Seventeen Unanswered Texts,A Marriage Shattered

The second time, he turned me into the biggest joke in the entire hospital. It happened at the farewell dinner.

The final segment of the evening was reserved for goodbye speeches from the staff about to transfer overseas.

When I stepped onto the stage and took the microphone, the murmuring below nearly drowned out the speakers.

Every pair of eyes landed like needles on my right hand, the one that still couldn't close into a full fist, then drifted to the two people sitting shoulder to shoulder in the audience: Denys and Cornelia.

That mix of pity and secondhand embarrassment in their gazes hurt worse than the steel rebar that had gone through my palm six months ago.

I drew a long breath, letting my gaze skim past Denys's face, that expression of perfect “clear conscience” he always wore.

“Thank you all for looking out for me.”

I paused, and in the silence of the private dining room, my voice carried with painful clarity.

“I hope that over the next two years, while I'm gone, every one of you gets what you wish for. Take care of yourselves.”

Two years ago, on that rainy night, my career ended.

Cornelia, who was supposed to be off duty that day, had called me in tears, saying she'd seen the mangled bodies at a highway pileup and her legs had given out from fear. She begged me to go in her place.

It was a catastrophic chain-reaction collision.

The rain came down like the sky was caving in. I had just pulled the last survivor from the twisted wreckage when the compressed chassis buckled open.

A snapped piece of rebar shot through my right palm like a striking snake.

In that moment I didn't even feel pain. All I heard was the sound of bone splintering.

I was pinned in a gap between the debris, rain washing the blood off me in sheets, surrounded by a silence like death.

Only my left hand could still move. I managed to open his pinned chat, shaking so hard I could barely type, and sent message after message, voice and text, one on top of another.

“Denys, help me……I'm losing so much blood……”

“Denys, I'm so scared.”

The screen flashed the same ice-cold auto-reply, over and over: 【Received】.

I curled up in the mud, bit through the tip of my tongue, and held on by the thinnest thread of a delusion.

I told myself he was on his way. I told myself he was just too busy to type a real answer.

By the time the rescue team dug me out, dozens of hours later, I was barely alive.

The paramedics called my emergency contact on the spot.

The first call was hung up.

When they called again, it was Cornelia's voice on the other end, irritated and sharp：“Stop calling! Denys just took me to a movie and he's sleeping!”

The line went dead a second time. Then I was blocked.

With no one to sign the consent forms, my surgeon went ahead anyway, eyes red-rimmed, operating at his own risk just to keep me alive.

I spent two weeks in the ICU. Denys never came. Not once.

Because during those two weeks, he was busy taking poor, shaken Cornelia to the beach to help her recover.

My right hand was pieced back together, but the nerve damage was too severe. After more than six months of rehab, I was still left with a tremor that would never go away.

As a nurse, I could no longer perform a precise IV insertion or administer emergency care. My future had been nailed shut by that rebar on that rainy night.

The day I was discharged and came home, I lost it.

I smashed every mirror in the apartment, tore our wedding portrait to shreds, and screamed until my voice broke.

I clawed Denys until blood ran down his arms. I slapped him across the face three times.

I pointed at the centipede-like scar across my right hand and demanded to know why he had set his messages to auto-reply.

“Denys, I could have died that night! How could you just blow me off like that?!”

He stood in the middle of the wreckage, perfectly composed, like someone watching a scene that had nothing to do with him.

“Because I didn't feel like coming back.”

He pried my hand off him, voice flat.

“Nellie, you talk too much. How many patients you stuck with needles today, whether the cafeteria food was any good tomorrow. I never cared.”

That was the moment something inside me rotted through completely.

My desperate cries for help while I hovered between life and death were, in his eyes, just another one of those “trivial annoyances” he couldn't be bothered with.

For two years I'd tried to mend things, tried to forgive, given him chance after chance.

Now all I had left was a hollow, bitter laugh at myself.

My only regret was that the night that rebar went through my hand, I didn't let Denys Henson die in my heart right then and there.