He Left Me When I Needed Him Most Chapter 2

After the biopsy, the nurse's aide placed my phone on the pillow.

"Did anyone call?" I asked, my voice raw.

"It rang once," she replied.

I struggled to turn my head and asked her to hand it to me.

There were no missed calls.

Just a single text message from Asher.

"I'm coming back this weekend to pack up my things."

I knew he wouldn't change his mind. I wasn't holding out hope for a reconciliation.

But my heart still gave a pathetic, violent flutter before sinking like a stone.

The monitor beside my bed began to beep frantically.

The aide silenced it with a practiced click.

"You bought the apartment."

My head was spinning, and with IV lines taped to both arms, I hit send before I could finish the thought.

I forced myself to keep typing:

"So you don't need to move. I will. But can I leave my stuff there for just a little while?"

I wouldn't need to go back while I was hospitalized, but finding a new place to rent would take time.

Minutes ticked by, but no reply came.

Asher was probably busy again.

He had stopped replying to my messages a while ago, honestly.

Probably because I always sent him trivial, pointless things.

"I have zero inspiration today. I can't draw my webtoon. I'm going to have to take a sick week!"

"Just saw this new dessert place online! Let's go together after you finish work, okay?"

Or even: "If I turned into a cockroach, would you still love me?"

Even after he moved to Denver, I still sent him updates every day.

"It's freezing in the city today! Don't forget an extra layer before you head out!"

"Make sure you eat well and sleep on time, even without me there to nag you."

Asher was a CEO running multimillion-dollar deals. It made sense that he didn't have time for my silly texts.

I used to think that even if he just glanced at them, it might give him a moment of peace.

Now that I thought about it, he must have found me incredibly annoying.

Was that why he wanted to break up? Because I talked too much?

I fell asleep trying to guess all the reasons he might have fallen out of love with me.

Asher never texted back.

On the weekend, he called me directly.

"Jesse, you're not at the apartment?"

It hadn't actually been that long since the breakup, but hearing his voice felt like a lifetime ago.

I froze for a second before answering, "Are you there?"

"Yeah, just picking up some things," Asher said, his tone detached and clinical. "And we need to settle the deed transfer."

I wanted to tell him he didn't need to give me the apartment.

But then I remembered the diagnosis sheet tucked inside my nightstand drawer.

The fear of him finding it sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. I scrambled to sit up. "Wait, don't touch anything yet!"

In my panic, I forgot about the central line newly inserted in my upper arm.

As I pushed myself up, a sharp pain shot through my chest, and a quiet gasp escaped my lips.

"Jesse?" Asher's voice sharpened over the line. "What's wrong with you?"

I winced, forcing myself out of the hospital bed. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Just don't pack anything yet, okay? I'm on my way back."

"Fine," Asher said after a brief pause. "But make it quick. I have an important meeting in two hours."

To hide the bandages and the IV port on my arm, I pulled on a heavy coat over my long-sleeved shirt.

When I washed my face in the hospital restroom, I realized I looked like a ghost.

I looked terrible.

I imagined Asher seeing me, frowning, and thinking how lucky he was to have broken up with me.

I stopped by the convenience store near the hospital entrance, bought a cheap lipstick, swiped it on, and hailed a cab home.

When I opened the door, Asher turned to face me.

He hadn't changed at all. Still tall, handsome, looking every bit the successful, sharp executive.

I think I tried to smile.

But it must have looked forced, because his expression only grew colder.

He was holding a sheet of paper.

Walking toward me with a grim expression, he asked, "What is this?"