Chapter 2

About thirty feet away, a bright line of police tape cordoned off the scene of the accident.

Mark and my lifeless body were separated by nothing but a billboard.

Some people stood behind the police tape, their grief echoing through the scene.

But no one could recognize the woman lying at the very front of the bus, the one whose forehead had been smashed open.

I wished so badly that Mark would turn around and notice the mismatched indicator flashing on the side of the bus, pointing toward his company's direction.

I wished that he'd see the red backpack I'd worn for years.

More than anything, I wished he'd collapse in the pool of blood, desperately pull my body into his arms, and cry out as if he'd loved me more than anything.

But Mark didn't move.

He stood there quietly, blocking the woman from seeing all the shattered remains and blood spread across the scene.

Mark said softly, "Don't look. You'll only have nightmares tonight."

He shoved the woman into the car, ignoring how her crimson-tipped nails jabbed at his throat.

She muttered, "I won't look then. But Mark, you seriously aren't going to glance back? Your wife takes the bus to work every day. What if—"

Mark stopped her mid-sentence by pressing his lips to hers, silencing her.

He glanced once at the wrecked bus and stomped down hard on the gas pedal.

He said coldly, "She wouldn't. She's so spoiled that she'd never stoop to cramming herself onto some crowded bus. She likes to put on a pity show for me."

I silently drifted after their car, tagging along like a shadow.

Getting hit by that truck didn't hurt nearly as much as this moment did.

It was as if I was being shattered, again and again, with no escape.

Back when the Selene family was still rich, I was a spoiled little kid for a while.

I never set foot outside unless there was a car waiting for me. I refused to walk even a single step.

Sometimes, I'd kick Mark aside with a cold sneer, acting all high and mighty, and one of my fancy dinners could cover his whole month's salary.

But in the ten years that followed, I spent every single moment by his side.

If Mark's stomach acted up, I'd make hot soup and haul it all the way across town for him, even if it took me two hours on the bus.

All it took was a single complaint about the cold, and I'd be out in the middle of the night buying yarn to knit him scarves and gloves.

There were times when Mark happened to see me getting off the bus.

He'd always have that stern look, eyes fixed on my legs that were all swollen from standing too long.

His eyelashes would tremble, eyes brimming with worry and tenderness, as he said, "Nora, can you please take a cab next time?"

I couldn't stand the way Mark looked at me, all worried and tender. Besides, I couldn't bring myself to waste money like that.

So I'd switch between three different buses and walk the last mile to avoid paying a taxi fare.

After all that running around, I'd show up at his place, acting breezy and carefree.

"Mark, the bus driver was great today. He drove so steadily that the soup didn't spill at all," I said.

I used to believe that the smile on his face showed real love for me.

But he was covering up all his suspicions.

That mistress of his knew how I lived.

I was out there riding the bus every day, pinching pennies however I could.

He kept thinking I was out there faking it, putting on a sad act like some spoiled kid he used to know.

Late-stage stomach cancer had me running back and forth to the hospital.

I couldn't even manage a single sip of the soup I made for Mark before I had to rush to the bathroom and vomit. My hands shook so badly that I could barely hold a crochet hook, let alone finish a scarf.

Until the very end, I loved him with everything I had—no holding back, no regrets.

I wondered if Mark ever realized that my final days were filled with so much pain because of him, and whether he would regret not glancing back at me even once today.