten at college.
I stiffened. Roy. The colleague Ann often mentioned with professional warmth. I had seen him once or twice before— he seemed decent enough. But in my bitterness, I had always wondered: was he one of those men who looked at Ann and thought she deserved someone… better?
He greeted me easily, placing the papers on the table. "Ann asked me to drop these by. Hope it's okay."
I gave a curt nod. "She's in the kitchen."
He hesitated, then sat across from me. "Mind if I stay a minute?"
I didn't answer, but my silence didn't chase him away.
Roy leaned back, studying me— not with pity, but with a kind of straightforward respect that unsettled me. "You know," he said, "I see Ann every day at work. The way she talks about you…"
My jaw tightened. "What does she say?"
"That you're the center of her world." He said it without flinching, without embellishment. "She doesn't hide it. Not in her eyes, not in her words. Even when she's exhausted, she lights up when your name comes up."
Something twisted inside me. "She shouldn't… tie herself to me. I'll only make her life smaller."
Roy leaned forward, his voice steady. "That's not how she sees it. She isn't staying out of duty, Dennis. She's staying because it's what she wants. And you… you're too blinded by your guilt to see it."
His words cut sharper than any rebuke. I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
"Look," he continued, softer now, "I'm not saying life will be easy. It won't. But Ann doesn't want 'easy.' She wants you. And maybe what you need to do is stop deciding for her what her happiness should look like."
Silence thickened between us. He didn't wait for my reply. He simply stood, gave me a nod that felt like respect, and left the papers on the table.
I sat there long after the door closed, the echo of his words settling deep, shaking me more than I wanted to admit.
When Roy left, I stepped out of the kitchen, wiping my hands on a towel. I caught the strange look on Dennis's face— half troubled, half thoughtful.
"What did he say?" I asked quietly.
Dennis's gaze found mine, raw and vulnerable. "He said… you deserve me. That you're with me because you want to be, not because you're trapped."
I crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside him. "And he's right."
His hands trembled as I held them. "Ann, I'm scared. Scared that one day you'll look back and see only wasted years."
My throat tightened, but I forced the truth out, clear and unshaken. "The only wasted years would be the ones without you."
He closed his eyes, his forehead leaning against mine, as though the weight of his fears was finally finding somewhere to rest.
In that moment, surrounded by the echoes of our parents' concern, Jacob's humor, Roy's honesty, I realized something: love wasn't just about the two of us. It was a circle. A circle of care, of people who held us up when we faltered.
And within that circle, no shadow of fear could undo the choice I made every single day— choosing Dennis, choosing us.