Clara slept for nearly an hour.
I stayed beside her, listening to the monitor and watching the light shift across the wall.
I had stopped checking the clock.
There was no point in counting the minutes when neither of us knew what the next hour would bring.
When she finally opened her eyes, she looked toward me.
"Did you sleep?"
"A little."
She raised an eyebrow.
I smiled.
"All right. Not much."
For the first time in what felt like a long time, she laughed softly.
The sound was brief, and it ended almost immediately.
Still, it made the room feel different.
I had missed that sound.
I had missed the easy way we used to talk, when neither of us seemed to be measuring every word before saying it.
I wanted that back.
But I was learning that wanting things to return to normal didn't mean they would.
Clara adjusted her pillow.
I helped her, then returned to the chair.
She watched me settle.
"You're trying very hard."
I looked at her.
"At what?"
"Making sure I'm comfortable. Making sure I don't have to worry about anything."
I wasn't sure how to answer.
"Is that bad?"
"No."
She paused.
"But you look like you're carrying something."
I felt the familiar pressure in my chest.
She had noticed.
I could have told her that I was worried about the delivery.
I could have told her that I was frightened by how quickly things had changed.
Both answers would have been true.
Neither would have been complete.
"I'm trying to understand what I should do," I said.
Clara looked at me carefully.
"About what?"
I glanced toward the window.
Then I looked back at her.
"About us."
She didn't move.
I continued before I could lose my nerve.
"I don't want to make things harder for you. But I don't want to keep pretending I haven't noticed that something feels different."
Clara's expression tightened slightly.
I immediately regretted the timing.
She was still in the hospital.
She had been through a difficult delivery.
I had promised myself that I wouldn't turn her recovery into an interrogation.
"I'm not asking you to explain anything right now," I added. "I just wanted you to know how I've been feeling."
She looked down at the blanket.
For a while, she said nothing.
I sat still and let the silence remain.
Then she asked, "What do you think is different?"
The question caught me off guard.
I had expected her to tell me I was worrying too much.
I had expected her to ask me to stop.
I hadn't expected her to invite me to explain.
I took a breath.
"I don't know exactly."
She looked at me.
"Then what are you worried about?"
I hesitated.
The phone was on the table beside her bed.
I could see its dark screen.
I didn't want to point at it as though it were evidence of something.
I didn't have evidence.
I had an uneasy feeling and a series of moments I couldn't explain.
"I've noticed you seem worried when your phone lights up," I said.
Clara turned toward the table.
Her eyes rested on the phone.
Then she looked back at me.
I waited.
She didn't answer immediately.
I felt my heart beating faster, but I kept my hands still.
"I haven't looked at your messages," I told her. "I don't want you to think that's what this is about."
She looked at me for a long moment.
"I know."
Those two words surprised me.
I had expected a denial or an explanation.
Instead, she sounded tired.
I didn't know what her answer meant.
Perhaps she believed me.
Perhaps she had been waiting for me to say something.
Perhaps neither of us understood the conversation well enough to know where it was going.
Clara rested her head against the pillow.
"I don't know how to talk about everything right now."
I nodded.
"You don't have to do it all at once."
She closed her eyes.
I wondered whether I had said the right thing.
Then I reminded myself that this wasn't a performance.
I didn't need to find perfect words.
I needed to be honest and give her room to respond.
After a few minutes, Clara opened her eyes again.
"Are you angry with me?"
"No."
The answer came quickly because it was true.
"I'm scared," I added. "That's different."
She looked away.
I wished I knew what she was thinking.
I wished I could reach into the space between us and remove whatever was making it difficult for her to speak.
But I couldn't.
I could only sit beside her and let her decide what she was ready to say.
She eventually reached for my hand.
I took it.
Her fingers were still weak, and she held mine gently.
"I don't want you to think I don't trust you," she said.
I swallowed.
"Then tell me what you can."
She looked at me.
For a moment, I thought she might explain the message.
Instead, she lowered her eyes.
"Not yet."
The words hurt more than I expected.
I didn't let them become an accusation.
I nodded.
"All right."
Clara seemed to relax slightly.
I wondered whether she had expected me to argue.
I wondered whether she was relieved that I hadn't.
I didn't ask.
We sat together for a while, holding hands.
The phone remained untouched.
I still wanted answers.
But for the first time, I had told Clara what I was afraid of without pretending that I already knew the truth.
That mattered.
It didn't solve the uncertainty.
It gave us somewhere honest to begin.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: Clara Said She Didn’t Want Me to Misunderstand Her Silence, but I Was Beginning to See How Easily Fear Could Speak for Both of Us
The Night Everything Changed, and the Question I Was Too Afraid to Ask Before Walking Through That Hospital Door
Part 13 of 20
