The days blurred again, stitched together by the same routine — the same nurse rotations, the same muted light. Maggie stayed most nights now, while Evan came and went at odd hours, his visits shorter, his excuses longer. Sometimes he’d walk in smiling too brightly, setting down a fresh bouquet as if it could erase the distance between them.
He’d talk about work, new clients, “crazy deadlines,” and Clara would nod, too tired to push further. She tried not to notice the way he always smelled faintly of perfume — not hers. One evening, after a long round of treatment, Clara drifted in and out of half-sleep while the nurses changed her IV. Their voices were hushed, but not enough.