I spent two years tending to Damien Thorne after the accident that left him paralyzed. Everyone in our circle assumed that the moment he could walk again, he’d put a ring on my finger. The night his surgery was declared a success, I was the only one who asked, "Do you still want to marry me?" He hesitated. That one simple word—"Yes"—never made it past his lips. I let out a short, dry laugh. "I get it." I pulled the ring off my finger and walked out of the house I’d called home for two years, and I didn't look back. 01 "Do you still want to marry me?" Damien froze. He stared down at his legs for a long time, his jaw tight. The muffled sounds of a celebration filtered in through the cracked bedroom door. "The surgeon said the procedure was a miracle. He’ll be back on his feet in a month." "I honestly thought he was done for. Two years ago, he’d given up on everything." "It’s all thanks to Claire. She never left his side. I bet there’s a wedding by Christmas. We should start looking at registries." Damien heard his friends’ cheers, but he remained silent. The air in the room turned heavy, suffocating. Finally, I stood up. I reached for the physical therapy oil and began massaging his knees and calves, just as I had every night for seven hundred days. "Is this pressure okay?" I asked, giving him an out. The tension in his shoulders bled away. He relaxed back into the pillows and whispered, "Yeah. It’s perfect." "Any discomfort?" He shook his head. "No. You’re better at this than the clinic therapists." I stared at my hands as they worked. I wasn't always good at this. In the beginning, he couldn't stand the touch of a stranger. He’d scream at the professional nurses until they quit. But rehab was non-negotiable. So, I spent three months shadowing a specialist in the city. I practiced on my own muscles until I was bruised, just so I wouldn't hurt him when I finally touched his legs. The first time I tried, I waited until he was asleep. He was a light sleeper. He woke up and snarled, "Get out! Get the hell out!" I didn't move. I kept working the pressure points the specialist had shown me. He couldn't move his legs, so he grabbed his pillow and threw it at my head. I ignored it. Then he grabbed whatever was on his nightstand—books, water glasses—and hurled them at me. The last thing he threw was a framed photo of himself from his college track days. He was holding a trophy, fist pumped, looking invincible. Warm blood trickled down my forehead from the corner of the frame. He watched me, struggling to lunge toward me, but his useless legs kept him pinned. He covered his face and began to sob. "Just leave, Claire. Don't stay here. It’s useless. I can't feel a thing. No amount of rubbing is going to fix a broken man." 02 He was drowning in self-pity back then. I showed up every single day, rain or shine, to work his muscles. It lasted until his mother found him unconscious from an overdose of sleeping pills. After they pumped his stomach, I knelt by his hospital bed. "Look at me," I said. He looked, his eyes hollow. "Everything is going to be okay," I told him. "Trust me." At the time, I didn't know where that confidence came from. From that day on, I moved into the Thorne estate. Damien’s mother cried as she thanked me over and over. She wanted to ask what our "status" was, but she couldn't find the words. So I told her: "As long as Damien doesn't kick me out, I’m staying." Truth was, he tried to kick me out plenty of times. I just didn't leave. During one particularly bad session, he screamed, "Get out! Everyone just leave me alone!" He was in his wheelchair then, and he’d smashed half the lamps in the room. But I noticed something—he’d stopped aiming at me. When he was done venting, I walked over to him. "Damien," I whispered. "Trust me." I said that for two years. Slowly, he began to feel the pressure. Then a toe twitched. Then he could lift a heel. By the time the surgery happened yesterday, the doctors called it a medical anomaly. The surgery was a total success. Barring any complications, he was going to walk again. 03 When Damien’s mother heard the news, she tried to press a high-limit debit card into my hand. I looked at the plastic and felt a strange sense of vertigo. I hadn't spent two years of my life for a paycheck. Damien’s friends all called me "the one," the future Mrs. Thorne. But only I knew the truth: we were nothing. We’d never had an official talk. We’d never even had a proper date. The only thing I had was a promise he made during his first month of recovery, right after a specialist told him he’d likely never walk again. I pushed his wheelchair back to the house, and he broke down the moment the door closed. The golden boy had fallen from his pedestal, and he couldn't take it. I held him tight. He bit my shoulder in his agony—so deep it left a scar that’s still there today. When he saw the blood, he snapped out of it. "I’m sorry," he gasped. "God, Claire, I’m so sorry." As I massaged his legs that night, he whispered, "Claire, the moment I can walk, we’re getting married." Then he asked, "You’ve had a crush on me since high school, haven't you?" I didn't lie. I looked him in the eye and said, "Yes." He told me he’d marry me, but I didn't do it for a ring. I did it because I loved him, and I prayed that one day, he’d feel the same. Back in the present, I finished rubbing the oil into his skin. I could feel him watching