Chapter Nine
(Sky)
Pain becomes background noise if you live with it long enough.
At first, you notice it. Every ache, every sharp reminder that your body is keeping score. Then one day, you wake up and realize you've learned how to move around it. How to breathe through it. How to pretend it isn't there.
I go to work anyway.
Even when my knee swells so badly I can barely bend it. Even when my wrists burn from scrubbing floors that will be dirty again in an hour. Even when my chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with fear.
Pain doesn't pay bills.
Pain doesn't raise children.
So I work.
The diner smells like grease and coffee that's been sitting too long. My manager eyes me when I limp, asks if I'm okay.
"I'm fine," I say automatically.
Fine means I don't have a choice.
By noon, my back is screaming. By three, my vision blurs when I stand too fast. I steady myself against the counter and think of Evan's face this morning. The way he wouldn't meet my eyes. The way he hasn't, lately.
That hurts worse.
During my break, I sit on a crate in the alley behind the diner, pressing ice against my knee. I check my phone.
No messages.
I shouldn't expect one. I know that. Still, hope is a bad habit I haven't managed to quit.
I work a second shift that night, cleaning offices downtown. Marble floors. Glass walls. Desks where people with soft hands leave coffee rings and crumbs behind. I wonder what Evan would think if he saw me here, bent over a mop, my reflection warped in polished steel.
I wonder if he'd be ashamed.
The thought settles deep, heavy and familiar.
By the time I get home, it's almost midnight. The apartment is dark. Evan's door is closed. I move quietly, shoes in my hand, every step a careful negotiation with my body.
In the bathroom, I roll my pant leg up and stare at my knee. Purple. Yellow. Swollen like it's holding a grudge.
I laugh softly. "You and me both," I whisper.
I swallow two painkillers without water and sit on the edge of the tub until the room stops spinning.
When I finally crawl into bed, sleep doesn't come right away. My body aches, but my mind is louder.
I think about all the pain I've worked through without complaint. Childbirth alone. Night shifts. Broken appliances. Empty fridges. Evan's silence.
I tell myself it's worth it.
I tell myself one day he'll understand.
And if my body gives out before then—
well.
At least he won't have to worry about me anymore.
The thought scares me enough to make me cry.
So I wipe my face, turn toward the wall, and set my alarm for the morning.
There's always more work to do.
And pain, like love, is just something I've learned to carry.