While I Was Dying, He Was Texting His Intern

I didn't wait for Sybilla to come out. I pushed the door open and walked in.

Bertram followed behind me, carrying my bag.

The specialist glanced between the three of us but said nothing.

The assistant asked Sybilla：“Do you have any known allergens?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she turned and looked at Bertram.

He answered for her：“Mango, peanuts, shredded coconut.”

The assistant asked me the same question.

I turned and looked at Bertram too, just like Sybilla had.

I didn't miss the flicker of blankness in his eyes.

I let out a dry, mocking half-smile

and stared straight at his face, enunciating every word：

“Chili peppers. Oyster mushrooms. Spinach. Celery……”

With each one, his face lost another shade of color.

At the hospital entrance, he stood in front of me like a child who knew he'd done something wrong.

Sybilla tugged gently at the hem of his coat.

“Dr. Delgado, we need to clock in for the afternoon shift. We should head back to the hospital.”

“Go back yourself. I'm taking my wife home.”

“No need. I'll take a cab.”

His brow furrowed tight. He stared at me, hard, like he was afraid I'd vanish the second he blinked.

“You're going home, right?”

I nodded.

“I'll take the afternoon off and go with you.”

I was about to tell him not to bother,

but Sybilla beat me to it：“You have out-of-town patients coming in this afternoon. The appointments are already set.”

Bertram hesitated, then finally said to me：

“Then wait for me at home. I'll come back tonight and cook for you.”

But my flight was that afternoon.

There would be no more meals together.

He saw me hesitate and grew more desperate.

“I memorized all your allergens just now. I even took your medical file.”

He was practically begging.

“I won't get it wrong again. I promise.”

I nodded.

I looked at him one last time, quietly, then turned and walked away.

Back at the apartment, I stood there and took in every detail of the place where we'd lived for four years.

It had been sweet once, in its way.

He never smiled much, but in the middle of the night he would carefully pull the blanket back over me.

On mornings he had an early shift, there was always a glass of warm water on my nightstand.

And in the tender moments, he'd whispered against my ear：

“Jem, don't ever leave me. You're the only family I have.”

How did we end up here.

Sybilla's messages came flooding in again.

She'd grown more aggressive these past few days.

The content, more and more brazen.

“Bertram doesn't love you. Can't you see that?”

“He took me to get my allergy test done. He stayed with me overnight in the lab and told you he was working late.”

She'd sent me screenshots of her chats with Bertram. Piles of them.

They messaged each other almost every day.

What they ate, where they went, reported back to each other like clockwork.

Bertram didn't say much.

But he replied to every single one, thoughtfully.

He'd tell her a dish wasn't nutritionally balanced, that she should add more vegetables.

He'd say the weather really was nice, that she should go outside and get some sun.

Compared to what I got as his wife“Okay”“Got it”“Mm”,

those messages were alive.

But I felt nothing. Still water, no color left in it.

The only thing that sent a single ripple through me was a secretly recorded video.

Bertram was writing something on paper, his phone propped against the edge.

Sybilla：“Dr. Delgado, aren't you going to call your wife back? What if something's wrong?”

Bertram didn't even lift his head. His voice was flat and cold：“It's probably just an allergy. Would I get there faster than an ambulance?”

The date on the paper was the night I was being resuscitated.

So he'd guessed why I was calling him that night.

……

The rest of my things had already been shipped out days ago.

All that was left was one small carry-on bag.

I laid everything out on the table, all the things I'd printed beforehand：

the chat logs Sybilla had sent me,

the photos I'd taken outside room 502 that day,

and the signed divorce papers.

Before I boarded my flight, I sent him one last message.

“When my family moved overseas, you told me I was the only family you had. So I stayed.”

“But I don't want to be your family anymore.”

“Bertram, let's never see each other again.”