Chapter 2

The next morning, I made an appointment at the visa center.

The transfer paperwork was rushed through.

I needed to personally confirm each item — the no-conviction certificate, the academic certification and the work visa documents.

I put the documents in a file bag and took the suitcase from the top of the closet.

When the suitcase landed, it raised a thin layer of dust.

It had been bought three years ago, yet I had never used it.

Selena disliked traveling. To be precise, she disliked traveling with me.

She could travel to dozens of countries for her concerts, but always said that her personal schedule would affect her performance.

Just as I was putting my winter clothes in the suitcase, my phone rang.

It was Selena.

When I answered, the other end was in chaos.

Some people were calling for a doctor while others hurried to get the equipment set up.

Her agent, Alex Bain, lowered his voice. "Shawn, Selena's recording was halfway done when her hand suddenly stopped responding."

I held a stack of visa materials and remained silent.

"She's locked herself in the lounge and won't open the door for anyone." Alex's voice grew more urgent. "Shawn, you need to get over here; she'll only listen to you."

Over the past eight years, I had received calls like this far too many times.

The worst instance was when Selena snapped her cello bow, and the splintered wood cut her palm. When I burst through the door, she was curled up in the corner, her hands covered in blood.

Clutching my sleeve, she asked me repeatedly if she would ever be able to play the cello again.

I sat with her until dawn that night.

She said, "Shawn, I'd probably be dead if it weren't for you."

"Shawn?" Alex continued pressing. "I'll contact her doctor."

I pulled up my contact list. "Have the doctor go over and take care of it."

"But Selena won't let anyone in."

"What about Theodore?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "He's at the door."

"Then let him stay with her."

I hung up and sent over the doctor's contact information.

Ten minutes later, Selena called me herself.

"Why didn't you come?" Her voice was hoarse, strained with the remnants of an uncontrollable fury.

"I'm handling the paperwork for a transfer." I watched the line of people waiting outside the glass window. "The doctor will be there any minute."

"I don't want a doctor."

"Then who do you need?"

She fell silent for a moment. "You know perfectly well."

Of course I knew.

She needed someone to hold her hand and assure her repeatedly that her every finger could still move.

She needed someone to tell her repeatedly that there was nothing to fear whenever her breathing grew erratic.

I had done those things for eight years.

I once believed that as long as I stayed by her side, she would eventually turn toward me when I needed her.

I later realized that being needed was not the same as being loved.

"Selena, I can't just drop everything and rush over every single time."

The breathing on the other end of the line grew suddenly heavy.

"Are you still throwing a tantrum?"

"No."

"Is it just because I wasn't there with you that you're now ignoring my hand?"

It was as if she had finally found an explanation for my strange behavior.

"Once the recording session is over, I'll make it up to you. We can go grab a meal or catch a movie — anything."

I looked down and saw a staff member calling my number. "It's my turn."

"Shawn!"

I hung up and walked toward the service counter.

That afternoon, the studio announced that the recording session had been postponed.

Theodore also posted a photo of him crouching outside the lounge door, with hot water and medicine placed beside him.

The caption consisted of just one line: [Someone has to stay.]

I stared at it quietly for a few seconds and then closed the app.

When I got home that evening, I crossed my own name off Selena's medical authorization form.

I listed Theodore as her new emergency contact.