Two years had passed since our divorce, and I thought I had buried everything. Yet the scars remained—arguments that never found resolution, pride too heavy to set down.
I blamed her for being cold, she blamed me for being careless. After six years together, it ended with two signatures on a sheet of paper, strangers pretending not to hurt.
Since then, I lived in isolation. Work became my shield, friends’ invitations my excuses. Whenever old memories surfaced, I pushed them back with one reminder: “She has nothing to do with me anymore.”
But fate had other plans.
One crowded evening, stuck at a red light, I heard panicked shouts:
“Someone’s down! That car hit hard!”
Curiosity made me look up—then my world froze. A woman lay on the asphalt, blood trickling from her forehead.
And that woman… was my ex-wife.
Her tangled hair, her trembling eyes in pain—it all shattered me. Memories of her smile, her gentle hands, the warmth of meals she once cooked came rushing back. My grip tightened on the wheel. A storm of voices screamed inside:
“Go help her, she was once your wife!”
“No, she left you. She’s nothing to you now.”
The light turned green. I pressed the gas and left her behind. In the mirror, I saw strangers surround her, and my chest burned with guilt.
I told myself: “It’s not your concern.”
But minutes later, my car stopped—right in front of a hospital. My hands trembled. Why had I come here? Perhaps my heart already knew the truth: I couldn’t abandon her.
Overcome with regret, I turned back. But by the time I arrived, she was gone. A passerby told me, “They’ve taken her to the hospital.”
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.