Alekos
The hospital lights had dimmed, but I was still awake.
Selin had fallen asleep hours ago—finally. Her breathing had evened out, slow and soft, and her fingers, curled slightly against the blanket, hadn't moved in minutes.
She looked so small like this.
So quiet.
So unlike the fire I knew.
I shifted in the chair beside her bed and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, careful not to wake her. She didn't stir. Just breathed, steady and pale, like she was fighting even in sleep.
I hated seeing her like this.
I hated that the woman who once danced in the rain and screamed at traffic for fun now spent her days beneath fluorescent lights and IV drips.
Worse, I hated that I had to sit and watch.
I had to watch the pain creep into her face as she injected herself. I had to watch her eyes flicker toward the bathroom mirror, catching the fresh bruises each morning like they were strangers. I saw the way her hand hesitated every time before lifting her shirt. I saw her blink it away—like pretending it didn't hurt would make it easier.
Sometimes, when she wasn't looking, I'd glance too.
At the blues and purples blooming on her skin like broken flowers.
And then I'd lace up my shoes and run.
Fast, far, hard—until my lungs burned and the tears I didn't want to cry slipped out anyway.
I'd come home sweaty, eyes red, heart aching—and I'd pretend it was just the air.
But the truth was—it had started long before the hospital.
It started on our honeymoon.
That stupid night. The stuck zipper. The awkward silence.
She'd gone into the bathroom to change. I remember hearing the zipper jam, the shuffle of fabric, the small huff of frustration. Then silence. And then her voice—soft, frustrated, embarrassed—calling for me.
When I walked in, she was turned away from the mirror, hands behind her back, trying to reach the zipper. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips dry, her eyes refusing to meet mine.
I stepped behind her and gently slid the zipper down, my fingers brushing the warmth of her spine, and something inside me stuttered.
It wasn't supposed to mean anything. Just help.
Just... help.
But that night, after she had gone to bed… I stayed up.
My hands still tingled from touching her. My mind wouldn't stop replaying the way her skin had felt beneath my fingers. And when I couldn't take it anymore, I let myself fall into that need.
I touched myself.
To the thought of her.
And then I hated myself for it.
Because it wasn't just lust.
It couldn't be.
Lust didn't linger after the shame passed.
Lust didn't make me cry on a morning jog after seeing the way she stared at the bruises on her abdomen like she didn't recognize her own body.
Lust didn't make me memorize the way her voice broke when she asked if I thought the bruises would ever fade.
No.
What I felt wasn't lust.
It was the kind of love that hit like grief. Heavy. Incurable. Inescapable.
And it didn't come on our wedding day.
It didn't arrive with vows or rings or whispered prayers.
It came in moments she would never remember.
When she cried behind the bathroom door.
When she fell asleep mid-sentence, her voice hoarse from nausea.
When she laughed at my dumb jokes just to make the silence feel less cruel.
It came the first time she asked me, voice cracking, if I thought this would work.
And I lied and said yes.
It came the night I realized I would trade my entire future just to make her stop hurting.
I never told her.
Because she never asked for love. She asked for loyalty. For help. For hope.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, hands clasped.
Six eggs.
That's all we had.
It should've been enough. But nothing about this journey felt safe. It all felt like rolling dice in a burning house.
And all I could do was sit here and pretend I wasn't terrified.
I glanced at her again.
Her face, even now, had that faint crease between her brows. The one that meant she was still thinking, even in her sleep. Probably dreaming about charts or plans or the future she was trying to hold onto with both hands.
God, I wanted to give it to her. Every bit of it.
Not just the child she wanted—but the peace she deserved. The life she was fighting for. The softness she no longer believed she could have.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
I hadn't planned any of this. Not marriage. Not parenthood. Not watching the woman I cared about waste away in a hospital gown.
But plans never mattered with Selin. She made the world spin in ways no one could predict.
And I followed. Willingly. Stupidly. Desperately.
