Page 193 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
THE NEXT THREE HOURSpassed in a strange, suspended quiet.
I lay back against the pillows, my eyes closed most of the time—not because I couldn’t keep them open, but because everything still felt like too much when I did.
Light was overwhelming in ways I hadn’t expected.
Even through my eyelids, I could sense it—soft, shifting.
When I did open my eyes, I took in small pieces at a time.
The corner of the ceiling.
The line where the wall met the floor.
The faint reflection in the metal railing of the bed.
Simple things.
Things I had once taken for granted.
Across the room, Ramiro remained exactly where he had been—near the door.
Standing.
He hadn’t sat down once.
Not even for a moment.
My gaze drifted to him more than once, studying him quietly when he wasn’t looking directly at me. The stillness of him. The alertness.
Finally, the door opened again.
The doctor returned, repeating a few of the earlier checks, his movements efficient.
“Everything looks good,” he said after a moment. “You’re cleared for discharge.”
Relief washed over me—quiet but definite.
I pushed myself upright once more, slower this time, more aware of my body.
When I stood, the world didn’t tilt.
That alone felt like a victory.
Ramiro stepped forward immediately, extending his arm toward me out of habit.
I looked at it.
Then back at him.
For a brief second, neither of us moved.
“I can walk,” I said gently.
Something flickered in his expression—approval, maybe.
But he didn’t withdraw his arm right away.
“Just in case,” he replied.
