Learning to Let Go of What Hurts

After pursuing Yves Chapman for five years, he finally agrees to marry me.

Two months before the wedding, I get into an accident. I call him thrice, but he rejects my call each time. It's only because Clarisse Tatcher advises him to give me the cold shoulder for a while to stop me from pestering him.

When I crawl out of that valley, I'm covered in injuries. My right hand has a comminuted fracture.

At that moment, I finally understand that certain things can't be forced. But after that, he starts to wait outside my door, his eyes red as he asks me to also give him five years.

When I arrived at the hospital, my clothes were torn, and my body was covered in wounds.

The doctor sighed when he saw me. He said that if I had come just a few hours earlier, my arm might have been saved.

I stared numbly at the ceiling as I listened to the doctor's verdict. My right arm had suffered comminuted fractures. I would likely never paint again.

Tears slipped down from my eyes. I felt despaired. Why couldn't I learn to let go?

What was Yves Chapman doing right now?

He'd probably broken open a new bottle of wine last night to celebrate the absence of my harassment. Maybe he played the piano with Clarisse Tatcher, his junior, and enjoyed their time alone.

I laughed self-deprecatingly. I wasn't a hindrance between them anymore.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Yves.

I closed my eyes slowly. It was time I learned my lesson.

Yves stormed into my room, not a wrinkle seen on his clothes, and frowned down at me. His eyes were cold, as if he was just looking at some peasant. "What are you playing at this time?" he chided. "Why aren't you answering your phone?

"Did you really hurt yourself just because I didn't answer your call yesterday? I told you, I was busy. Why can't you be more sensible?"

My wounds, still bleeding, seemed to suffer another blow, thanks to his words.

My cold, numb heart seemed to cry out again at that moment. He never even asked me what happened before doling out judgment. Not even the sight of me lying here, injured, could affect him in any way.

On the other hand, it wasn't surprising that he could affect me with just a few words. I'd loved him for five years, after all.

I looked at him sadly, unable to say a word. Tears pooled in my eyes, poignant and pleading.

The white walls seemed to reflect his indifference, while the smell of disinfectant permeating the air scorned my foolhardiness.

Yves had never seen me like this before, so he was uncomfortable. "Rest and recover well. Don't forget to sign up for the National Art and Design Competition next week. I'm going back to practice."

"The piano competition is very important to me," he added. "Don't disturb me."

With that, he turned and left,