Unhealthy Sign

(A week later.)

“I gave you a part of my body, and you gave me silence.” That’s what I say to him, even though I know it won’t land. It never does.

He barely looks up from his phone. Just sits there, scrolling, as if I didn’t just say something that should crack the floor beneath us.

“I’m just tired,” I add, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I’ve been dizzy all day. Nauseous, too. And not the normal kind. Something’s… off.”

Matteo exhales like I’m bothering him. Like my words are an inconvenience. “You’re a nurse, Camila. You know how recovery works. Rest. Drink fluids. Don’t stress yourself.”

I blink. That’s it? That’s all he has to say?

I stare at him from across the room. His shoes are off. His feet are propped on the coffee table like he’s settling in for a peaceful night. His body is here but his heart? His attention? Always somewhere else now. Always with her.

I clear my throat again, forcing myself not to cry. “I’m not exaggerating, Matteo. Something doesn’t feel right.”

He finally looks up, but there’s no worry in his eyes. Just impatience.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he mutters. “You’re the medical professional. You figure it out.”

And then he picks up the remote and changes the channel.

I sit back slowly, my fingers curling into my lap. My body still hurts, healing in places I never thought I’d be wounded. And I know I should fight harder, should push, scream, demand the care I would’ve once begged to give someone else.

But I don’t. Because I already know how this ends. It’s been a week since the surgery.

Seven days since I handed over a piece of myself for people who can’t even look me in the eye now.

And with every hour, I feel myself breaking down from the inside out.

I nap constantly, but wake up even more exhausted. I feel flushed and cold all at once. My mouth is dry no matter how much water I drink. And I keep smelling like metal. Like iron as if something inside me is rusting.

I walk back to the bedroom and sit at the edge of our bed, one hand on my abdomen, the other on my lower back, and I know.

I know something is terribly wrong and no one is coming to save me so I decide to drive myself to the hospital.

I stand up, grab the car keys and leave for the hospital. Not the one where I had the surgery—no. I go to the one I work at. The place where they still remember my name. Where I’m more than just someone’s wife or donor or shadow. Where my ID badge might still mean something.

The nurse at the front desk gives me a second glance when she sees my face.

“Camila? You look pale. Are you okay?”

“I need some bloodwork and renal tests run. Full panel. Stat.”

She nods, no questions asked. And an hour later, I’m sitting on the edge of a gurney, my legs dangling off the side, as a nephrologist someone I barely know walks in holding a clipboard and a storm in his eyes.

“Camila,” he says, gently. “Your creatinine levels are dangerously high. There’s significant inflammation around your remaining kidney. It’s not functioning the way it should.”

I hear the words, but they don’t land right away.“You’re saying… it’s failing?” I ask.

He nods. A tiny sound escapes my throat. Not quite a sob. It's just something caught between disbelief and the sharp edge of heartbreak.

“We need to talk about options,” he continues. “You’ll need a transplant. Sooner rather than later.”

I close my eyes. The irony is cruel. I gave up a kidney for love and now I’m the one dying.

I nod at the doctor and leave immediately to my car and drove off.

I clutch the test results in my hand the entire drive home. The paper shakes, smudged with the sweat of my palms. I keep staring at the words on the report, hoping they’ll change. Hoping it’s a mistake but it’s real.

I arrive home and when I open the front door, I hear them laughing. Laughing.

Alina’s voice, high and girlish. Matteo’s low and full of amusement. The sound of two people enjoying their evening like they didn’t just suck the life out of the one person who sacrificed everything for them.

They’re curled up on the couch, watching a show I introduced Matteo to. She’s got a blanket over her legs. He’s holding a bowl of popcorn and laughing at something she said.

I stand there, invisible. Forgotten. Empty. My chest burns My fingers tighten around the papers.

And I throw them. The test results fly across the room and land right in Matteo’s lap.

He startles, blinking down at them.

“What the hell?” he mutters, unfolding the pages. His eyes skim the words. His brow creases. But not with concern, just mild confusion.

“What is this?”

“My kidney,” I snap. “The only one I have left, it’s failing.”

He leans back and exhales like I just told him we’re out of milk.

“And?”

“And?” My voice breaks. “Matteo, I need a transplant. I’m dying.”

He shrugs. Actually shrugs. “You’re a nurse. You shouldn't bother with these things. Get on a list and find a donor.”

I step closer. “You don’t even care?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Camila.”

“I gave up my kidney for your ex-girlfriend in a stepsister costume, and you’re telling me not to be dramatic?”

“Don’t start,” he says, rubbing his temples. “You always find a way to make everything about you.”

“It is about me!” I yell. “My body. My blood. My sacrifice. And what did I get in return? Nothing. Not even your goddamn attention.”

Alina suddenly sniffles. Here it comes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she says softly. “I never wanted to hurt you, Camila.”

She wipes a fake tear, sniffs again. “If I could give it back, I would. I swear I didn’t know this would happen.”

“You didn’t know?” I snap. “You’ve been living in this house like a queen, soaking up all his affection while I fade into the background, and you’re telling me you didn’t know?”

She looks down, playing the innocent card so hard it’s laughable.

And Matteo—God, Matteo doesn’t defend me. Doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he yells at me. “Enough, Camila! She just had major surgery. You screaming like a lunatic is going to stress her out. Can’t you just shut up for once and let someone else heal?”

I go still. Cold floods my veins. “You want me to shut up?” I repeated.

He runs a hand down his face. “You’re heartless. You know that?”

I can’t even speak. My mouth opens but before I can respond, a bolt of pain rips through my side. So sharp, so sudden, it knocks the air out of me.

“Ah—” I gasp, doubling over. The room blurs. My knees buckle and I hit the ground.

My hands press to my stomach, and I feel sweat break out across my skin.

“Camila?” he says, but he doesn’t move.

And then Alina lets out a soft moan, clutching her head. “I… I feel dizzy.”

Matteo stands frozen for a second. I’m on the floor. She’s on the couch. He looks between us and then he picks her up.

“Stay here,” he says to me, like I’m just some dying neighbor, not his wife.

He carries Alina out of the door, keys jingling, phone already dialing.

And just like that, I’m alone. Still on the floor. Still bleeding inside and out.

I stare at the ceiling until my vision tunnels. My body shivers once. Then I black out.