Bound By Shadows

Chapter 30 - Fragile Threads

The days that followed were heavy, yet strangely gentle.

The hospital became our world—white walls, the constant beep of machines, the muted footsteps of nurses. Keifer was kept under close watch, his body stitched and bruised, his movements limited, but his eyes were alive again.

And those eyes… they never stopped following me.

Every time I stood, he watched. Every time I fixed his blanket, adjusted his pillow, or brought him water, his gaze lingered as if afraid I would vanish if he blinked.

“Stop staring,” I whispered one afternoon, tucking the sheet near his shoulder.

“I can’t,” he admitted quietly, his voice still hoarse. “I thought I’d never get the chance again.”

My chest tightened. I turned away, hiding the storm of emotions his words caused.

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Our days moved in rhythms—small, fragile, unspoken. I would feed him soup, though he grumbled like a child about hospital food. I would adjust his IV line while he teased that I should have been a nurse instead of a wife. Sometimes, when I thought he was asleep, I would sit by the window and cry silently, the grief of our lost child pressing into my heart.

And sometimes, when I drifted into restless sleep in the chair, I would wake to find his bruised fingers brushing my hair, his eyes soft with regret.

But we were not perfect.

We clashed.

“Keifer, you need to let the nurse help you walk—”

“I don’t want anyone but you,” he snapped, trying to pull himself up. His face tightened in pain, but his pride refused to bend.

“You’ll tear your stitches again!” I shot back, grabbing his arm. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“Because if I show weakness, they’ll think I’m useless!” His voice cracked, sharp with frustration. “And I can’t be useless, Jay—not to you, not to anyone.”

The words stung. My throat ached. “You already gave me everything. And still… still I lost it. We lost it.”

Silence fell. Heavy. Suffocating.

His eyes darkened with guilt. He reached for my hand, but I pulled it back, shaking.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” I whispered, tears threatening. “I don’t have the strength left.”

For the first time, Keifer’s walls crumbled. He leaned back, covering his face with his hand. His shoulders trembled—not from pain, but from the weight of helplessness.

“Then don’t give up on me, Jay,” he murmured through ragged breaths. “Please. Even if I fail, even if I break, don’t let go.”

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That night, when the hospital ward grew quiet, I sat by his bedside again. He was asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily, his hand still clutching the blanket like a child afraid of nightmares.

I studied him—this man who had broken me, loved me, lost me, and somehow still held my heart. The bruises on his skin seemed smaller compared to the wounds between us, yet there was something undeniable in the way he reached for me even in sleep.

I leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. My voice was barely a whisper.

“I’m still here, Keifer. Even when I said I wanted to leave… even when I hated you… I stayed. And maybe I always will.”

His lips curved faintly, as if he had heard me even in dreams.

And I knew then: our story wasn’t healed, but it wasn’t over either.

It was fragile, broken, stitched together like his wounds—bleeding, but alive.

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