The Road Back Buried in Snow

During those days, Joanna Cross, who almost never posted on social media, suddenly began flooding everyone's feed.

In the photos, she and Adrian Shaw appeared in pretty cafes, atmospheric streets, dessert shops, and craft studios.

The woman who was usually quiet and bad at expressing herself wrote captions so emotional they seemed to bleed.

[One hundred things couples must do. We did them before, but baby forgot, so I will do them all with him again. Getting him back is too precious. As long as it is his wish, even if I have to die, I will make it happen for him.]

Those were things I had always wanted to do with Joanna.

But every time I brought them up, she said I was childish. She mocked me for being a grown man who liked such girly nonsense. She said she was busy. Without exception, she turned me down.

So it had never been the activities she hated.

It had been me.

I laughed bitterly at myself as pain tore through my chest.

With trembling hands, I called Joanna. I wanted to ask her a question. It was a cliche question, but I needed to hear the answer from her own mouth.

Before I could dial, Joanna called me first.

She explained calmly, almost objectively.

"The captions and photos were all Adrian's idea. I am only pretending to cooperate for the sake of his condition. Adrian refused to let me block anyone, so I had no choice but to let you see them. I knew it would hurt you. Don't be angry, Mason. I love you. I always have."

She said it was fake.

But the joy in her eyes and the tenderness with which she looked at Adrian were completely real. They could not fool anyone.

The words she kept repeating, that she loved me, sounded cheap instead.

I gasped for air. The machines attached to my body beeped rapidly. Betrayal, fear, and pain tangled around me until I was close to breaking.

Sweat gathered on my forehead and slid down, mixing with the tears at the corners of my eyes.

My voice shook as I said, "Joanna, my heart hurts. It hurts so much."

I thought she would feel sorry for me.

But suspicion arrived before concern.

"How could that be? Didn't you already get the transplant?" Then, as if she had suddenly thought of something, she said firmly, "Mason, stop pretending. This is not the time to be jealous."

For a moment, my breathing stopped.

I tried to defend myself.

"I am not jealous. It really hurts. I am not pretending. Can you come over, please?"

But the only response I heard was Adrian's voice.

"Honey, come here. I can't reach my back in the shower. Help me."

Joanna's footsteps sounded, and the sound of running water gradually became clearer.

I nearly broke down. I pressed a hand over my heart just to keep from dying from the pain.

"Are you really going to help him shower? Is that something a normal man and woman can do? What do you take me for, Joanna?"

Joanna's calm voice carried a hint of irritation.

"It is all just for show. Adrian and I grew up together. We were kids running around naked before we even knew better. I can promise you that even if I help scrub his back, I will feel nothing. Stop being jealous. Be good. Three months has already become eighty-nine days. When it is over, everything will be fine. Just wait for me."

She hung up.

No matter how many times I called, I could not get through again.

Then came a new post.

Adrian's soaked shirt clung to his abs. Joanna's slender hand, nails painted red, had slipped inside his shirt and rested firmly against his chest.

The caption read:

[Good boy. He really feels nice.]

My breath caught in my throat. I coughed and could not stop. Half a minute later, my throat filled with the taste of blood, and I sprayed a mouthful onto the white sheets, staining them red.

With trembling hands, I tried to touch the stain, but everything before my eyes blurred more and more.

In the end, I passed out.