18. Chapter 18

Chapter eighteen

Present

W rapped in a blanket on the sofa, all curled up, Laelia has been there all day, barely moving except for the occasional trip to the bathroom or change of clothes. The house, usually vibrant with her energy, feels eerily quiet. I’ve cancelled all my clients for the week to care for her, but not without informing Ethan of the situation. The conversation left a bitter taste in my mouth; his response was not just curt but dismissive, almost as if he were begrudging me my time off. I can’t help but feel that his attitude might stem from jealousy or a misplaced sense of superiority, especially given his track record with relationships.

Ethan’s words replay in my mind. “You've already had a lot of time off work! You need to get back to normal now, Killian.” He had no right to judge my situation. His criticisms seemed to come from a place of irritation rather than genuine concern. “ If we have to pay back every client you are cancelling and rearranging, we are going to end up struggling.” He’s right to some extent, but it’s not like I have a choice. My family’s needs come first.

I understand Ethan’s concern for the business, but it’s frustrating when he doesn’t seem to grasp the gravity of what’s happening at home. Laelia is my fiance, carrying our child. If she’s unwell, it’s my responsibility to care for her, not to mention the fact that her health directly impacts our unborn baby. It’s a different kind of commitment, one Ethan seems to struggle to appreciate.

I lock my phone with a heavy sigh and place it on the kitchen counter, trying to push away the stress Ethan’s comments have stirred. My primary focus needs to be on Laelia, who is now resting on the sofa. I’ve been trying to get her to eat, but she refuses every offer. This lack of appetite is deeply worrying. Laelia has always had a hearty appetite, relishing her meals with enthusiasm. Her sudden disinterest in food, especially given her pregnancy, is alarming.

Returning to the living room, I place the back of my hand against Laelia’s forehead, feeling the unnerving heat radiating from her. She remains asleep, but her restless movements reveal her discomfort. She’s complained of stomach aches, dizziness, nausea, and a persistent fever throughout the day. Despite her attempts to downplay her condition, I know these are not just normal pregnancy symptoms. Her reassurances do little to ease my worry.

I’ve stayed close to her, not leaving her side unless absolutely necessary. I’ve even suggested carrying her back to bed, but she insists on staying on the sofa, preferring the comfort of familiar surroundings. We’ve settled into a routine of moving her from bed to sofa and back, though she’s spent most of the day in a haze of sleep.

Heading to the kitchen, I prepare a small glass of water and take out two paracetamol tablets. As I approach Laelia, I place the tablets and the water on the table and crouch down beside her. Her paleness is striking; the bags under her eyes are darkening, and she looks alarmingly fragile. The light that usually shines in her eyes seems dimmed, replaced by a haunting coldness. It’s unsettling, and the atmosphere in the house feels almost oppressive, as if the very walls are closing in.

I gently place my hand on her shoulder, noting how cold she feels. I shake her softly, and her eyes flutter open, meeting mine with a weak gaze. I hand her the tablets and water, which she accepts with a faint, tired smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“Will you let me get you something to eat now?” I ask, though I already know her answer. She shakes her head, and my heart aches at her refusal. “You need to eat something, Laelia.”

She reaches for my hand, her touch icy against my skin. The sensation sends a shiver down my spine, intensifying the eerie feeling that has settled over the house. It’s not fear in the usual sense but a deep, gnawing anxiety about losing her and our unborn child. The thought of being alone in this house without her is suffocating.

“Please, can we watch The Muppet’s Christmas Carol ?” she requests softly. “I know it’s only June, but I love that film.”

Despite the heavy atmosphere, her request brings a small, wistful smile to my face. How could I deny her? I retrieve the remote and navigate to the film, settling beside her on the sofa. I lift her legs gently, placing them over mine so she’s close.

As The Muppet’s Christmas Carol begins, its cheerful opening notes provide a stark contrast to the heaviness that has settled over the room. I can’t help but smile as I watch Laelia, her eyes following the screen with a distant, almost melancholic focus. The film's whimsical characters and upbeat music should be a source of joy, but today they seem like a fragile thread connecting us to happier times.