me. "Claire," he said softly. "You don't have to do this anymore." My hands faltered. I finished the last stroke and looked up. "Damien... do you still want to marry me?" He started to speak, then stopped. He closed his eyes and said nothing. I realized then I was a fool for dreaming. The ring on my finger—the one he’d ordered from his bed and slipped on my hand months ago—felt like a hot iron. 04 I stood up and washed the oil off my hands. The ring was a fraction too small. It had been pinching my skin for months, but I’d ignored the pain. I didn't even know if he’d guessed the size or if he’d just given me something he already had. "Claire," he called from the room. "I think of you as a sister." A tear hit the sink. I wiped it away instantly. Don't say that, I thought. That’s the cruelest thing you could say to me. I walked out into the living room. The party was still going strong. I looked at Damien and slowly twisted the ring off my finger. My skin was red and indented. For a long time, I’d lied to myself, saying all engagement rings felt tight. But the moment it came off, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I actually regretted not taking it off sooner. Damien avoided my eyes. I held the ring out to him. "Here. Take it back." He saw the deep red mark on my finger. "It was a size too small," I added. He opened his mouth to explain, but I waved him off and pushed his wheelchair toward the guests. 05 As soon as we entered the foyer, his friends swarmed us. "What were you two whispering about? Secrets already?" "Don't worry, we won't crash the party today. We’re saving the wild stuff for the bachelor party." "One more drink and then we’re out of your hair." Damien’s friends were like him—privileged, but mostly well-mannered. Out of respect for his recovery, they’d brought expensive juices and light catering. "Damien, man," one of them said. "Once you’re fully cleared, we’re hitting Whistler for a ski trip. Just like old times." Damien agreed naturally. He didn't even flinch at the mention of skiing—an activity that used to trigger his darkest moods. His friend turned to me. "You’re coming too, Claire. Damien will book the flights. You’re gonna love the lodge." Damien looked at me, then shifted the burden. After being rejected twice in one night, I still had a shred of pride left. "You guys go ahead," I said. But then Damien spoke up. "It’s fine if she comes. "After all, she’s like family. Like a little sister to me." The room went dead silent. His best friend laughed nervously and swatted Damien’s shoulder. "What are you talking about, man?" Another friend jumped in to smooth things over. "He just had anesthesia yesterday, his brain is scrambled. Don't mind him, Claire." The moment passed with forced laughter, but Damien didn't retract a single word. 06 I remembered what my best friend had asked me when she first saw the ring. "Claire, are you sure about this? "The Thornes live in a different world. If he actually gets better, do you think he’ll really stay?" I hadn't dared to answer then. I didn't have to now. Damien had given me the answer. He wouldn't. The atmosphere of the party remained "harmonious"—soft indie music, talk of old Ivy League days. I looked down and googled Whistler. It was a world-class resort. I realized I didn't understand half of what they were talking about. My friend was right. We weren't from the same world. I stood up. Damien’s eyes snapped to me immediately. I went to my room. It was "my" room, but everything in it had been bought by Damien’s mother. I called the woman who had cried tears of gratitude two years ago. "Mrs. Thorne," I said, my voice steady. "About that card you offered..." She sounded relieved I was bringing it up. "There’s a high six-figure balance on it, Claire. Please, take it. It’s the least we can do for everything you’ve done for my son." "Thank you," I said. I didn't have much to pack. I threw my few personal clothes into a bag and left the rest. I walked through the living room. "Hey, Claire," one of the friends called out. "It’s late. Where are you heading?" I didn't want to make it awkward for Damien. I forced a smile. "Just a late-night craving. I’m heading out for some pancakes." They offered to DoorDash something, but I shook my head. "It’s fine. I need the air." Damien sensed something. He stared at me, unblinking. I waved to the room. "Goodbye, everyone." At 1:00 AM, with a debit card in my pocket, I left the life I’d lived for two years. I figured we were even. 07 I found a place of my own in the city. I didn't have to watch Damien every second anymore. I didn't have to fear his midnight meltdowns. My body finally relaxed, but it was a shock to the system. I couldn't sleep. I’d sit on my balcony with a coffee, staring at the few stars visible through the city smog. In the silence, I started listening to my own heart. I thought I’d be devastated. Heartbroken. But I wasn't. I just rubbed the red mark on my ring finger and wondered how long it would take to fade. That night, the breeze felt cool. The stars felt bright. Damien called me the following afternoon. When I picked up, there was only silence on the other end. Finally, I spoke. "Is something wrong?" "Claire..." he said, his voice hesitant. "I wanted those cinnamon rolls for breakfast. The ones you make." When he first became paralyzed, he refused to eat. I tried a hundred different recipes. I begged him, tears hitting the floor. "Please, just one bite. You have to eat." Maybe he got tired of seeing me cry. He finally frowned and took a bite of a cinnamon roll. He didn't like the store-bought ones. So, I learned how to bake them from scratch. But the silence from the night before was still fresh in my mind. "I’m gone, Damien," I said calmly. 