I rushed inside. The smell of antiseptic choked me. Finally, I found her—lying pale on a bed, head bandaged, no one by her side. My feet froze at the doorway. Shame held me back, until I remembered how she once cared for me when I was sick. My throat tightened. Slowly, I stepped closer.

“Lan…” I whispered.

Her eyes opened, startled. Weak, yet faintly warm, she asked:

“You… why are you here?”

I could barely breathe.

“I… I’m sorry. I saw you, but I walked away. Now I regret it so much.”

She smiled faintly, voice like a fragile thread:

“It’s alright… After all, we’re nothing to each other anymore.”

Her words pierced me. I sat beside her, took her cold hand.

“But to me, you still matter. Maybe I can’t call you my wife, but I can’t ignore you in pain.”

She stayed silent, but her eyes glistened.

The doctor entered, assuring her injuries weren’t life-threatening. Relief washed over me. That night, I stayed. I bought porridge, wiped the dried blood from her face. She watched quietly, saying nothing, but her gaze softened—less distant than before.

In that silence, a realization struck me: love doesn’t vanish with a divorce. It hides beneath wounds and pride, waiting for the right moment to resurface.

As I sat by her bedside, I thought: why did it take an accident to admit I still loved her? If I had left her there, regret would have haunted me forever.

For two years, I thought everything was over. But now I know—sometimes love isn’t gone. It simply waits, patient, for fate to awaken it again.