Three months.
Every day, at exactly 8 AM, Mira stood at the same spot—right outside the ICU. Dressed perfectly, eyes hollow, makeup smudged from silent tears. She never tried to go inside, never begged anymore. Just… watched.
Jerry lay there, unmoving. A tangle of wires, machines breathing for her. But still alive.
And that was enough.
Until today.
Today, Mr. Kingston approached, silent as a shadow, stopping right beside Mira, who didn't even flinch. Her eyes were too busy memorizing the shape of the girl she once called hers.
"Miss Mira," his voice broke the quiet.
She turned slightly, tired eyes meeting his.
"It's been three months. Every single day you've stood here. I've watched you."
She blinked, a single tear sliding down her cheek.
"It's fine now," he said flatly. "Because starting tomorrow—you're not allowed here anymore."
Mira's breath caught. "W-What? No, please—don't do that. Please…"
"I said what I said."
He reached into his coat and handed her something. A sleek, black iPad.
"This is the only mercy I have left to give you. It shows Jerry's room, live. You'll see her. When she wakes up—if she wakes up—you'll hear her voice. But that's all."
Mira's hands shook as she took it, her entire body trembling like a fragile leaf in a storm.
"I know it's cruel," he continued, voice quieter. "But so is handing divorce papers to someone who's already dying inside."
Mira looked at him, her lips parted as if she wanted to scream that Jerry was hers, that she'd give anything to take it all back.
But what right did she have now?
"And when Jerry wakes up," Mr. Kingston said, "we will tell her… you don't know she's here. That you disappeared."
Mira gasped, chest tightening. "You can't—don't do that! Please…"
"We already chose someone else. Someone healthy. Someone strong. Someone who won't put her in a coma from heartbreak."
Mira's heart stopped. "You… what?"
"She's sweet. A childhood friend. Maybe, eventually, Jerry will smile again with her."
Mira stared at him like he'd just ripped her lungs from her chest.
"She's mine…" Mira whispered hoarsely. "You can't give her to someone else."
Mr. Kingston stared back, cold and broken. "She was yours. Until you gave her away."
Then he stepped back. "You should go. Maybe date someone. Help Jerry move on. Seeing you with someone else will hurt her—but maybe, that pain will finally kill what's left of her love for you."
Mira didn't speak.
She couldn't.
She just turned around, holding the iPad tightly to her chest, walking away with legs that barely held her.
Back home, she sat in the dark, iPad on her lap, staring at Jerry's peaceful face through the screen, whispering:
"I still love you… I still belong to you. Even if I'm only allowed to love you from a screen."
Fifteen days after the world held its breath for Jerry Kingston...
She opened her eyes.
The machines beeped gently, and the first thing Jerry saw was the white ceiling of her hospital room. Her lips parted in a shallow breath, dry and trembling.
Across the city, in the cold, silent corner of her penthouse, Mira was sitting alone with the iPad cradled in her arms like it was the only thing keeping her alive. She hadn't left her spot in hours, days maybe. Her hair was tied messily, her eyes hollow from sleepless nights.
And then—
The screen flickered.
Jerry's fingers moved. Her eyelashes fluttered.
Mira sat up, frozen. Her lips parted.
"Jerry…?" she whispered.
And when Jerry's eyes opened—truly opened—Mira stood up and screamed.
"JERRY! JERRY, YOU WOKE UP!"
She fell to her knees, clutching the iPad. Her tears came like rain, soaking her cheeks as she touched the screen. "I love you! I never stopped, I never will!"
Inside the hospital, Jerry, weak and pale, barely whispered one name.
"…Mira…"
Doctors rushed in, surrounding her, checking vitals, calling out numbers. But Jerry, even half-conscious, murmured it again.
"I still love… Mira…"
And somewhere far away, the woman who broke her heart wept like her soul was shattering.
An Hour Later
Jerry was sitting up in bed, pale and fragile but conscious. The room was overflowing with flowers—white lilies, red roses, sunflowers—hundreds of them. Letters stacked on every side table.
She turned to her assistant, voice hoarse but steady. "Can you check the letters? Any of them from… from my wife?"
The assistant paused. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Jerry waited.
"No," the assistant finally said. "There's none from her. She doesn't know you're here."
Jerry smiled faintly, nodding. "Oh… that's good. I didn't want her to worry…"
She looked down at her lap. Her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
A soft knock came before the door opened.
"Jerry…" Mr. Kingston entered, teary-eyed but smiling. He rushed to her side, cupping her face and kissing her forehead.
"My child… you scared me to death…"
Jerry blinked slowly. "Grandpa…"
He held her hand, sat beside her.
"Mira?" she asked, soft and broken.
He exhaled like it hurt to even speak her name. "She's happy now. In her world. Please, don't let her in here again—not into your heart. Just… look at you. Look at what she did to you."
"But… she's my wife…" Jerry whispered.
"No. No, she's not. It's been four months, Jerry. She left. Not a letter. Not a call. Not a single flower. Do you know what kind of love that is? It's not one worth bleeding for."
Jerry's throat tightened. She pressed a hand to her chest, where the pain never stopped.
"…But only Mira knows what this feels like," she whispered to herself. "Only she ever held my heart."
Mr. Kingston leaned in gently. "I want you to heal. I want you to live. And I want you to stop waiting for someone who already walked away."
Jerry didn't answer. Her fingers traced the space over her heart.
Outside the ICU, far away from their world, Mira sat, watching her silently from the iPad—face soaked, hands trembling, her heart screaming.
She hadn't walked away.
She just didn't know how to walk back.