I nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“But today,” he said, voice cracking, “when I thought I was losing her… I’d do it all again. Every surgery. Every insult. Just to keep her here.”
“That’s love,” I said. “It makes the pain worth it.”
He stood and hugged me — tight.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For everything.”
Emily stayed in the ICU for weeks. When she finally woke fully, I was there.
“Either I’m dead,” she rasped, “or God has a cruel sense of humor.”
“You’re alive,” I said. “Very much.”
She smiled faintly. “Ethan told me. About you. About everything.”
She took my hand.
“When I’m better,” she said, “would you like to get coffee somewhere that doesn’t smell like antiseptic?”
“I’d like that,” I said.
She squeezed my hand. “Don’t disappear.”
“I won’t.”
Sometimes Ethan joins us now. We sit in a small café downtown, talking about books, music, life.
And if anyone ever tells me again that I ruined his life?
I’ll look them straight in the eye and say:
“If wanting you to be alive is ‘ruining’ it — then yeah. I’m guilty.”