Because the truth was simple.
I loved her.
And she'd never know.
Because I was just the one who said yes.
The one who helped.
The one who stayed.
The friend.
I closed my eyes, swallowing the ache rising in my throat.
"I'm still here," I whispered to no one.
And I always would be.
Selin
When I opened my eyes, the room was bathed in that dull early light hospitals always seem to have. Pale, cold, too clean. My mouth felt dry, and my whole body ached like I had been hollowed out from the inside. I didn't even know what time it was—only that it was morning. Barely.
I could've closed my eyes again. I should've.
But something in me wouldn't let me.
I sat up slowly, each movement dragging like gravity had tripled overnight. My legs dangled off the edge of the bed, weak and shaking, but I didn't stop. I reached for the scarf folded neatly on the side table. It smelled faintly like home. Like old cedar closets and my mother's perfume.
Prayer.
I used to pray every morning with my parents back in Istanbul. I loved it—the rhythm, the incense, the soft chants echoing through the high stone walls of the church. I felt… connected back then. Like I belonged to something more than just this skin and this sickness.
And today, for some reason, I needed that again.
I turned my head and saw Alekos asleep in the chair beside me. His neck was bent awkwardly, one shoe half off, his jacket draped across his lap like he was guarding himself. His face looked older in sleep. Tired. The kind of tired that isn't just physical—it's bone-deep, soul-deep.
Guilt twisted in my chest.
He hadn't left. Again.
I reached out and gently touched his shoulder. "Ale," I whispered.
He jolted upright, blinking fast. "Selin? What—what's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay." I paused. "But I want to go to church."
He blinked. "Church?"
"The Orthodox Church. There's one close by. I looked it up a few weeks ago, just in case…" My voice trailed off, but I kept going. "I used to go all the time with my parents. I miss it."
He rubbed his eyes. "Selin, your blood counts are low. You're not strong enough to go anywhere today. You need rest—"
"I've been resting," I said, more firmly than I expected. "Ale, I need this. Just for an hour. I need to feel like I'm still... me. Not just this body. Not just this diagnosis."
He opened his mouth again, but then I looked at him—and for once, he didn't fight me.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You'll wear a mask. The whole time. I'm driving. No arguments."
A small smile crept onto my face. "Of course, husband."
He paused at that word. It hung in the air between us longer than it should have.
He got up, stretched, and reached for his coat. "Before I change my mind."
I slowly began gathering my things—just my scarf, my coat, my quiet resolve. Every step toward the car felt like a victory. And as he helped me into the passenger seat, his hand lingered on my back longer than it needed to.
He didn't ask me why.
He didn't ask what I'd pray for.
He just came.
And that's what broke me a little.
Because he always stayed.
Even when I never asked him to.
The sky was a soft gray when we left the hospital. The kind of morning that held its breath—quiet, still, like the world was waiting for something.
The wind kissed my cheeks, sharp and cold, but it felt… real. And after so many days of air-conditioned sterility and beeping monitors, it was really a gift.
Alekos walked beside me in silence, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes scanning everything except me. But he stayed close—close enough that if I wobbled even slightly, his shoulder would catch me before I fell.
When we reached the church, I paused outside the doors.
It had been years.
Years since I stood on cold marble with a scarf wrapped around my hair, beside my mother, beside my father. Years since I lit a candle and whispered to heaven without bitterness in my heart. Years since I believed that something holy might actually be listening.
I reached for the handle—but a hand stopped mine.
Alekos.
He didn't say anything. Just looked at me. His eyes were soft, almost sad, and full of something I couldn't name.
"You don't have to come in," I said, barely above a whisper.
"I know," he replied.
But he opened the door anyway.
Inside, the warmth of the incense wrapped around us like an old lullaby. The flicker of candles, the faint echo of distant chanting—it hit me all at once, and I nearly buckled from the weight of it. Like grief and comfort had held hands and dragged me to my knees.
