Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Haydn

You know what I’m hating the most? Every time I’m near them, she’s telling Keane how much he meant to her, recounting an old memory like it’s a lifeline. Her words are soft, reverent, like she’s piecing together the fragments of their story in a way that makes it feel alive again.

And me? I’m in the background, the muted tones of a story she isn’t telling.

My fear—the one I keep trying to tell myself isn’t real—is that as she remembers him, as she continues walking down memory lane with him, she’s forgetting us. Forgetting me.

Is this an unfounded fear?

Probably, but fear is a cruel thing. It doesn’t have to make sense or have proof to be real. It just grows, feeding on the quiet moments, the glances you don’t want to see, the way someone’s voice softens when they’re lost in a memory. Fear whispers, louder than reason, that love isn’t enough to hold on to someone. That it can fade, shift, and find its way back to someone else.

And then there’re the boxes.

Unpacked, scattered around the edges of this house like they’re mocking me. They’re hers—filled with her life, her memories, her plans. But will they stay? Or is this just a pit stop, another chapter? Will she unpack her life here, or will she leave it all sealed up, ready to move out when this is over?

I run a hand through my hair, the familiar tension curling through my muscles. Eighteen months. That’s how long the doctors said it could take. Eighteen months to watch her rebuild him piece by piece while I slowly come apart.

Or eighteen months to defend what’s mine without breaking her in the process.

And isn’t that the irony of it all? I don’t resent Keane. I can’t. He didn’t ask for this—for me to step into the wreckage of what was once his life. He didn’t ask for her to shoulder his recovery or for me to stand on the sidelines, hoping—begging—that she doesn’t leave me behind in the process.

But hope feels so fragile lately, like trying to hold on to something slipping through my fingers.

She glances at me from across the room, her lips curving into a small, almost absent smile.

“Hi,” she says softly. “Did you have dinner already?”

Her voice is casual, like nothing about this situation feels like it’s tearing her at the seams. She doesn’t move from her place, one hand resting lightly on the back of Keane’s chair.

“I can make myself a sandwich or something,” I reply, heading toward the kitchen. But then I stop, catching sight of the dinner table—just one plate, carefully set out. His plate. My jaw tightens. “Have you eaten anything since the smoothie this morning?”

She nods, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, your chef kindly made me a shake and a salad around two. Know anything about that?”

I shrug one shoulder. “You need to eat,” I say evenly. “Want me to make you a sandwich or a full dinner?”

She hesitates, her fingers trailing along the edge of the table. “Yeah, can we eat upstairs? On the balcony?” she asks, her tone hopeful.

“Is he coming with us?”

Her brows furrow, and she gives me that look—the one that’s all maturity and calm, as if she’s trying to soothe the unspoken storm between us. “I get why you’re jealous, but you shouldn’t be,” she says, her voice low and measured, only the way Ophelia can.

I let out a dry laugh, pointing at Keane. “Love of your life,” I say, pausing to tap my chest. “Consolation prize. You tell me how the story ends.”

“Haydn,” she murmurs, the hurt flashing in her eyes like a spark she tries to tamp down.

I shake my head, cutting her off before she can say more. “I’ll get everything set up on the balcony,” I say, my tone clipped. “The nurse should be here soon to take him to his room.”

I turn on my heel and head toward the stairs, my steps heavier than they need to be. My chest feels tight, a mix of frustration and resignation threatening to choke me.

As I walk away, I wonder—am I strong enough for this? Strong enough to stay, to fight for a place in her life when so much of her heart seems wrapped up in his?

And for the first time, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

The thought settles like a stone in my chest.

Eighteen months. That’s all I can give. After that, if she’s still standing there, looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters, I don’t think I’ll have anything left to give.

But for now, I’ll stay.

Because I love her. And if there’s one thing I know about love, it’s that it’s never fair, but sometimes it’s all you’ve got.