Michael was thirty-four, handsome, athletic, brilliant. A stock broker who earned his company millions. He worked around the clock chasing deals.
His girlfriend Jane, twenty-nine, worked at a news agency writing about volunteers. She loved life’s slow pace.
They were opposites, but they loved each other.
Until the notorious day.
Michael had been working for a week straight, four days without sleep. That evening, driving home, he felt terrible pain. He pulled over, got out, and collapsed on the pavement.
Stroke.
When he woke in the hospital, Jane was there, eyes red from crying.
Michael tried to speak. His body didn’t obey. Words came out stuttered, half-formed. His right side barely moved. His movements were clumsy.
He spent a month in the hospital. Jane spent a month of sleepless nights beside his bed.
When he came home, friends visited at first. But charismatic Mike was gone. The visits stopped.
Only one friend kept coming—until he started making excuses too.
Mike walked with a cane, hands shaking. Jane fed him sometimes. He’d get angry and break plates.
Jane stayed patient. “He’s going through a tough time.”
Everyone told her he’d changed, his temper was awful, she needed to leave.
“He’ll get better soon,” Jane insisted. “Things will go back to normal.”
They spent all their savings on speech therapy and physical therapy. When the money ran out, Jane took a higher-paying job at a bigger company.
She left at 6 AM, came home in the evening. She prepared everything before work—food on the side table where Mike sat watching TV.
One day she came home and found him on the floor, forehead bleeding. He’d tried to make coffee. The cup slipped. He fell on broken glass.
She helped him up. He pushed her away, yelling, “This is your fault!”
Jane broke down, went behind the wall, and cried on the floor.
She was exhausted. Doing everything to get him back on his feet.
Her colleague Tom noticed her suffering. Once she fell asleep in her office chair. Tom covered her with his jacket. When she woke, he brought coffee.
They became close, talking about everything.
Meanwhile, Jane hired a physiotherapist—Ann, a professional woman in her forties. The best in her field.
After some time, Michael’s movements improved. Became more fluid.
Ann noticed how handsome Michael had been before the stroke. Slowly, she grew fond of him. When she touched him during therapy, emotions surged.
Michael noticed. For the first time in two years, he felt alive. Another woman was attracted to him.
His self-confidence returned. His ambition awakened.
Tom told Jane it was time to move on. “You’ve done your best. He’ll never appreciate it.”
“I truly love him,” Jane said. “We had hardships in college. We were broke but happy. Then he was promoted. Things got better. It’s just a matter of time. He’ll get better and things will go back to normal.”
Tom tried to kiss her. She moved away.
That day, Jane left work early.
When she got home, she saw Michael and Ann kissing.
Jane stood frozen. Then broke into tears.
“I spent two sleepless years getting you back on your feet,” she said, voice breaking. “And now that you’re fine, you chose another woman.”
Michael stood paralyzed. Reality crashed down on him.
He saw Jane’s exhaustion. The weight she’d carried. All for him.
He finally understood: she’d done it for love.
Jane ran out. Michael chased her with his limp, faster than he’d moved in two years.
“Thank you!” he called out. For the first time in two years, the words came clearly. “I love you! I’m so sorry! It was anger—at life, at the world, at everyone who abandoned me—and I threw it all at you!”
Jane stopped. Turned.
“I waited for those words for too long,” she said quietly. “Thank you. I love you. I waited two years to hear them. And now that I finally have… they don’t matter anymore.”
She left.
Michael tried to reach her for a year. Called. Wrote letters. Showed up at her office.
But Jane had decided: she’d suffered enough.
She moved on.
