Page 38 of One Little Mistake
My whole body aches, and I still feel unbearably weak, yet sleep won’t come.
I try to get up and walk to the window. It doesn’t happen on the first try.
Until now, the nurses have been helping me make it to the bathroom and back, and even that short trip feels like running a marathon.
I brace myself against the windowsill to keep from collapsing to the floor, and stare out at the city, blanketed in snow.
Thanks to the streetlights and glowing windows, it looks almost magical.
The last few snowflakes swirl gently in the air before disappearing into the thick white cover on the ground. It’s like something out of a fairytale.
I lift my gaze to the dark sky—no stars in sight, not even the moon. Not that you usually see stars in a big city, anyway.
The memory of my small hometown hits me hard: summer nights, the smell of fresh grass, and a sky so full of stars it looked like someone had tossed handfuls of gold across it.
A pang of homesickness tightens in my chest.
For a brief moment, I wonder if I should take Tim and go back there for a while. Escape the city noise. Cut away the painful memories. Start over.
The buzz of my phone pulls me away from the snow-covered streets and back to bed. It’s Max Taylor again.
Max Taylor: “I tossed the teddy bear—sorry if that’s a problem. It was getting on my nerves. Everything else is still there. You can pick it up once you’re discharged.”
I chuckle. It feels like a sign. Out with the old life, time to clear space for the new—one filled with warmth, light, and comfort. Even if right now I don’t even have a place to live. It’s fine. What matters is that we’re healthy.
Me: “Thanks for the favor. It was a gift from Max. I would’ve tossed it, anyway.”
Max Taylor: “No wonder I hated that bear from the moment I saw it.”
Word by word, short texts, and silly stickers—
I don’t even realize we’ve ended up texting all night.
It’s that “stranger on a train” effect, when two people, knowing they’ll probably never meet again, tell each other things they’ve kept bottled up for years—fears, regrets, heartaches.
I needed this conversation.
I needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t pity me, wouldn’t call me foolish, wouldn’t mock or gloat.
Sometimes it’s easier to share your failures with a stranger you think you’ll never see again.
That’s how it was supposed to go with us, too. But something went wrong. Because when I wake up the next morning, I find a man standing beside my hospital bed, a baby blanket in his hands.
I stare at the man in confusion. He carries the chill of the winter air with him, the scent of frost clinging to his clothes. Snowflakes are melting on his warm jacket, his hair is tousled,his nose red from the cold, and his gaze is locked onto me. His expression gives nothing away; in fact, he unsettles me a little, especially with his sudden appearance in my hospital room.
But in that moment, my heart flutters with disbelief—because I recognize the blanket in his hands. The same one I had bought weeks ago at the baby store.
I open my mouth to say something, to ask if it’s really what I think it is—but the fear of being wrong chokes off the words.
He doesn’t say anything either. Just stands there, studying me, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
My cheeks burn.
I remember all too clearly the things I shared with him during our late-night chat.
Far too much for someone who’s practically a stranger.
“I... is that...?” I stammer, nodding toward the bundle in his arms.
