After my accident, James became my anchor. He bathed me, fed me, held me through the darkest nights. So when he suggested we sleep in separate rooms, I tried not to take it personally. He said he needed better rest. I told myself it was reasonable. But deep down, I felt the shift.
The silence between us grew louder. I lay awake in our bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was still enough. Then the noises started—soft thuds, metallic clinks, muffled movement from his room. At first, I dismissed them. But night after night, they grew more frequent. More deliberate.
I imagined everything. Was he hiding something? Someone? Was he preparing to leave me?
One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I wheeled myself down the hall, heart pounding. His door was locked. That hurt more than I expected. Locked out—not just of his room, but of his world.
The next evening, I confronted him. He looked startled, then guilty. But not in the way I feared. He confessed: he’d been building something. A surprise. For me.
I didn’t believe him—until I saw it.
Inside his room was a workshop. Tools, paint, wood. He was crafting a custom lift system and furniture to help me move more freely around the house. He wanted to unveil it on our anniversary. The noises weren’t betrayal—they were devotion.
I broke down. All those nights I doubted him, all the fears I fed—they dissolved in that moment. He wasn’t pulling away. He was building a bridge back to me.
Sometimes love doesn’t look like roses or poetry. Sometimes it’s the sound of a hammer in the dark. The quiet labor of someone who still believes in “us.”
