Paul never came back. His things were gone. The wardrobe held empty hangers. On the bedside tablea note scribbled on a scrap of paper: *Couldnt take it. Sorry.*
When Kate fell ill, the world didnt collapseit just stopped breathing.
At first came the weakness, the dull ache in her limbs, then the fever that wouldnt break, no matter the pills or injections. Then the pain in her chest, like a red-hot iron rod twisting slowly inside her. She lay on their Chesterfield sofa, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the ceiling, wondering: *Is this just the flu? Or something worse?*
That evening, Paul came home late. He shrugged off his coat, tossed his keys onto the bureau, and without looking at her, asked:
“Youre still in bed? The dishes arent done. The place is a mess.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I cant get up.”
He sighed as if it were her faultbeing ill, lying there, disrupting his evening.
“Fine. Im having a shower.”
No embrace. No touch.
She said nothing. She didnt even have the strength to feel angry.
The next day, she was taken to hospital. The diagnosis was grim: bilateral pneumonia, complicated by viral infection, suspected autoimmune involvement. The doctors spoke quickly, clinically, without emotionbut in their eyes, Kate read: *This could go badly.*
She asked the nurse for her phone to call Paul.
The nurse obliged. Kate dialled. He didnt answer.
She tried again an hour later. Then again. And again.
On the fourth attempt, he picked up. His voice was flat, as if shed roused him from something far more important.
“What?”
“Paul theyve admitted me. Its serious. I need”
She didnt finish. He cut her off.
“Im at work, Kate. Not now.”
“But Im scared”
“Youre a grown woman. The doctors are there. What, you want me to drop everything and run to you?”
She fell silent. A lump hardened in her throat.
“Alright,” she murmured. “Sorry to bother you.”
He didnt reply. Just hung up.
Day three in hospital.
Kate lay with an IV in her arm, watching the world outside the windowgrey sky, rain-slick pavements, lone pedestrians in macs. The ward was silent save for the ticking clock and the hum of the heating system.
She called Paul again. Ringing. Still ringing.
Then the woman in the next bed said softly:
“Dont call him. Hes gone. Left the keys with me.”
“Gone? Where?”
“Didnt say. Just packed his things and left.”
Kate closed her eyes. Something inside her chest snapped. Not her heartsomething unseen, delicate, the thing that had tied her to him for years.
She didnt cry. She didnt have the strength for that, either.
On the seventh day, her mother arrived.
She barged into the ward with bags, packages, and a look that could level the hospital if anyone dared cross her daughter.
“That absolute coward!” she burst out at the sight of Kate. “How could he?”
Kate tried to smile, but it faltered.
“Mum”
“Shh, shh. Im here now. Youre not alone.”
Her mother stayed. Slept on the fold-out chair beside the bed, brought homemade broth in a thermos, argued with doctors to get the best treatment, hounded the nurses if anything seemed amiss.
“Youre not alone,” she repeated every morning. “Youre not alone, love.”
And for the first time in a long while, Kate believed it.
Discharge.
Three weeks later, she was released. Weak, thinner, dark circles under her eyesbut alive.
At home, everything was as shed left it. Dust on the shelves, a musty smell in the air. Dirty dishes. Paul hadnt returned. His things were gone. The wardrobe held empty hangers. On the bedside tablethat same scrap of paper:
*Couldnt take it. Sorry.*
Kate stared at the words for a long time. Then she crumpled the note and threw it away.
Her mother helped her clean, wash the windows, air out the flat.
“Fresh start,” she said.
Kate nodded.
The first month after illness.
She could barely walk. Breathing was still hard. But every day, she took ten more steps than the last. Then twenty. Soon, she made it to the balcony, then the garden.
Work called. Asked when shed return.
“Soon,” she replied.
Though she didnt know if she ever would.
Return.
Six weeks later, she walked into the office. Colleagues looked at her cautiously, as if she were fragile china.
“Were so glad youre back!” her manager said, hugging her.
Kate smiled. For the first time in monthsit was real.
Work became her refuge. She forgot the pain, the hollowness in her chest, the man whod left her in her darkest hour.
In the evenings, she wrote in her journal. Not complaintsjust facts:
*Today, I walked three blocks without getting winded.
Today, I ate a whole apple.
Today, I didnt think of him.*
Autumn.
Leaves fell. Kate bought herself a new coatdeep burgundy, the colour of life, not sickness.
She started yoga. Then photography classes. Saturdays were for the library.
Life wasnt perfect. But it was hers.
One evening, passing a shop window, she saw a small stained-glass figurinea horse, shimmering in the light.
She stopped.
As a child, shed dreamed of horses. A white mare with a mane like clouds. Her parents had laughed: “Weve got a garden, not a stable!” But once, her father brought her a wooden carvingrough, but with kind eyes.
Kate went in and bought the glass horse.
“Its a symbol,” the shopkeeper said. “Freedom. Strength. Survival.”
“I know,” Kate smiled.
Winter.
Paul called in December.
“Kate can we talk?”
She said nothing.
“I I didnt realise how bad it was. Thought it was just a cold. Then I was ashamed. Didnt know how to come back.”
She watched the snow outsidequiet, steady.
“You didnt come back, Paul. You vanished. When I needed you mostyou werent there.”
“I know. Im sorry.”
“Sorry isnt something you just get. Its something you earn. And you didnt even try.”
He was silent.
“I miss you,” he whispered.
“I dont,” she said. “I missed who you couldve been. But you werent him.”
She hung up.
Her heart didnt ache. Not even a little.
Spring.
Kate sold the old furniture, bought new. Adopted a black cat with green eyes. Named her Blossom.
She started writing short storiesabout illness, about horses, about women learning to breathe again.
Her mother visited every weekend. They drank tea, laughed, watched old films.
“Youre glowing,” her mother said once.
“Am I?”
“Yes. Like someone lit a lamp inside you.”
Kate smiled.
“Maybe because Im not afraid of the dark anymore.”
Summer.
She went to the countrysideto a childhood friends. There were fields, a river, a stable.
On the first day, she approached a chestnut horse with warm breath and soft eyes.
“May I?” she asked the stable hand.
“Go on,” he said. “Just dont be afraid.”
She mounted. The horse moved. Wind in her face, grass underfoot, sky overhead.
Kate closed her eyes.
And for the first time in so long, she didnt just feel aliveshe felt free.
Epilogue.
A year passed.
Kate no longer thought of Paul. No hatred, no longingjust absence. He was a chapter. Painful, dark, but done.
She wasnt looking for love. But she wasnt afraid of it, either.
She was living.
And that, in itself, was victory.
*Sometimes people leave not because youre unworthy of love,
but because they dont know how to stay when it matters.
And then you learn to stay for yourself.
And thatis enough.*
