Maya woke to silence and a dull, deep ache in her side. Her throat was dry, her head fogged from anesthesia. She turned, expecting to see him in the chair beside her. But it was empty. No flowers. No note. Just the IV drip and a nurse adjusting the curtain.
She blinked against the bright light. “Has Aiden been by?” she asked, her voice rough. The nurse hesitated, then said, “He was discharged earlier this morning. Said he felt well enough to leave.” Maya’s stomach turned. “He didn’t leave a message?” The nurse shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
Lying there, stitched and weak, Maya tried to reason with the sudden hollow in her chest. Maybe he’d come back later. Maybe he just needed air. But deep down, she felt it already—that something was wrong. Something was off. And she had no way of taking it back.
Maya had always trusted her body more than people. It was reliable, disciplined, built from years of sweat and silence. As a competitive triathlete, she trained like it was a contract. Her breath, her pace, her pain tolerance—these were things she could measure. Control. Depend on.
She didn’t have time for distractions. Missed birthdays. Skipped weekends. No boyfriend had ever lasted longer than a race season. Most people said she was intense. Maya didn’t argue. Intensity was the point.
You didn’t get results from balance. You got them from pushing until the world blurred. Her coach had pushed for a full check-up before the summer circuit. “You’re running hot,” he said. “Let’s make sure nothing’s burning under the hood.”
Maya booked the bloodwork at a hospital near her gym. It was routine. Ten minutes in, ten out. Back to training. The clinic was half-empty when she arrived. Clean, quiet. She signed in, took a seat, and pulled out her phone, scrolling through her training app.