In the days leading up to it, Sophie grew quieter. Not distant exactly, but inward. She listened to doctors, signed forms, and accepted visitors with a kind of composed politeness that worried me more than tears would have.
The night before surgery, a storm moved over Chicago.
Rain streaked the hospital windows, turning the city lights into long, trembling lines.
Linda had gone back to Sophie’s apartment to shower and sleep for a few hours. I stayed, sitting beside the bed while Sophie picked at a cup of gelatin she clearly didn’t want.
“You can stop pretending that tastes good,” I said.
She glanced at me. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”
“That dessert has no relationship with optimism.”
“It’s cherry.”
“It’s red.”
She laughed softly.
Then silence returned.
After a while, she set the cup aside.
“Ethan?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you doing this because you feel responsible?”
The question was inevitable.
I had been waiting for it.
“No,” I said.
She studied me carefully.
“I feel responsible for some things,” I continued. “For leaving without really looking at what was happening. For not being present. For letting my own grief become an excuse to disappear. But that’s not why I’m here.”
