Semua Bab Love Me Now or Lose Me Forever: Bab 1 - Bab 10

Three days now.Zeke had spent three nights on the narrow fold-out couch in the study, barely 1.2 meters wide. The springs were old and creaked faintly whenever he turned over, the sound sharp in the dead of night.The master bedroom door stayed shut every night. The first night, Nikki hadn't gotten home until almost midnight. She'd lingered in the living room a while, then knocked softly on the study door. Zeke hadn't answered, pretending to be asleep. The second night, she'd made a late-night snack, a steaming bowl of noodle soup left on the little stool outside the study door, with a note tucked beside it that said, "Zeke, can we talk?"Zeke had opened the door, carried the soup, gone cold by then, straight to the bathroom, and poured it down the toilet. He'd crumpled the note into a ball and thrown it in the trash.Tonight was the third night, and the apartment was unsettlingly quiet. Nikki had stood in the living room a long time before leaving for work that morning, and in th

The week after the birthday dinner, the apartment sank into an even deeper silence.Zeke had muted Nikki's social media on his phone, but the traces of her life couldn't be blocked with a single tap. Sunday morning, sunlight spilled through the living room windows, laying bright patches across the floor. Dust drifted through the beams like countless tiny, restless spirits.He stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the home they'd lived in for almost two years now. Several takeout containers were piled on the coffee table, a few days' worth of clothes lay tossed over the couch, and faint shoe-print dust dulled the floor. Everything about it felt neglected, worn down, unattended.Maybe it was time for a real cleaning, Zeke thought. Better to do something than sit around doing nothing.He got a broom, a mop, and a rag from the balcony, pulled on rubber gloves, and got to work. He started with the living room, sorting the takeout containers into bags, wiping down the co

Just past noon on Wednesday, Zeke was eating lunch in the cafeteria with some coworkers. The braised short ribs on his tray had been cooked down soft and tender, but he had no appetite for them, his fork pushing rice around the plate without much purpose. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw his father Arthur's number.His father rarely called at this hour, not unless something urgent had come up. A knot of unease tightened in Zeke's chest as he set down his fork and answered. "Dad?"His father's voice came through, edged with worry, with some noise in the background. "Zeke, can you get to the hospital right now? Your mother suddenly got dizzy, really bad, and threw up too. I just called an ambulance; we're at Ellenwood General Hospital. The doctor says it's her blood pressure; she needs to be admitted for a few days."Zeke shot up out of his chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. Coworkers at nearby tables turned to look."Which department? I'l

The week after Zeke's mother came home from the hospital, the weather turned cold without warning.Just days before, the air had still carried the last warmth of summer, but overnight, it seemed all that heat had been drained away. The autumn wind sharpened, sweeping dry sycamore leaves into little whirlwinds along the street. The old apartment's windows never sealed quite right, and at night, a thin draft always found its way through the cracks, letting out a faint, moaning whistle.That was the turning point when Zeke finally got sick.Weeks of overtime, hospital visits, and all those feelings pooling in his chest with nowhere to go had piled up like layer upon layer of dead weight, and it finally broke him down, exhausted as he already was. Thursday morning, he woke up feeling like his throat had been scraped raw with sandpaper, his head too heavy to lift, and a dull ache settled deep in every joint.He forced himself up to take his temperature. The mercury crept slowly up t

Zeke leaned back against the chair. His right arm was tied up with the IV line, so he pulled out his phone with his left hand. The screen lit up, and he opened his chat with Nikki.The last message was still the one he'd sent that afternoon: [I've got a fever, over 39 degrees Celsius.]Nikki hadn't replied.He thought about it, then typed another: [I'm at the clinic getting an IV.]He hit send. The message shifted to "Delivered," but stayed that way, no "Read" in sight.He stared at the chat window for a long time. Then he backed out, turned off the screen, and set the phone on his lap.He closed his eyes, and the images came unbidden.It was last winter, when Nikki had caught the flu. Same thing, a high fever, the same clinic, the same infusion room. He'd taken the day off to be with her, sat in this exact seat, brought her water, wiped the sweat from her brow. She'd leaned against his shoulder and said, "I feel awful," and he'd just held her hand and murmured, "It'll be over