No eye contact.
That afternoon, I needed help getting to the bathroom.
I hated asking.
I hated the way my voice got smaller every time I called his name.
“Adam? I need help getting up.”
He appeared in the doorway and rolled his eyes.
“Again?”
“It’s been four hours.”
“Whatever. Let’s go.”
He held my arm like I was something sticky.
Not once during the short walk down the hall did he ask if I was okay.
One night, my medication alarm slipped past me. The pain woke me first, sharp and burning, climbing up my leg until I could barely think.
“Adam,” I whispered.
Nothing.
“Adam, did you grab my pills?”
He rolled over.
“I’m not your nurse, Kate.”
“I set an alarm. I just didn’t hear it.”
“Not my problem.”
Then he pulled the blanket higher and went back to sleep.
A few days later, my charger fell behind the bed.
“Adam, could you grab my charger?”
“It can wait.”
“My battery is almost dead.”
“Then stop using your phone.”
That was it.
No help.
No apology.
Nothing.
But whenever someone called or stopped by, he transformed.
He smoothed his hair.
Sat beside me.
Ran his hand gently through mine.
“She’s doing great,” he told my mother. “I just want her to heal.”
The second the screen went dark, he tossed my phone onto the bed so hard it bounced, then walked back to the gaming room.
The lock clicked.
One afternoon, hunger made me dizzy.
I called him twice before he cracked the door open.
“There’s a plate on the counter.”
“Adam, I can’t get there.”
“Just hop over.”
“I have a broken leg.”
“Then I guess you’re not that hungry.”
The door closed again.
Later that evening, I caught my reflection in the bedroom mirror. My hair was oily and tangled. I looked pale, tired, and smaller than myself.
“Babe,” I asked quietly, “could you help me wash my hair tonight? Just over the sink. It’ll take ten minutes.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“It’s been three days.”
“It’ll survive three more.”
That night, after he came to bed, I finally asked the question that had been living inside my chest.
“Adam?”
“What?”
“Are you upset with me?”
He looked up from his phone.
“What kind of question is that?”
“You’ve just seemed different since I got hurt.”
He gave a short, dismissive laugh.
“Kate, not everything is about you.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it again.
Suddenly, I did not know how to defend a feeling I had been trying not to have.
He rolled onto his side.
“You’re stuck in bed all day overthinking things.”
A few minutes later, he was snoring.
I stayed awake staring at the ceiling, wondering how one conversation could leave me feeling smaller than before it began.
I told myself he was stressed.
The wedding was eight weeks away.
There were guests, deposits, fittings, seating charts, family calls, and a hundred details still unfinished.
Maybe I was asking too much.
Maybe I had become too much.
Soon, every request felt heavy.
Water.
Food.
Medication.
Help to the bathroom.
None of it sounded unreasonable in my head, yet every time I said it out loud, Adam made me feel guilty for needing anything at all.
By the end of the week, I was apologizing before I even asked.
And each time I did, he looked a little more annoyed and a little less like the man I thought I was marrying.
Deep down, beneath every excuse I built for him, I knew the truth.
He had not forgotten about me.
He simply did not care enough to stop what he was doing on the other side of that locked door.
One night, the pain woke me just after midnight.
It was sharp, pulsing, and hot.
I reached for my phone and realized I had missed my medication by almost two hours.
“Adam.”
Nothing.
“Adam, please.”
Down the hall, I heard him laughing with his friends online.
I called again.
Louder.
The laughter continued.
I pushed myself toward the edge of the bed and reached for my crutches.
My hand missed.
My good foot hit the floor at a bad angle.