08 There was a long pause. I didn't know what else to say, so I hung up. The amount of money in that account was staggering. I stared at the zeroes on the ATM screen, stunned. I checked it three times before I finally understood what my friend meant by "different worlds." My parents were just normal people. When I told them I was taking care of a paralyzed boyfriend, they even came to visit. Mrs. Thorne had hosted them with such overwhelming "hospitality" that they felt completely out of place. When they got home, my dad told me, "Honey, this is going to be a hard mountain to climb." They didn't stop me, though. "Go ahead and try," my mom said. "If it doesn't work out, you can always come home." Two years later, I finally understood Mrs. Thorne’s hospitality. The expensive meals and the constant hovering weren't just kindness; they were a boundary. She was showing my small-town parents exactly where the line was drawn. I used the money to buy a condo in a nice part of town. There was still a fortune left over. I spent the next two weeks busy with contractors and furniture. Half a month later, I saw Damien again—at a coffee shop right near my new building. His friends were pushing his wheelchair, cheering him on. "Damien, if you don't win her back, I’m disowning you as a friend." "Just apologize to her. No one else belongs in that spot but Claire." "She’s the only one we recognize." 09 Damien hadn't been outside much in two years. His skin was pale, and the sunlight made his face look dangerously handsome. He heard his friends’ jokes and gave a non-committal shrug. "Let’s see if she even shows up first." Ironically, I was sitting at the table right behind them. I instinctively tried to hide, but then a friend I’d made at the gym walked out of the shop and shouted my name. "Claire!" She ran over. "I got that lemon cake you like!" Damien’s table went silent. I saw them follow her gaze until they landed on me. My friend put the cake down, noticed my face, and asked, "What’s wrong?" I realized there was no point in letting them dictate my mood. "Nothing," I said, forcing a smile. "Sit down. I can't believe you remembered I liked this cake." That opened the floodgates. Since we were so close, I couldn't help but hear their conversation. "It’s fate, Damien. Go apologize." "You won't find another girl like her. Trust me." "If you don't fix this, we’re done." I recognized every voice. When Damien was bedridden, they’d come by one by one. There was one girl among them, Sarah, who used to have a massive crush on Damien. When she went into his room to see him back then, Damien had "accidentally" spilled a glass of water on her silk dress. It was a hot day, and the dress was thin. The water made it transparent instantly. Sarah stood there, humiliated. I was the one who found a shawl and covered her up. Damien had just looked at her with cold eyes. "You still like me like this?" Sarah’s eyes were red. I gently led her out of the room. Once outside, she wiped her face and told me, "I don't like him anymore. He’s not worth it." She started to walk away, then stopped. She looked at the water stains on the floor and said, "But you’re a good person, Claire. Thank you. "You should stop liking him, too. He doesn't deserve you." We became friends after that. We sent each other gifts on holidays. Damien’s friends weren't bad people. I was lost in thought until I realized Damien was standing right next to my table. He was using a cane now. "Claire," he said. I looked up. He was frowning, looking like he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. His friends started cheering. "Go on, Damien! Apologize! Get her back!" Damien’s frown deepened. But I didn't need an apology. Relationships are supposed to be mutual. Besides, I had the money. I still hadn't finished counting the zeroes. I didn't need to be greedy for his heart, too. I looked at him as he stood there struggling. "You don't need to do this," I said. "I don't need an apology." He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. He started to turn away, then stopped. "When are you coming home?" Maybe I hadn't been clear enough last time. "I’m not coming back, Damien." He stared at me for a long time, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gave a curt nod. He went back to his table. His friends were buzzing. "So? Did you get her back?" "When’s the wedding?" "When do we get the save-the-dates?" "There is no wedding," Damien said, his voice flat and annoyed. The table went quiet. Damien repeated it, louder this time. "Why does everyone assume I’m going to marry her? "Am I supposed to marry her just because I’m grateful? "I told you. She’s like a sister to me." That was the third time. My patience finally ran out. I stood up and addressed the table. "You guys have the wrong idea about the wedding. I was just paid to take care of him." Damien looked up at me, his eyes dark. I met his gaze squarely. "And don't bother calling me a sister," I told him. "Let’s just be strangers."
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