8
Oliver’s friend sent me a photo.
It showed Oliver in a hospital bed, looking pale and disheveled, clutching a handful of broken shards.
“Anna, Oliver heard you left and threw away all your keepsakes. He actually went digging through the landfill, looking for your photo albums and some bamboo plant.”
“Come on, give him a break. He regrets everything now. Don’t be so coldhearted. Otherwise, Luna might step in and take him for good. You don’t want that, do you? Marriage is like this–you’re a woman, you should know better.”
I smiled and replied crisply, “Tell him to call Luna. She’s the one who should be taking care of him. I was never meant to be Mrs. Carter.”
“Let him know,” I added, “he doesn’t have to wait for the next life. I’m fine giving them my blessing in this one.”
From the hospital bed, Oliver’s eyes widened in disbelief.
He stumbled out of bed, trying to grab his friend’s phone, but I’d already ended the video call.
Leaning back, I placed a hand on my now slightly rounded stomach, feeling a mix of surprise and calm.
Recently, Will had taken me to try on wedding dresses. He’d noticed how thin I was and insisted on cooking meals for me himself to help me regain my health.
“What kind of life were you living?” he’d asked, spooning soup into my bowl. “You’re all skin and bones.”
The doctor had mentioned my irregular cycle and prescribed medication, along with a daily foot soak. Will had taken it upon himself to prepare the foot bath every evening, even gently helping me take off my shoes.
It felt strange, being cared for like this. I was used to being the one who did everything. My body tensed, and instinctively, my hands landed on his broad shoulders for balance.
His shoulders were steady, solid–something I could lean on.
10:32 AM J.