I adjust her blanket, tucking it around her more snugly, and notice how her once-vibrant eyes now seem dulled by exhaustion. She’s so still, so fragile, and it feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on both of us. The film’s familiar scenes play out, but my mind is preoccupied with worry. I keep glancing at Laelia, assessing her condition, trying to gauge whether there’s any improvement or if she’s sinking further.

The house is eerily quiet except for the movie’s soundtrack and the occasional creak of the floorboards. I feel a chill, not just from the coldness in the house, but from the palpable sense of dread that has been building. Every shadow seems to take on a life of its own, every sound echoes with a strange resonance. The silence between scenes feels thick, almost as if the air itself is holding its breath.

Laelia shifts slightly, and I notice her shivering despite the layers of blankets. I reach out, my hand gently resting on her forehead. The heat radiating from her is intense. I’ve been using a thermometer periodically, and each time the reading only reassures me that she is indeed running a high fever. The thought of her lying here, so vulnerable, gnaws at me with a relentless intensity.

I reach over to the coffee table and pick up the remote, pausing the movie. Laelia looks at me, her gaze soft and tired.

“Do you want to try and eat something now?” I ask gently, my voice barely above a whisper. She shakes her head, her eyes drifting back to the screen.

“Maybe later,” she replies, her voice thin and unsteady. “Right now, I just want to stay here with you.”

I nod, understanding that any attempt to force food on her might only add to her distress. Instead, I settle back, ensuring that she remains comfortable. The warmth of the blanket is a small consolation, but it seems like a fragile defence against the cold that has seeped into the very core of this house.

As the movie continues, I find myself drifting in and out of focus, my thoughts consumed by a mix of fear and frustration. I think of Ethan’s comments and the pressure they put on me. Part of me wants to lash out, to make him understand how dire our situation is, but another part of me recognises that right now, my energy is better spent on Laelia. Ethan’s issues are secondary to the battle we’re facing here at home.

Laelia stirs again, this time reaching out to me with a shaky hand. Her fingers brush against mine, and I squeeze her hand gently. Her eyes meet mine, and for a brief moment, there’s a flicker of the warmth and light that I’ve been missing. “Thank you for being here,” she murmurs. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Her words, though faint, carry a weight that tugs at my heart. I’ve always prided myself on being strong for her, but today, I feel the cracks showing. The realisation that we’re navigating this alone, with no clear end in sight, is overwhelming. But in this quiet moment, as we sit together, there’s a small comfort in simply being present for each other.

I reach over and adjust the blanket around her once more, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. Her breathing is steady but shallow, and I watch as she settles back, her eyes closing once more. The movie plays on, but I’m less aware of it now, lost in my thoughts and the silent prayer that she’ll start to recover soon.

As the film’s narrative unfolds, I let myself be lulled by its comforting familiarity. The characters’ trials and triumphs offer a semblance of normalcy, a fleeting distraction from the fear that grips me. The light from the television flickers across the room, casting dancing shadows that momentarily mask the stark reality of our situation.

My mind drifts to a past Christmas, a memory that now seems like a distant dream. I remember how the room was filled with laughter, the scent of pine and cinnamon filling the air, and Laelia’s bright eyes sparkling with holiday cheer. We’d spent the day decorating the tree together, our fingers sticky with tinsel and hot cocoa, and later gathered around a fire with our favourite holiday movie playing in the background. That Christmas, everything felt so perfect, so full of hope and promise.

As I watch the movie now, I can almost hear the carols we sang, see the twinkling lights on the tree, and feel the warmth of her smile. It’s a bittersweet reminder of how much has changed, of the fragility of our moments together.

In the midst of this uncertainty, that Christmas stands as a beacon of what we’ve shared, a symbol of resilience and joy that I cling to. It’s a reminder that, even in our darkest hours, there have been brighter days, and that perhaps, with time and care, we can find our way back to those better moments. For now, I’ll stay here by her side, watching the movie with her, a silent witness to our shared struggle and a steadfast support in the face of adversity, holding onto the hope that we’ll create new memories as beautiful as those past ones.