Chapter 2

Joanna's POV

I took two painkillers. They didn't help much.

My ankle throbbed with a dull ache, like something was drumming beneath my skin.

I didn't sleep all night.

Ethan didn't come home all night.

At seven in the morning, I hobbled into the kitchen on my crutch.

The moment the cooking smoke rose, I suddenly thought of my mom.

I could never see her either.

She was an ER nurse at the hospital. Her schedule was always packed solid. Even on her rare days off, she'd often get called back.

From childhood, I was used to eating alone, sleeping alone, hanging the key around my neck and going to school alone.

But every time Mom came home, she'd busy herself in the kitchen for hours, preparing meals for the next few days. She'd pack them into containers one by one, stacking them in the fridge with sticky notes on the lids. "Eat this on Tuesday," "Remember to heat this one for two minutes."

Later, she had an accident during an emergency rescue. She contracted an acute infectious disease.

From diagnosis to death, only eleven days.

When the operating room lights went out, nineteen-year-old me stood in the corridor, my mind completely blank.

I don't remember my reaction. I only remember my knees hitting the tile floor-it hurt so much. I cried until I couldn't breathe, like all the strength had been drained from my body.

People came and went in the corridor, but not one of them was my family.

Suddenly, someone crouched down in front of me.

A warm bottle of coffee appeared before my eyes, still carrying the warmth of being held in someone's palm.

I looked up and saw a young face with gentle eyes.

"Don't cry anymore." His voice was soft. "Your mother was a great nurse. She saved many lives. Even though she's gone, we'll all remember her."

Through a veil of tears, I saw his name tag: Ethan.

I never drank that bottle of coffee, but I held it in my palm until it went completely cold.

From that day on, I remembered that name and those gentle eyes.

The second time I saw him was two years later.

I was dancing Giselle as the lead for the first time.

During curtain call, the lights were too bright to see the audience clearly, but as I exited, I casually glanced at the seats and spotted a familiar figure in the corner.

He sat there quietly, wearing a dark blue shirt. His applause wasn't enthusiastic, but it was sincere.

After the performance, I didn't change clothes. Clutching a bouquet of pink roses, I ran from backstage and caught him on the theater steps.

"Ethan, can I pursue you?"

He looked at me, clearly startled.

Then he smiled. Warm, but with a weariness I couldn't read at the time.

"I just broke up recently. Someone very important to me went abroad. Right now... I haven't moved on yet."

I knew he was rejecting me.

But the warmth of that coffee bottle still lingered in my heart. Those ten minutes of companionship still lived in my memory.

I desperately wanted that kind of gentle love, unique, a favoritism that belonged only to me.

All my life, with an absent father and a deceased mother, I'd never been watched so attentively by anyone.

He appeared in my most helpless moment. Even if it was just a bottle of coffee, just one word of comfort. To me, it was already light.

"That's okay," I heard myself say. "I can help you move on slowly."

I thought if I was patient enough, sincere enough, he'd eventually turn around and see me.

During these five years together, Ethan really was good to me.

He'd remember my performance dates, occasionally pick me up after work, remind me to take medicine when I caught a cold.

But this kindness always felt like it was separated by a layer of gauze.

Gentle, yes. Just not burning.

He smiled at me, but also at nurses, also at coffee shop cashiers. I couldn't tell whether I was special to him or just one among many.

I convinced myself it was enough.

Being loved by a gentle person was enough.

On my birthday, I thought our relationship should move to the next stage.

I'd reserved his favorite restaurant, prepared a ring, even secretly practiced a solo dance to perform just for him.

That evening, as I was doing one final rehearsal in front of the mirror, my phone rang.

Ethan's voice was urgent. "Grace is back. She's injured. I need to go to the hospital first. Wait for me at the restaurant."

He hung up.

The ring in my pocket, I waited at the restaurant for five hours.

He never came. Never called either.

From that day on, everything changed.

During the time after Grace returned, whenever she called, Ethan would immediately rush over, no matter what he was doing.

He started coming home late frequently, becoming absent-minded frequently. When he mentioned Grace, there was something in his eyes I'd never seen before.

I told myself that once Grace was better, maybe everything would return to normal.

Until that late night.

I got up to get something from the study and accidentally knocked over an old photo album from the corner of the bookshelf.

The album fell to the floor and scattered open.

Every page was Grace.

Some were candid shots, some were photos together.

The backgrounds ranged from campus to hospital, from summer to winter.

And on the back of each photo was Ethan's handwriting.

"Day 47."

"Missing you."

"A patient today had the same birthday as you."

I crouched on the floor, flipping through them one by one. My fingers didn't tremble.

The date on the last photo was the week before our fifth anniversary, late at night.

On the back, it read:

"If you hadn't left back then, I definitely wouldn't have let go."

I closed the album and returned it to the corner of the bookshelf, arranging it exactly as it had been before I took it down.