After the door closed, I counted the drops of medicine falling from the IV drip. One drop, two drops.
Just like counting the lies he'd told me over the past seven years.
In Jonathan's world, "tomorrow" was a day that would never come.
Three days passed and Jonathan never appeared. Instead, a constant stream of videos came from our mutual friends.
He was at a charity gala with his arm around Wendy's waist, feeding her dessert at a Michelin-starred restaurant and kissing her growing baby bump on a yacht.
On the day I was discharged, a new post popped up on my feed.
Jonathan had posted a grid of nine photos.
He was kneeling in the middle of a lavender field with his ear pressed to Wendy's belly. The caption read, "Waiting for our little princess."
The sunlight was perfect and the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at Wendy could melt ice.
The comments section was filled with cheerful remarks calling Wendy beautiful.
He hadn't blocked me, so I clicked "like."
My phone vibrated instantly, Jonathan's name flashing on the screen.
I didn't answer. I slipped my phone into my bag and handled the discharge procedures alone.