Chapter 120 CHAPTER 120:A NEW WAYNE
~Elara’s pov~
It began with the small things.
“Elara,” Wayne said gently one morning, tapping his knuckles against the open doorframe of her bedroom. “It’s nine.”
She groaned into her pillow. “That’s illegal.”
He smiled. “Your meds disagree.”
She rolled onto her back, eyes squinting against the light filtering through the curtains. Wayne stood there holding a glass of water and the little plastic pill organizer she hated because it made everything feel real.
“I can do it myself,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said calmly, stepping inside anyway. “I’m just here to make sure you don’t forget.”
She watched him for a long second. Not annoyed. Just… tired.
“Five minutes,” she bargained.
Wayne checked his watch exaggeratedly. “Four.”
She snorted despite herself and pushed upright, the familiar dizziness washing over her. Wayne was already there, steadying her elbow without comment.
That was his gift.
He never made her feel fragile.
She took the pills, swallowing carefully, then sank back against the headboard. Wayne handed her the water again without being asked.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Anytime.”
It became their rhythm.
Wayne arrived every morning before work, sometimes with breakfast, sometimes just with a reminder and a smile. He learned the exact moment her nausea hit after her medication and adjusted accordingly toast instead of eggs, ginger tea instead of coffee.
He learned the signs of her headaches before she spoke: the slight squint, the way her shoulders crept upward, the hand that hovered near her temple.
“You need to lie down,” he’d say gently.
“I’m fine,” she’d argue.
And he’d simply sit beside her until she admitted she wasn’t.
There was no impatience in him. No frustration.
Just care.
One afternoon, Elara found him in her kitchen reorganizing the cabinet where she kept her medication.
“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning against the counter.
“Making it easier,” Wayne replied. “Morning meds on the left. Evening on the right. Emergency stuff up top.”
She stared at him. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
That phrase again.
It followed everything he did.
Driving her to appointments when she didn’t feel strong enough to handle traffic. Sitting in waiting rooms scrolling aimlessly on his phone so she wouldn’t feel rushed. Asking doctors the questions she was too overwhelmed to form.
And afterward, always afterward, he asked the same thing.
“How do you feel?”
Not are you okay.
How do you feel.
Some days, the answer was silence.
Some days, it was tears.
Wayne met both the same way.
One evening, weeks into this new normal, Elara sat curled on the couch, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. Her body felt heavy like gravity had doubled without warning.
Wayne knelt in front of her, holding out her evening medication.
“I don’t want to take them tonight,” she said suddenly.
He paused. “Why?”
“They remind me,” she whispered. “Of everything that went wrong.”
Wayne lowered himself onto the floor, back against the couch, so they were eye level.
“They’re also the reason you’re still here,” he said gently.
Her throat tightened. “Sometimes I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a punishment.”
Wayne didn’t flinch.
“I do,” he said quietly. “It’s a blessing.”
She searched his face for doubt and found none.
“I’m so tired,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“Tired of being strong. Tired of being careful. Tired of surviving.”
Wayne reached for her hand, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted.
She didn’t.
“You don’t have to survive with me,” he said softly. “You can just… exist.”
Something in her cracked open then.
She cried not violently, not dramatically but deeply, like tears she’d been holding back for years had finally been given permission.
Wayne stayed exactly where he was, her fingers clenched around his, grounding her through every sob.
He didn’t tell her it would all be okay.
He didn’t promise a future he couldn’t guarantee.
He just stayed.
Healing showed itself in other ways too.
In laughter that surprised her.
In mornings where she beat Wayne to the kitchen and teased him for being late.
In the way she started taking her meds without being reminded.
“I noticed you didn’t nag me today,” she said once, handing him the empty glass.
“I prefer the term supportive presence,” he replied.
She smiled. A real one.
The doctors noticed it too.
“You seem more stable,” one of them remarked during a check-up. “Whatever you’re doing—keep doing it.”
Elara glanced at Wayne, who gave her an encouraging nod.
Later, in the parking lot, she leaned against the car, breathing deeply.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
“Of what?”
“That if I get better,” she said, “something else will take it away.”
Wayne rested his forehead against hers careful, gentle.
“That fear doesn’t mean you’re weak,” he said. “It means you’ve lost before.”
She closed her eyes.
“I won’t leave,” he added quietly. “Even if you’re scared. Even if you push me away. Even if healing takes longer than you want.”
Her chest tightened.
“You don’t have to promise that,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But I want to.”
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Healing stopped feeling like something she was chasing and started feeling like something she was allowed to receive.
One night, Elara stood in the doorway watching Wayne clean up after dinner something she would’ve insisted on doing herself before.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know,” he replied, smiling.
She hesitated, then said the thing that had been building in her chest for weeks.
“Why are you doing all this?”
Wayne turned to face her, dish towel in hand.
“Because you matter,” he said simply.
She swallowed. “That’s not enough.”
“It is to me.”
She stepped closer, voice shaking. “What if I can’t ever give you the things Calvin wanted?”
Wayne’s expression softened.
“Then I won’t ask for them,” he said. “I don’t want a version of you that fits a dream. I want you.”
The words landed gently but decisively.
That night, when Wayne left, Elara took her meds without hesitation.
Not because she had to.
But because, for the first time in a long while, she wanted to keep healing.
And she wasn’t doing it alone anymore.