I took a deep breath.
Stepped forward.
Lit a candle.
For strength.
For healing.
For hope.
Then I glanced beside me—and Alekos was there. Lighting one too.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't ask how.
He bowed his head beside mine and crossed himself with a reverence I hadn't expected.
And that's when my heart cracked a little.
Because he wasn't doing this for show. He wasn't here because he pitied me.
He believed. Not just in God. But in me.
I turned my head toward him, trying to swallow the lump rising in my throat.
"Thank you," I whispered, barely audible.
But before he could answer, a soft voice floated from behind.
"I knew I'd find you here."
I turned—and there she was.
Sibelle.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her curls tucked into a scarf that looked like it had seen a thousand prayers. She smiled, wide and certain, like she belonged exactly in that moment.
"You followed me?" I asked, stunned.
"I passed your room and saw the scarf. Saw that look in your eyes," she said. "I knew you weren't staying in that bed. And I figured…" Her voice gentled. "No one should have to pray alone."
My chest stung with the sweetness of it.
Without another word, she stepped into the pew beside me, her presence quiet but solid. Like a hand slipping into yours on the worst day of your life.
And so we sat there. The three of us. In a pew warmed by candles and memory.
And I felt something I hadn't felt in so long—
Held.
Alekos's hand brushed mine, just barely, and for a moment I thought he might pull away. But he didn't.
He held it. Quietly. Reverently. Like I was something sacred.
When the priest walked by and offered a blessing, we all bowed our heads together. I closed my eyes and let the words fall over me. Let them soak into the bruises I didn't show. Let them reach the places in me that medicine couldn't touch.
And when I opened my eyes again, I saw him.
Alekos.
Not the friend. Not the husband-by-necessity.
But the man who stayed through every needle, every night, every silence.
His head was still bowed. His lashes shadowed against his cheek. His lips moving in silent prayer.
And I knew.
I wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
Alexos
We were the last ones to leave.
The chapel had emptied out slowly, pew by pew, until it was just the three of us left—Selin, Sibelle, and me—bathed in candlelight and silence.
Selin was quiet on the way out, her scarf still framing her face, cheeks soft with a strange kind of peace. Her fingers brushed against mine as we walked down the stone steps, and I resisted the urge to hold her hand again.
Outside, the cold air bit at our skin. Sibelle hugged us both and said she'd meet us back at the hospital, giving us a look that said she knew more than she let on, then disappeared into the morning fog.
And then it was just us.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were darker in the shadow of her scarf, but still burning with that restless light that never left her—no matter how sick she got.
"What did you pray for?" she asked.
Her voice was quiet, careful.
I hesitated. I knew what she wanted—truth. Raw and whole.
"I prayed for you to get better," I said.
She nodded once. "That's… kind. Thank you."
But that wasn't it.
Not really.
She didn't ask for more. She turned toward the car, the moment already fading. But I stayed still, hand on the back of my neck, staring at the empty steps.
Because that wasn't all I prayed for.
Not even close.
But what I didn't say:
I prayed for you to grow old.
To sit on a porch someday in a house with a crooked fence and hummingbirds by the window.
I prayed for your hair to turn silver, and your laughter to stay young.
I prayed for your body to stop breaking every time you tried to fight back.
I prayed for your feet to dance again—not carefully, not cautiously, but like they used to. Wild. Barefoot. Alive.
I prayed for you to run—into the ocean, into the arms of someone who loves you, into the life you still deserve.
I prayed that you'd fall in love.
Even if it wasn't with me.
I prayed that someone, someday, would kiss your scars and call them beautiful.
Because you are.
I prayed that you would wake up one morning and forget what pain felt like. That you'd remember your worth before your diagnosis. That you'd see yourself the way I see you.
I prayed for all of it.
But I didn't tell you that.
Because you didn't need my love.
You needed a miracle.
So I just said, "I prayed for you to get better."
And maybe, for now, that was enough.