Chapter 3: Left Behind

My vision blurred. When I came to, someone was already taking my pulse.

The sunlight filtering through the blinds hurt my eyes, the world spinning like I’d just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl at the county fair. I squinted, searching for the familiar face I wanted more than anything to see.

A flicker of hope rose in my heart, but when I turned and saw who it was, disappointment settled in. The name "Dr. Langley" caught in my throat.

He was kind, but not the right kind—his hands cool and impersonal, the faint scent of aftershave lingering as he set my wrist gently back on the bedspread.

"Ma’am, I called Dr. Quinn. You’ll be okay soon," Maddie tried to comfort me, but I knew it was pointless.

Her voice wavered, but she put on a brave face, squeezing my shoulder the way she used to when we were kids and I scraped my knee on the playground.

Sure enough, Dr. Quinn withdrew his hand and said, "I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do."

He looked defeated, shoulders slumped in that way doctors do when they have to deliver bad news. The room felt colder for it.

"Dr. Quinn, you’re the best at Maple Heights Clinic—how can you not even relieve her pain?" Maddie protested, her voice tinged with blame.

She bristled with anger, the protective big-sister side of her coming out strong. I saw the lines of exhaustion on her face, the strain of worry aging her far too quickly.

I squeezed her hand and gave Dr. Quinn an apologetic look. Thankfully, he understood she spoke out of worry and took no offense.

He nodded, lips pressed in a thin line, gathering up his bag and heading out quietly, leaving only the sound of the old house settling around us.

"I’ll go call again..." Maddie gritted her teeth, ready to rush out, but I shook my head.

She hesitated on the threshold, torn between her urge to fight for me and the reality she couldn’t change.

"Don’t go. It’s just two more hours to get through." No one else could save me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been given up for dead before sixteen.

It sounded harsh, but the truth had its own cold comfort. Sometimes there’s no one left to call but yourself.

Graham Carter saved me once, but now, he’s sent me back to hell.

It was the kind of betrayal that hit bone-deep, the sort you only feel when hope is all you have left.

If I’d known this day would come, why save me at all?

The thought echoed in my mind, louder than my own heartbeat, rattling around the empty room like a bad dream.

In a flash, several days passed. My body went back to its old, frail state—I coughed blood every few steps, fainted every five.

The color drained from my cheeks. I started wearing Maddie’s old sweaters, even though it was too warm, just to chase the chill away. My reflection in the mirror grew stranger, more hollow-eyed.

Lying on the porch swing, my face pale as paper, my chest aching faintly.

The swing creaked beneath me, the chain rusted in spots. The neighbors’ kids played tag across the street, laughter drifting over, oblivious to the slow collapse of my world.

The sunlight was warm, but I felt none of it—until a housekeeper announced Graham Carter’s return.

She nearly tripped over the welcome mat in her haste, breathless with the news. For a split second, hope surged up—maybe things would go back to the way they were.

My heart fluttered. I looked up, only to see him carrying a woman in a green dress into the house, not sparing me a single glance.

She looked every bit the storybook heroine—glossy hair, lips curved in a way that made her seem both fragile and indomitable. Graham’s focus was absolute, as if I’d vanished from the world.

"Ma’am, Mr. Carter—" Maddie’s voice trembled with anger as she tried to chase after him, but I pulled her back.

I could feel her bristle beside me, ready to charge in, but I held her tight. There’s only so much pride you can lose in one day.

A metallic taste rose in my throat; I forced Maddie away.

Swallowing hard, I managed to steady myself. My stomach lurched, my body threatening to betray me in front of everyone.

She might not know who that was, but I did.

Some facts burn themselves into your mind—like the color someone always wears, or the scent of a particular perfume. I’d seen her in that shade of green a thousand times, in dreams and nightmares alike.

Who else but the heroine would always wear green, no matter the time or place?

She had that homecoming queen aura—perfect hair, perfect smile, like she’d stepped straight out of a Hallmark movie.

Back in my room, I could no longer hold back—I spat out a mouthful of blood. Maddie’s eyes reddened with worry. "I’ll go call Mr. Carter!"

She fumbled for her phone, panic in her voice, but I shook my head, refusing to let her go. Pride is a stubborn thing.

"Maddie, don’t go. He’s not your Mr. Carter anymore." I gripped her hand, refusing to let her seek Graham Carter.

My voice was steadier than I felt. The words were a shield against the storm outside, a last bit of dignity to hold onto.

He was so obvious—why should I go and humiliate myself?

It’s a lesson every girl learns at some point: never chase someone who’s already chosen.

"But Mr. Carter used to care so much for you."

Maddie’s voice was soft, almost pleading, as if she couldn’t quite believe things had changed so quickly.

Maddie was right; Graham did care for me, but only when the heroine was okay. Now, compared to her, I was nothing.

All those sweet gestures, the late-night talks, the inside jokes—they were real, but they weren’t enough. Not when someone else needed saving.

I still remembered the ambiguous moments and heartbeats of these years.

The memory of it all pressed in—first glances across the dinner table, hands brushing in the hallway, the sound of his laughter echoing down the stairs.

The first time we met was on our wedding night.

It was a small ceremony, just a handful of friends and family, a cheap bouquet and some off-key music from Dad’s old stereo. The scent of vanilla candles mixed with cold Domino’s pizza and the faint tang of Lysol—budget wedding chic.

When the veil was lifted, I made it clear: he was to treat illnesses and save lives; I was only his wife in name.

He met my eyes, steady and calm, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. There was no judgment, only acceptance.

He smiled, placing his hand on my wrist, his voice gentle: "Now that we’re married, how can it be in name only?"

It was such a simple question, but it made my heart skip. He spoke like a man who believed in second chances.

I said I wouldn’t live past sixteen, and his smile only deepened.

He had a way of turning even the worst news into a challenge, as if he could bend reality to his will just by wanting it enough.

After that, he said nothing more, but my symptoms faded, one by one.

It was slow at first, but undeniable. The headaches eased, my color returned, and for the first time in years, I slept through the night.

Once, I tried to give him cash as a thank you, but he returned it all, always bringing me gifts instead.

He’d leave little surprises on my pillow—a beaded bracelet he said reminded him of the beach, a tiny potted cactus, once even a hand-drawn cartoon of us riding bicycles through the park.

Sometimes it was a bracelet, a necklace, cookies, or some clever little gadget.

I learned to expect the unexpected with him. He’d bring home lemon bars from the bakery, sometimes still warm, and watch with a pleased grin as I took the first bite.

He tried to make me happy. When I realized my feelings, I began to avoid and distance myself.

It scared me how much I wanted it all to be real, how quickly I could lose myself in the hope of us.

That day, it poured. He stood in the rain, calling my name—"Natalie"—over and over, shielding the box of lemon bars he brought for me.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, clothes soaked through, but he didn’t care. He’d brought me my favorite, even though the box was now a soggy mess.

My heart softened. Thinking the story was over, I opened the door.

The rain smelled clean and new, and for a moment, the world felt full of possibility.

He hugged me tightly, eyes red, solemnly promising a lifetime together.

His arms were warm, solid—a promise of safety I hadn’t felt in years. The sincerity in his voice left no room for doubt.

In that moment, there was such deep emotion in his gaze. I thought we really could make it.

For the first time, I let myself believe that maybe side characters got happy endings, too.

But I was wrong, after all.

You can’t rewrite a story that isn’t yours. The ending had already been written, long before I arrived.