**Diary Entry A Year of Breathing Again**
Paul never came back. His things were gone. The wardrobe held empty hangers. On the bedside table, a note scribbled on a scrap of paper: *”Couldnt handle it. Sorry.”*
When Emily fell ill, the world didnt shatterit just stopped breathing.
First came the fatigue, the ache in her bones, then the fever no pills or injections could tame. And then the painsharp, relentless, like a red-hot iron rod twisting in her chest. She lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the ceiling, wondering: *”Is this just the flu? Or something worse?”*
That evening, Paul came home late. He shrugged off his coat, tossed his keys onto the side table, and without glancing at her, said:
*”Still lying about? The dishes arent done. The place is a mess.”*
*”Yes,”* she whispered. *”I cant get up.”*
He sighed, as if her illness were an inconvenience. *”Fine. Im having a shower.”*
No embrace. No touch.
She stayed silent. She didnt even have the strength to resent him.
The next day, she was admitted to hospital. The diagnosis was grim: bilateral pneumonia, complicated by a viral infection, possible autoimmune involvement. The doctors spoke briskly, clinicallybut their eyes said, *”This could go badly.”*
She asked a nurse for her phone to call Paul.
He didnt answer. She tried again an hour later. And again. And again.
On the fourth attempt, he picked up. His voice was flat, as if shed disturbed something far more important than her own suffering.
*”What?”*
*”Paul Im in hospital. Its serious. I need”*
He cut her off. *”Im at work, Em. Not now.”*
*”But Im scared”*
*”Youre a grown woman. The doctors are there. What do you wantme to drop everything and run to you?”*
She swallowed the lump in her throat. *”Fine. Sorry to bother you.”*
He hung up without another word.
**Day Three in Hospital.**
Emily lay with an IV in her arm, staring out at the grey sky, the wet pavement, the occasional passerby in a raincoat. The ward was silent except for the clocks ticking and the hum of the ventilation.
She called Paul again. Only the dial tone.
Then her roommate said: *”Stop calling him. Hes gone. Left his keys with me.”*
*”Gone? Where?”*
*”Didnt say. Just packed his things and left.”*
Emily closed her eyes. Something inside her snappednot her heart, but whatever fragile thread had bound her to him all these years.
She didnt cry. She didnt have the strength for that either.
**Day Seven.** Her mother arrived.
She burst into the ward with bags, a thermos of broth, and a look that said shed tear the hospital apart if anyone crossed her daughter.
*”That wretched man!”* she exclaimed. *”How could he?”*
Emily tried to smile. It barely moved her lips.
*”Mum”*
*”Hush. Im here now.”*
Her mother stayed. Slept on a fold-out bed, argued with the doctors, made sure Emily had the best care. *”Youre not alone,”* shed say every morning.
For the first time in too long, Emily believed it.
**Discharge.**
Three weeks later, she was releasedthin, weak, dark circles under her eyes, but alive.
At home, everything was as shed left itdust on the shelves, dirty dishes. Pauls things were gone. The wardrobe held empty hangers. The note still sat on the bedside table.
She crumpled it and threw it away.
Her mother helped clean, air out the rooms. *”Fresh start,”* she said.
Emily nodded.
**The First Month.**
She could barely walk. Breathing was hard. But every day, she walked ten more steps than yesterday. Then twenty. Then to the balcony. Then the garden.
Work called. Asked when shed return.
*”Soon,”* she lied.
**Six Weeks Later.**
She went back to the office. Colleagues treated her like glass, as if she might break.
*”Were so glad youre here!”* her manager said, hugging her.
Emily smiledproperly, for the first time in months.
Work became her refuge. She forgot the pain, the hollow space in her chest, the man whod vanished when she needed him most.
At night, she wrote in her diary. Not complaints. Just facts:
*”Today, I walked three blocks without gasping.
Today, I ate a whole apple.
Today, I didnt think of him.”*
**Autumn.**
Leaves fell. She bought a new coatdeep burgundy, the colour of life, not sickness.
She joined a yoga class. Then a photography course. Saturdays were for the library.
Life wasnt perfect. But it was hers.
One evening, she saw a stained-glass horse in a shop windowsmall, delicate, sunlight catching its colours.
She stopped.
As a child, shed dreamed of horsesa white mare with a mane like clouds. Her parents had laughed: *”Weve got a garden, not a stable!”* But once, her father brought home a wooden carvingrough, but kind-eyed.
She bought the glass horse.
*”Its a symbol,”* the shopkeeper said. *”Freedom. Strength. Survival.”*
Emily smiled. *”I know.”*
**Winter.**
Paul called in December.
*”Em can we talk?”*
She said nothing.
*”I didnt realise it was so serious. I thought it was just a cold. Then I couldnt face coming back.”*
She watched the snow outside.
*”You didnt come back. You left. When I was terrifiedyou werent there.”*
*”I know. Im sorry.”*
*”Forgiveness isnt something you just get. You earn it. And you didnt even try.”*
Silence. Then: *”I miss you.”*
*”I dont,”* she said. *”I missed who you couldve been. But you werent that person.”*
She hung up.
Her heart didnt ache. Not even a little.
**Spring.**
She sold the old furniture. Bought new pieces. Adopted a black cat with green eyes and named her Daisy.
She started writingshort stories about illness, horses, women learning to breathe again.
Her mother visited every weekend. They drank tea, laughed, watched old films.
*”Youre glowing,”* her mother said one day.
*”Am I?”*
*”Yes. Like theres a light inside you now.”*
Emily smiled. *”Maybe because Im not afraid of the dark anymore.”*
**Summer.**
She visited a childhood friend in the countrysiderolling fields, a river, a stable.
On the first day, she approached a chestnut horse with warm breath and gentle eyes.
*”Can I?”* she asked the stable hand.
*”Go on,”* he said. *”Dont be scared.”*
She mounted the saddle. The horse moved. Wind in her face, grass underfoot, sky overhead.
Emily closed her eyes.
And for the first time in too long, she felt not just alivebut free.
**Epilogue.**
A year passed.
Emily no longer thought of Paulno anger, no longing. He was just a chapter. Painful, dark, but over.
She wasnt looking for love. But she wasnt afraid of it either.
She was living.
And that, in itself, was victory.
*”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.”*
