Three SOS Calls Unanswered: My Fiancé Chose Silence Over My Car Crash on Our Wedding Eve Chapter 1

I chased after Skyler for 5 years before he finally agreed to marry me.

Two months before our wedding, I got into a car accident. I called him three times, but he hung up on me each time. His junior, Vivian, had suggested he give me the cold shoulder for a while to make me less clingy.

When I crawled out of the ravine, I was covered in injuries. My right hand had suffered a comminuted fracture.

At that moment, I finally understood that some things can't be forced. But then he started showing up at my door every day, red-eyed, begging me to give him 5 years too.

When I was brought to the hospital, my clothes were in tatters and I was covered in injuries.

The doctor looked at me and sighed, saying if I had come a few hours earlier, they might have been able to save my right hand.

A few hours earlier.

I stared numbly at the hospital ceiling, listening to the doctor's verdict. Comminuted fracture of the right hand, slim chances of recovery. I probably wouldn't be able to paint again.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as despair spread through my body. Why could I never learn to let go?

What was he doing right now, I wondered?

Maybe he had opened a bottle of wine last night, celebrating that I hadn't bothered him. Or perhaps he was practicing piano with Vivian, the two of them enjoying an intimate moment together. I smiled bitterly to myself. At least I wouldn't be an obstacle between them anymore.

My phone rang. It was Skyler.

I slowly closed my eyes. This time I had to learn my lesson.

Skyler burst into my hospital room. Not a wrinkle on his clothes, he frowned at me coldly, like a lofty god looking down on a mortal. He berated me: "What kind of stunt are you pulling now? Why aren't you answering your phone?"

"Getting yourself into this state just because I didn't answer your call yesterday? I told you I was busy. Can't you understand that?"

His words stabbed into my still-bleeding wounds.

For a moment, my dead heart cried out in pain again. He had sentenced me without even asking what happened. Even seeing me lying here covered in injuries didn't stir the slightest ripple in his heart. After all, he was the man I had loved for five years - a single word from him could provoke all my emotions.

I looked at him sadly, unable to speak. My eyes filled with tears, as if begging, as if mourning.

The white walls reflected his coldness. The smell of disinfectant in the air seemed to mock my foolishness.

He must not have seen me like this before. He looked uncomfortable: "Take care and get well. Remember to participate in the national art design competition next week. I have to get back to practice now."

He added: "This piano competition is very important to me. Don't disturb me during this time."

With that, he left without looking back, never once asking about my injuries.

I watched his hastily retreating figure, my whole body cold. I couldn't say a word. This was the boy I had chased for five years.

Tears fell uncontrollably. I had naively thought it was my sincerity and passion that had moved him, that had made him turn and look at me.

The piano competition was important to him. Vivian was important to him. His friends were important to him. So what was I?

I used to think everything would pay off in the end, just like how I persevered with my painting. But reality had given me a harsh wake-up call. Not everything turns out beautifully just because you persist. My sincerity meant nothing to him. So why did he agree to marry me? Why did he give me hope?

The sun set. I curled up in bed, shivering as if I was back in that dark night, trapped in the car, unconscious for who knows how long, despairing and thinking I was going to die.

Before I passed out, I had made one phone call. I thought of him first, but I lay unconscious all night without rescue coming.

Perhaps I was wrong from the start. I had forced things after all, just like with my art career. It wasn't meant to be.

After five days of treatment, my body started to recover. Except for my hand.

The doctor suggested I go abroad for treatment. I smiled bitterly. How could I afford that?

I left the hospital and returned to my rented apartment. The small room was filled with paintings.

Five years ago, at the graduation party, I had fallen for him at first sight. Since then, all my paintings had been of him.

The whole room was filled with paintings related to him. It seemed I had been living in his world all these years, losing myself.