【Fiction】My Ex Wants Me Back

I pursued Winston Winifred for five years, and 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 each time. The girl who was his dear teacher’s daughter had suggested that he should ignore me for a while, so I wouldn't cling to him so desperately.

I crawled out of the ravine, my body covered in wounds, and my right hand shattered. It was at that moment I realized that some things couldn't be forced. He started waiting at my doorstep, red-eyed, asking for five more years.

...

When they rushed me to the hospital, my clothes were tattered, and my whole body was in pain. The doctor sighed, saying that if I had come a few hours earlier, there might have been hope for my right hand.

A few hours earlier.

I stared at the hospital ceiling numbly, listening to the doctor's prognosis. My right hand had a shattered bone, and the chances of it healing were slim. It seemed I might never be able to paint again.

Tears welled up in my eyes as despair overtook me. Why couldn't I learn to give up?

What was he doing right now?

Perhaps he celebrated last night with a bottle of wine, delighted that I hadn't bothered him. Or maybe he was practicing the piano with his teacher’s daughter, sharing a warm moment together. I laughed at myself; I wouldn't be an obstacle between them anymore.

My phone rang, and it was Winston.

I slowly closed my eyes; this time, I needed to learn.

Winston stormed into my hospital room, his clothes pristine without a single wrinkle. He frowned at me, his demeanor cold as if he were a distant deity chastising me, "What kind of act is this? Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"Look at yourself, all in this state just because I didn't answer your call yesterday? I told you I was busy. Can't you be a bit more understanding?"

Once again, he plunged a knife into my heart, even though I was lying here covered in injuries. Love for five years, and he could sentence me without even asking about my condition.

I looked at him, my eyes filled with tears, a mixture of begging and sorrow.

The white walls reflected his indifference, and the antiseptic smell in the air mocked my foolishness.

He probably hadn't seen me like this before; he seemed uncomfortable, "Heal properly, and don't forget to participate in the National Art and Design Competition next week. I need to return to training."

He added, "This piano competition is crucial to me, so don't disturb me for a while."

Without any concern for my injuries, he left in haste. From beginning to end, he didn't ask about my condition.

I watched his hurried departure, shivering all over, unable to utter a word. This was the man I had pursued for five years.

Uncontrollable tears streamed down my face. The piano competition was important to him, as was the girl from his college and his friends. So, what was I?

I used to believe that every effort would be rewarded, just like my dedication to painting. But reality had hit me hard. Not everything turns out well just because we persist. My sincere feelings were worth nothing to him. So, why did he promise me? Why did he give me hope again?

The sun set, and I curled up in bed, my body trembling. It felt as if I had returned to that night when I was trapped alone in a car, unconscious for I didn't know how long, believing I was about to die.

Before losing consciousness, I made a phone call. I had thought of him first. But a whole night passed, and no rescue came.

Maybe I had been wrong from the beginning. Maybe it had always been a one-sided pursuit, like my art career. Sometimes, there was no destined outcome, no matter how much effort you put in.

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

The doctor recommended that I seek treatment abroad. I managed a bitter smile; I didn't have the money for that.

Leaving the hospital, I returned to my rented room. The cramped space was filled with my artwork.

Five years ago, at our graduation party, I had fallen in love with him at first sight. Since then, my art had been filled with his presence.

The room was brimming with artwork related to him. Over the years, it seemed as if I had lived in his world, losing myself in the process.