Cancer - Forsaken by Husband

The blue light of my phone illuminated the darkened apartment as I scrolled through the endless stream of photos. It was well past midnight, but sleep eluded me—partly from the constant nausea that had become my companion, partly from the masochistic need to witness what I'd lost.

There they were, Ryan and Sophia, her body pressed against his on the red carpet of the Paramount premiere. His arm wrapped possessively around her waist, that camera-ready smile gleaming under the flashbulbs. The caption read: 'Ryan Mitchell stuns at premiere with rumored new flame.'

New flame. As if I had already been extinguished.

I zoomed in on his face, searching for any hint of the man I'd married—the one who used to look at me with wonder, not contempt. The one who'd whispered promises against my skin in that tiny studio apartment where we'd started our life together.

'When I make it big, Bell, it'll be because of you. Always you.'

A tear splashed onto my screen, distorting his perfect features. I quickly wiped it away, as though erasing evidence of a crime. The next photo showed them laughing together, her red lips close to his ear, whispering something that made his eyes crinkle at the corners—the way they used to when I made him laugh.

I set the phone down and pressed my palms against my eyes until stars appeared. The silence of the apartment pressed in around me, broken only by the occasional siren from the street below. This was my reality now: empty rooms, medical appointments, and ghosts on a screen.

---

'Isabella!' Chloe's voice carried across the sunlit patio of Republique, her hand waving enthusiastically. 'Over here!'

I hesitated at the entrance, immediately regretting my decision to accept this invitation. Sophia sat beside Chloe, looking immaculate in a white sundress that made her tan skin glow. Two other women I vaguely recognized from Ryan's industry circle completed the tableau of perfect health and wealth.

'You made it,' Sophia cooed as I approached, her eyes scanning my appearance with barely concealed satisfaction. I'd lost fifteen pounds since starting chemo, my clothes hanging loosely on my frame. 'We were just saying we haven't seen you in ages.'

Chloe pulled out a chair for me, her smile genuine but her eyes concerned. 'You look tired, honey. Is everything okay?'

Before I could answer, Sophia leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. 'Ryan's been so worried. He says you've been... different lately.'

'Different?' I repeated, reaching for a water glass to hide the trembling in my hands.

'Emotional. Unpredictable.' Sophia's eyes widened with manufactured concern. 'He's afraid to even talk to you some days.'

Chloe's expression shifted subtly, confusion and concern mingling as she looked between us. 'I had no idea things were so tense.'

'Oh, it's been building for months,' Sophia continued, her voice a perfect blend of pity and gossip. 'Ever since Ryan's career really took off. Isabella just can't seem to handle it.'

I sat frozen, watching as she rewrote our history with such conviction that even I almost believed it. The food arrived—avocado toast and egg white omelets that turned my stomach—but I barely noticed, focused instead on the way Chloe now looked at me: with the wary compassion reserved for the unstable.

When Sophia excused herself to take a call, Chloe leaned across the table and squeezed my hand. 'I had no idea you were struggling so much. Ryan must be devastated.'

The irony burned worse than the cancer in my stomach.

---

The steady drip of chemotherapy marked time as I drifted in and out of consciousness in the treatment chair. The ward was quiet today, most of the other patients dozing or absorbed in books or tablets.

I closed my eyes against the fluorescent lights, and suddenly I wasn't there anymore.

I was back in Ryan's first apartment, the one with the leaking ceiling and the neighbor who played saxophone at midnight. The air smelled of cheap takeout and Ryan's aftershave. He sat across from me at the wobbly card table that served as our dining room, his script pages scattered between us.

'Read it with me again?' he asked, his eyes bright with hope and determination. 'You do it better than anyone.'

I felt the weight of his hand on mine, solid and warm. Real. This was real.

'You're going to get this part,' I told him, believing it with my whole heart. 'And then everyone will see what I see.'

He leaned across the table and kissed me, a kiss full of gratitude and love and promise. 'What would I do without you, Bell?'

The memory was so vivid I could feel his breath on my face, smell the coffee on his lips. I reached out to touch him—

And my hand met empty air as a sharp pain lanced through my abdomen, yanking me back to reality. The treatment room materialized around me, the IV in my arm, the sterile smell replacing the warmth of memory.

A sob escaped before I could catch it, drawing the attention of a nearby nurse who hurried over with concern written across her face.

'Pain?' she asked, already reaching for my chart.

I nodded, unable to explain that the physical agony was nothing compared to the phantom pain of losing something that no longer existed—a love I'd thought would last forever, now as insubstantial as the ghost of the man who had once promised me the world.