Chapter 2

On the third day in the hospital, Michael started staying by my bedside every day.

Still, he never spoke in front of me.

When the doctor did rounds, he typed on his phone. When the nurse changed my bandages, he used hand gestures.

Watching him so perfectly act the part of a mute, I only felt a deep, cold chill.

Sophie visited often. She brought soup, fruit, and all the desserts I used to love.

Every time she came in, her eyes would find Michael first.

Only after confirming he was there would she come to my bedside.

"Claire, feeling any better today?" Sophie asked.

I couldn't speak, so I just nodded.

She opened the thermos. "Michael specially asked me to buy this. He remembered you liked it."

I looked away. Michael specially asked her to do this. Even caring about me went through her hands.

Michael stood by the window. His phone buzzed.

Sophie glanced down, and her ears turned slightly pink.

I could see it clearly. It was a text from Michael.

Michael: [The soup is too hot. Tell her to wait.]

It was sweet of him. But he'd rather text Sophie than tell me himself.

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see any more.

In the evening, Sophie left. It was just Michael and me in the room.

He sat by the bed and slid the whiteboard toward me. "Does it still hurt?"

I didn't take it. He paused, then wrote again. "The doctor said you're recovering well. Don't be scared."

I stared at his writing, and a bitter feeling rose in my throat.

He had a voice, but he treated me like I was the one who could only approach him with written words.

Four years ago, after Michael's first failed rehab session, he'd swept all his training cards off the table.

The doctor told him not to rush, and he walked out.

When we got home, he locked himself in his study for the whole night.

I couldn't get him to open the door, so I sat outside and waited with him.

At 2 a.m., he slid a note under the door. "Am I a lost cause?"

I'd cried harder than he did. But I wrote back. "No. You're just tired. Let's try again tomorrow."

I'd made him cards for all the consonants, vowels, and breathing rhythms.

On the back of each one, I'd written encouragement. "Michael made progress today." "It's okay to go slow." "I'm right here."

He kept every single one. I thought he treasured them. Now I knew he just couldn't be bothered to throw them away.

The day before I was discharged, the doctor gave a warning. "The wound on her throat is deep. She shouldn't speak for a while. If she doesn't recover properly, it could affect her ability to speak in the future."

Michael's face went pale. He grabbed his pen and wrote fast. "Will there be lasting damage?"

The doctor glanced at me. "It depends on her recovery. Her emotional state is important too. The family should take good care of her."

Michael nodded. For a moment, his worry seemed so real. But I just couldn't bring myself to trust it anymore.

On discharge day, it rained. Michael held an umbrella over me, tilting it so far my way that his shoulder was soon soaked.

Before, I would have felt bad and pulled him closer. This time, I just kept walking.

At the hospital entrance, a familiar voice called out. "Claire Winters?"

I looked up. It was my high school classmate, Melissa Grant.

She saw Michael, and her eyes narrowed. "It really is you. All these years, and you're still stuck with your mute husband?"

Michael stopped walking. I did too. Rain pattered on the umbrella's edge, drip, drip, drop.

Melissa looked me up and down. "You got into so many fights for him back then, telling everyone he'd get better. So, has he even said your name yet?"

She covered her mouth, her tone dripping with disdain. "Claire, you're a trooper. I would've lost my mind by now."

Before, I always used to step in front of Michael. I'd explain with red-rimmed eyes. "He's not mute. Don't talk about him like that. You have no idea how hard he's trying."

But today, I didn't move. I looked at Michael.

A last, tiny, desperate hope flickered in my chest. If he would just say one sentence. "Don't talk to her that way." Or, "She's my wife." I could have accepted that I wasn't completely over it yet.

But Michael just stood there. Rain splashed from the umbrella onto his sleeves. His silence was utterly natural.

Melissa's gaze grew sharper. "See? You've defended him for so long, and he can't even stand up for you."

A metallic taste flooded my throat. But somehow, it didn't hurt as much anymore.

When people reached rock bottom with disappointment, they would stop hoping.

I turned and got into the car. Michael followed quickly.

He looked at me several times during the drive. His phone screen lit up and went dark. Finally, he slid it toward me with a text. [Don't listen to her.]

I read it, then pushed the phone back. The car fell silent. He finally got the peace and quiet he wanted. But his brow was furrowed tight.