Page 27 of Seven Minutes
“That place was falling apart,” I’d said, too quickly. “You deserve better than something that needs fixing.”
He’d met my eyes, steady, patient, too kind for his own good. “Maybe I like things that need fixing.”
I caught the tremor in his voice, the way it hovered on the edge of frustration and sadness. I’d waved it away, distracted by remorse I barely admitted to myself.I’m doing this for him,I had thought.He’ll be happy when he sees our things here.
Eli had wanted the old house, the one that reminded him of our happy beginning on Decatur Street. Ugly, imperfect—He wantedus, in all our mess and warmth, not my sterile fantasy of perfection.
The first fight in the new house hit with the force of a slammed door, echoing through empty rooms.
“I can’t believe you didn’t even ask me before signing the mortgage!” Eli’s voice bounced off the walls, sharp enough to sting. His hands trembled as he gestured toward the pristine counters, the floor that gleamed too perfectly. “This isn’t us, Adrian. This isn’tourhome.”
I ran a hand through my hair, the familiar surge of defensiveness rising. “I thought… I thought you’d like it. I wanted something nice for you—for us.”
“You thought for me? You didn’t listen, Adrian! You never listen until it’s too late!”
His words cut deep. I swallowed the heat rising in my throat. I wanted to reach for him, to fix it, but the space between us felt like a chasm.
Now, sitting there beside him, I saw how small that argument really was, and how enormous. It wasn’t about the house. It was aboutus.About the way I mistook control for care, silence for peace, and guilt for love. I had heard his words, but I’d ignored the meaning behind them. The house had been just another failure, another reminder that I prioritized contrition and appearances over understanding him, over seeing him fully.
How many times had I done that?
How many fights had blurred together into one long stretch of stubborn quiet?
When had I started tuning him out?
I remembered his face when he had tried to explain it to me, and I had nodded, distracted by some minor practical detail, my mind already cataloging reasons why my choice was “better.” God, I had been so wrong.
Now, with Eli lying unconscious, I saw it with brutal clarity. Had I ever really seen him? Or had I only seen what I wanted him to be? My idea of perfection, my carefully edited version of us? The unbearable remorse burned through me, leaving me hollow and raw.
My mind reached back, sifting through the years until it landed on something simple—our very first fight, way back in college. I was heating cheap noodles in the microwave, and I’d almost melted the styrofoam cup while trying to study before starting my next rotation.
He’d laughed teasingly. “You can’t just fix everything by working harder, you know.”
And I snapped. “That’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t understand what it takes.”
He’d gone quiet then, hurt flickering across his face before he whispered, “I just wanted to eat dinner with you, Adrian.”
The hush that followed was long and awkward. I felt like shit for hurting him. We’d made up, of course. Kissed and promised to do better. But I never really learned how.
Now I sat here, decades later, and the truth settled heavier than lead in my chest. I’d wasted so much time chasing stability instead oflivingit. So much time working to make things perfect instead of making memories. And for what?
Eli was lying here, suspended between worlds, and I was drowning in the one we’d built wrong.
I looked at his hand resting on the sheet, at the IV taped to his skin, and thought about every hour I’d spent chasing things that didn’t matter. Every late shift. Every text I didn’t answer because I told myself I’d ‘get to it later.’ The quiet looksfrom him I ignored because I didn’t want to face what they meant.
The monitors clicked, steady and infuriating. I wanted them to stop. To scream. Todo something.Anything to break this unbearable stillness. My jaw clenched. I could feel the anger building—not at him, not even at fate, but at myself.
“I thought I was doing it for us,” I said, my voice rough and strange in the quiet. “Every decision. Every late night. Every time I said, ‘Just a few more months, and things will calm down.’”
My throat closed around the next words, but they came anyway. “I thought I was fixing things. I thought I was protecting you. But all I did was disappear.”
The room was suffocating me, the plain walls closing in, making me open my eyes to a harsh reality I wasn’t ready to face. My reflection wavered in the dark monitor glass—hollow-eyed, unshaven, a man I didn’t recognize.
“I bought that house because I thought it made me a good husband.” My voice broke. “But I didn’t ask you what you wanted. I never asked.”
I shot to my feet, pacing the narrow strip of floor beside the bed, fingers clawing at my hair. “I can still see you that day,” I whispered. “Standing in the doorway, smiling like you were trying not to ruin the moment. I was so proud of myself. So sure I’d given you everything you could want.”
I pressed a hand against my chest where the ache had settled deep, immovable.
