**Diary Entry**
Paul never came back. His things were gonejust empty hangers in the wardrobe. On the bedside table, a scrap of paper read: *Couldn’t handle it. Sorry.*
When Katie fell ill, the world didnt endit just stopped breathing.
First came the weakness, the dull ache in her limbs, then a fever that no pills or injections could touch. After that, the pain in her chest, like a red-hot iron rod twisting slowly inside. She lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the ceiling, wondering: *Is this just the flu? Or something worse?*
Paul came home late that evening. He shrugged off his coat, tossed his keys onto the dresser, and without looking at her, said, Still lying around? The dishes arent done. The place is a mess.
I cant get up, she whispered.
He sighed, as if her being ill was an inconvenience, a disruption to his evening. Fine. Im having a shower.
No touch. No embrace.
She stayed silent. She didnt even have the strength to resent him.
The next day, she was taken to hospital. The diagnosis was grim: bilateral pneumonia, complicated by a viral infection, possible autoimmune involvement. The doctors spoke quickly, clinicallybut in their eyes, Katie saw it: *This could go badly.*
She asked the nurse for her phone to call Paul.
The nurse brought it. Katie dialled. No answer.
Again an hour later. Again. And again.
On the fourth try, he picked up. His voice was indifferent, like shed woken him from something important.
What?
Paul Im in hospital. Its serious. I need
He cut her off. Im at work, Katie. Not now.
But Im scared
Youre a grown woman. The doctors are there. What, you want me to drop everything and run to you?
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Alright. Sorry to bother you.
No reply. Just the click of the call ending.
**Day Three in Hospital.**
Katie lay with an IV in her arm, staring out the windowgrey sky, wet pavement, lone figures in raincoats. The ward was quiet, just the tick of a clock and the hum of ventilation.
She called Paul again. Ringing. Still ringing.
Then her wardmate spoke. Dont bother. Hes gone. Left his keys with me.
Gone? Where?
Didnt say. Just packed his things and left.
Katie shut her eyes. Something inside her snappednot her heart, but something finer, invisible, the thing that had tied her to him for years.
She didnt cry. She didnt even have the strength for that.
**Day Seven.** Her mum arrived.
She burst into the ward with bags, bundles, and a look that said shed tear the hospital apart if anyone hurt her girl. That absolute *rotter*, she hissed, seeing Katie. How *could* he?
Katie tried to smile. It wobbled. Mum
Shh. Im here now.
Her mum stayed. Slept on the fold-out chair, brought soup in a thermos, argued with doctors for better meds.
Youre not alone, she said every morning. Youre not alone, Katie.
And for the first time in ages, Katie believed it.
**Discharge.**
Three weeks later, she was releasedthin, weak, shadows under her eyes, but alive.
At home, everything was as shed left it. Dust on the shelves, a stale smell. Dirty dishes. Paul hadnt returned. His things were gone. Empty hangers. On the nightstand, that same scrap: *Couldnt handle it. Sorry.*
Katie stared at the words, then crumpled the note and threw it away.
Her mum helped clean, open windows, air out the rooms.
Fresh start, she said.
Katie nodded.
**One Month Later.**
She could barely walk. Breathing still hurt. But every day, she took ten more steps than yesterday. Then twenty. Then the balcony. Then the garden.
Work called. Asked when shed return.
Soon, she said.
She wasnt sure she ever would.
**Six Weeks.** Back at the office.
Colleagues glanced at her like she was fragile china.
Were so glad youre back! her manager said, hugging her.
Katie smiled. Properly. For the first time in months.
Work became her lifeline. It dulled the ache, the hollow feeling, the memory of loving a man whod left in her darkest hour.
Evenings, she wrote in her journal. Not complaintsjust facts:
*Today, I walked three blocks without gasping.
Today, I ate a whole apple.
Today, I didnt think of him.*
**Autumn.** Leaves fell.
Katie bought a new coatdeep burgundy. The colour of life, not sickness.
She took up yoga. Then photography classes. Saturdays, the library.
Life wasnt perfect. But it was *hers*.
One evening, she saw a stained-glass horse figurine in a shop window. She stopped.
As a child, shed dreamed of horsesa snow-white mare with a cloud for a mane. Her parents had laughed. Weve got a garden, not a ranch! But once, her dad brought her a rough wooden carving with kind eyes.
She bought the glass horse.
Its a symbol, the shopkeeper said. Freedom. Strength.
I know, Katie smiled.
**Winter.** Paul called in December.
Katie can we talk?
Silence.
I I didnt know it was so serious. Then I was ashamed. Didnt know how to come back.
She watched snow fall outside.
You didnt come back, Paul. You vanished. When I needed you mostyou werent there.
Im sorry.
Sorry isnt something you just *get*. You earn it. And you didnt even try.
A pause. I miss you.
I dont, she said. I missed who you couldve been. But that wasnt you.
She hung up.
Her heart didnt ache. Not even a little.
**Spring.**
Katie sold the old furniture. Bought new. Adopted a black cat with green eyesnamed her Blossom.
She started writing storiesabout illness, about horses, about women learning to breathe again.
Her mum visited weekends. They drank tea, laughed, watched old films.
Youre glowing, her mum said once.
Am I?
Yes. Like someone lit a lamp inside you.
Katie smiled.
Maybe because Im not afraid of the dark anymore.
**Summer.**
She visited a childhood friend in the countrysidefields, a river, a stable.
A chestnut horse stood there, warm breath, soft eyes.
Can I? she asked the stable hand.
Go on, he said. Dont be scared.
She mounted. The horse moved. Wind in her face, grass underfoot, sky overhead.
Katie closed her eyes.
And for the first time in too long, she didnt just feel aliveshe felt *free*.
**Epilogue.**
A year passed.
Katie didnt think of Paul. No hate, no longingjust nothing. He was a chapter. Painful, dark, but over.
She wasnt looking for love. But she wasnt afraid of it either.
She lived.
And thatthat was victory enough.
*Sometimes people leave not because youre unworthy of love,
but because they dont know how to stay when it matters.
And then you learn to stay for yourself.
And thatthats enough. She kept the glass horse on the windowsill, where the sun caught its colours and threw them like jewels across the room. On quiet mornings, shed watch the light shift and remember the woman shed beenthe one whod stared at the ceiling, waiting for someone else to save her. Now, she made her own warmth. She opened the window, let the breeze in, and stepped outside, into the ordinary, beautiful day.
