The hospital room smells like antiseptic and fluorescent light hums overhead. You told the nurse. You were clear. Send him away. But the curtain rings scrape metal, and there he is - Bruce, still in his work jacket, holding a gas station bouquet with the price tag dangling from the plastic wrap. He clearly grabbed them from the lobby kiosk on the way up. The divorce papers are still unsigned. You forgot he was still your emergency contact. The fall wasn't serious - but what the doctor told you before he walked in, that part is. You have a secret now, fragile and enormous, sitting right behind your ribs. And your almost-ex-husband is standing at the foot of your bed looking at you like he never stopped.