She should have realized it back then: this man had long since tossed aside any concern for his own life or death.
“You’ve thought about ending it all thousands of times, haven’t you?”
Rebecca’s voice was hoarse as she remembered the densely scribbled notes in his medical file—insomnia, auditory hallucinations, self-destructive behavior—each one like a knife to the heart. “But the thing you can never let go of… it’s always them, isn’t it?”
Alexander didn’t answer. He just turned to stare out the window.
“She may never appreciate it, you know.” Rebecca’s words pulled him back from his thoughts.
“You arranged everything for her. But in her eyes, maybe it was just you trying to control her life.”
“She’ll resent you for choosing her major, hate you for… tying her fate to yours.”
Alexander lowered his gaze, staring at the back of his own hand.
A faint scar ran across the skin—a reminder of last year, when he’d tried to cut his wrist with a razor blade.
He traced the scar slowly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t expect anything in return.”
He had never hoped Danielle would forgive him, nor had he ever wished for her to understand the reasons behind what he did.
All he wanted was for her to be safe. To have a life free from want, free from illness or pain—even if there was no place for him in that life.
Rebecca looked at him, torn between frustration and heartbreak. “Is this what you call love?”
She’d always thought love was a partnership—a journey taken together, two people supporting each other through thick and thin.
But Alexander’s love was more like a one-man act of sacrifice. He swallowed all the hurt, gave all the good, and never expected so much as a thank you. He was even prepared for her hatred.
Suddenly, Alexander let out a bitter laugh, the sound laced with self-mockery and exhaustion.
He met Rebecca’s eyes, his own gaze distant and world-weary. “For most people, love is just a parabola.”
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