7

Sienna's POV

I sat on the sofa, directly across from him. I didn’t answer right away. I simply looked into his eyes—cold, steady. Then finally, I spoke.

“I was in the hospital.”

He froze.

“The accident... it turned out to be more serious than I thought. I had a mild concussion. Some scrapes too. The doctor said I needed to be hospitalized for four days.”

His face turned pale. I could see how those words hit him. He thought I had been faking it. A drama, he said—to steal his attention away from Emily. Even Noah said I was only pretending to get sympathy.

And because of that… they left me. On the street. Alone.

“I… I didn’t know,” Liam muttered at last. “I panicked. Emily—she has a blood phobia. She could have fainted. It could’ve endangered her. I just... I didn’t mean to leave you behind.”

I nodded slowly. No anger. No tears. I’d already gone through all of that.

“It’s okay. You did what you thought was right.”

I stood up, intending to go upstairs, but Liam caught my wrist.

“Where are you going?”

“To rest. Four days in the hospital was exhausting,” I answered flatly.

His gaze dropped to the manuscript still in my hand. He frowned.

“You… wrote something?”

I paused, then looked at the pages. A faint smile tugged at my lips, but it felt empty.

“I’ve always written, Liam,” I said softly. “Every wedding anniversary, I wrote poems for you. Do you remember?”

He furrowed his brow, trying to recall. I knew he wouldn’t succeed.

“You never read them. Some are still sealed in envelopes. You usually tossed them into storage.”

Liam looked down. Silent. His face filled with regret. But I was too tired to hope again.

“And even knowing that, I kept writing. Because that was the only part of myself I had left.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry… I never really knew how much writing meant to you.”

I looked at him. “It’s not something you needed to know, Liam. Because you never even tried to know me.”

He was speechless. His hand lifted, as if to hold mine, but I stepped back and placed my manuscript on the table.

Just as I turned toward the stairs, his voice called out again.

“Sienna… I want your stir-fried black pepper beef. I haven’t had an appetite in days.”

I stopped. Turned, looking at him from the bottom of the staircase.

“If you’re hungry, ask Emily to cook,” I said calmly.

“But... I only like your cooking.”

Maybe the words were meant to be sweet. But all I heard was one thing: he wanted comfort. Not me. Not my heart.

“Liam, you need to start learning how to live without me,” I said softly. “Because soon... I’ll be gone. For good.”

I turned. Continued up the stairs, leaving him speechless below.

That night, I sat on the balcony, gazing at the sky. The night felt calm. Calmer than any before.

My phone chimed. A new notification appeared.

From the foreign publisher.

[Your manuscript has been received and passed the first stage of selection. We will soon announce the Top 5 finalists.]

I didn’t cry. Not that night, not anymore.

I stared at the notification until the light of my screen dimmed and the message faded into black. My reflection stared back at me faintly, a shadow of someone I used to be. Someone who waited—waited to be noticed, waited to be chosen. Not anymore.

I placed the phone beside me and hugged my knees, letting the cold night air wrap around my skin like a second truth. I didn’t feel like a finalist. I didn’t even feel like a person. I felt like leftover silence in a house that had never really heard my voice.

Behind me, the house was quiet. Almost too quiet. No footsteps. No child's laughter. No one called my name.

I didn't miss it. I only missed the version of me who used to think I belonged there.

***

The next morning, I didn’t come down right away. I stayed in the room, rereading the email, still unsure if it meant anything—or everything. It had been so long since something was mine. Mine alone.

When I finally stepped downstairs, it was almost noon. The house smelled of instant noodles and reheated pastries—nothing like the usual breakfast I used to prepare.

Emily was at the dining table with Noah beside her, showing him something on her tablet. Liam stood near the window with a cup of coffee. His eyes flicked to me the second I appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“You’re up late,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“I needed sleep,” I replied simply.

Emily looked up with a smile too sweet to be sincere. “We didn’t want to disturb you. Liam said you were probably still tired from the hospital.”

I gave her a polite nod, then walked straight into the kitchen. My body moved on instinct—boiling water, slicing ginger, putting rice on the stove. But halfway through, I stopped.

Why am I still doing this?

I stared at the pot, at the way steam began to rise, swirling like unspoken words.

“Mom?”

Noah’s voice came hesitantly from behind me.

I turned slowly. His eyes flicked from my hands to my face, uncertain.

“Are you… making breakfast?” he asked.

I nodded. “Lunch, maybe.”

He looked over his shoulder, then back at me. “Can I have your eggs with tomatoes? The one you used to make when I was sick?”

That cracked something in me. Just a little. Just enough to hurt.

“You didn’t like my cooking anymore,” I said, not accusing—just honest.

His cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean what I said the other day. I was just mad. Emily said ice cream was okay and…”

“You picked her side,” I finished for him.

Noah bit his lip, then nodded.

Children don’t know betrayal. Not really. They know who smiles, who plays, who says yes. And I couldn’t blame him for choosing light over silence.

I sighed. “Go sit. I’ll make it for you.”

When I served him the plate, his face lit up just a little. He took a bite and immediately smiled. “Tastes like when I had a fever in first grade.”

I didn’t smile back. My heart was too tired. But something warmed inside me.

Liam stood at the entrance of the kitchen, arms crossed. He didn’t speak, just watched us quietly. Emily pretended not to notice.