Chapter 4

During his second week in the hospital, Chloe came by every single day.

She brought homemade soup, fresh bouquets, and cookies she baked herself.

The nurses all got to know her, praising her for being such a sweet, devoted friend.

She would pull up a chair next to his bed, reading him news from her phone.

"Ethan, did you hear? That hotpot place near our old block shut down."

"Ethan, the forecast says next week will be sunny. As soon as you're discharged, I’ll push your wheelchair through the park."

Whenever Ethan looked at her, a faint spark flickered in his dead eyes.

But nursing a paralyzed man takes more than sweet talk.

Ethan couldn't turn over without someone lifting him. He had to be sponge-bathed, and his catheter bag had to be emptied and sanitized daily.

He hated that more than anything.

He used to be the sharpest, most capable mechanic at the shop.

He could slide under a chassis in his grease-stained overalls and tear apart a V8 engine with his bare hands.

He had broad shoulders, defined arms, and an arrogant stride.

Now, he couldn't even sit up without panting.

That afternoon, the orderly stepped out to grab hot water.

Only Ethan, Chloe, and I were left in the room.

Chloe was holding up her phone, showing him old photos.

In the picture, they were standing outside the auto shop, Ethan's arm thrown casually over her shoulders, flashing a cocky, handsome grin.

"Look how cool you were back then, Ethan. Once you recover, we'll go back to—"

She stopped midsentence.

Ethan’s face twisted violently.

He tried to hoist himself up with his elbows, his neck veins bulging, his core failing to engage.

He turned his desperate eyes toward me, gritting his teeth.

I pretended to be engrossed in my phone.

The air in the room shifted.

Chloe froze.

Her nostrils flared slightly as she instinctively held her breath, leaning back by a fraction of an inch.

It was just an involuntary reflex, but Ethan caught it.

His face flushed crimson with shame, before turning completely white.

"Get out."

Chloe panicked: "Ethan, I didn't mean—"

"GET THE HELL OUT!"

He seized the stainless steel thermos from the bedside table and hurled it with all his strength.

The flask hit the tiled floor, burst open, and boiling water splashed across Chloe's sneakers.

She shrieked, leaping backward in fright.

Ethan slammed his eyes shut, his chest heaving violently.

I got up and took Chloe gently by the elbow.

"Go wait outside. He needs a minute to calm down."

Out in the sterile hallway, Chloe shook like a leaf, weeping into her hands.

"Nora, I swear I wasn't disgusted by him."

I handed her a tissue.

"I know."

She dabbed her eyes, looking at me with wide, frightened eyes.

"Nora... is he going to stay like this forever?"

I looked deep into her eyes.

I saw guilt, terror, and beneath it all, something far uglier: the desperate urge to run.

In our past life, when Chloe was the one lying comatose, Ethan worshipped her like an untouchable saint.

In this life, with Ethan lying in his own filth, all she felt was the urge to flee.

I said softly: "The doctor said neurological rehab takes years. Don't put too much pressure on yourself. Just visit him whenever you have free time."

She nodded frantically.

"I will! I definitely will!"

Her words came fast, but her eyes were completely hollow.

That evening, Evelyn arrived.

When she heard about the outburst, her face darkened into a storm.

She didn't offer a single word of comfort to Chloe.

She only snapped at the orderly: "From now on, do not leave this room unattended."

Chloe stood by the corner of the corridor, head down, fidgeting awkwardly.

In the past life, Evelyn would have wrapped her in a hug, cooing: "My poor sweet girl, you've suffered so much."

In this life, Evelyn’s glare communicated only one brutal thought: *If it weren't for you, my son wouldn't be a useless cripple.*

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