Heart Beats For Self

My husband had a strange quirk: he had to count my heartbeat to fall asleep.

Thinking it was romantic, I secretly took a photo and posted it on TikTok. The comments section was flooded with envy, putting me in a wonderful mood, until one comment was suddenly upvoted to the very top:

[Did you have a heart transplant?]

I sat up straight in bed, my heart hammering.

I did have a heart transplant, but that was a secret known only to my immediate family.

I sent a private message to the user, and they replied almost instantly:

[Your transplant was on May 20th three years ago, wasn't it?]

[Your husband looks exactly like the donor's boyfriend.]

A wild, terrifying thought began to take shape in my mind.

That night, I begged a contact to dig into the records. Hours later, they sent over a photo of the donor's final wishes. It contained only one short, handwritten sentence:

"Please leave this heart to Wesley's beloved."

Wesley was my husband's name.

But three years ago, when I received that heart, I didn't even know him.

[What was the name of the donor you found?]

At two in the morning, I squatted on the balcony, my fingers trembling as I typed.

The screen went silent for a few seconds before a photo popped up.

The girl in the photo wore a white dress. Her smile was clean and bright, and there was a tiny mole at the corner of her eye.

Then came a line of text:

[Evelyn. She was Wesley's college girlfriend. Three years ago, she was declared brain-dead after a car accident, and her organs were donated according to her wishes.]

I stared at her face for a long time. She was a complete stranger, someone I had never seen before.

Yet, her heart was beating inside my chest right at this moment.

[In her will, she wrote 'Wesley's beloved.' At the time, Wesley wasn't married. The hospital ran the standard matching process, and you just happened to be the perfect recipient. But Wesley tracked you down afterward.]

The light from the phone screen made my eyes sting.

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to tell myself that Wesley and I met through a blind date set up by my mother's friend, and that it had nothing to do with any donor.

But a memory suddenly flashed in my mind.

Three years ago, during our first blind date, the moment Wesley saw me, his chopsticks slipped from his hand and clattered onto the table.

At the time, I thought it was love at first sight.

Now, looking back, that look in his eyes wasn't passion; it was recognition.

I exited the chat and scrolled through Wesley's social media. His profile was incredibly clean, containing only a few photos of us that I had forced him to post after our wedding.

I scrolled all the way to the bottom. On May 21st, 2021, he had posted a single line:

"From now on, I will live well for you."

There was no photo, no location.

That day was the day after Evelyn had passed away.

It was also the day after my heart transplant surgery.

Footsteps echoed from the living room, and I quickly locked my phone screen.

Wesley walked out, a coat draped over his shoulders, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I couldn't sleep. Just wanted some fresh air."

He walked over and naturally placed his hand over the left side of my chest. His fingers spread slightly, his palm covering the exact spot of my heartbeat.

I used to find this gesture incredibly tender and comforting.

Now, as I looked down at his hand, I only felt a cold dread, as if he were simply checking to see if something was still there.

"Your heart is beating fast," he murmured.

"Just a bad dream."

He didn't press further, wrapping his arm around my shoulder to guide me back to the bedroom.

"Get some rest. I have a business trip tomorrow, so don't stay up late while I'm gone."

I nodded, lying back down obediently.

He lay on his side, his palm resting over my heart again, and closed his eyes to count.

One, two, three.

I stared blankly at the ceiling.

He wasn't counting my heartbeat.

He was counting hers.

The next morning, Wesley was at the entryway putting on his shoes. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe with a glass of milk, watching him just as I did every other day.

"Wesley."

"Yeah?"

"Who is Evelyn?"

The hand tying his shoelaces paused for a fraction of a second. Just a fraction.

Then, he stood up, his expression completely normal as he picked up his briefcase.

"Never heard of her. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I just saw a blogger with that name online last night and thought it sounded pretty."

He smiled, walking over to press a gentle kiss to my forehead.

"I'm off. I'll bring back those almond tarts you love tonight."

The moment the door clicked shut, I poured the milk down the sink.

He lied.

I had gone through his college yearbooks and the memory books at the bottom of his bookshelf. Evelyn's name appeared seventeen times.

In the group photos, she stood right next to him, her smile bright and free. And the way he looked at her in those pictures held a warmth I had never once seen in our three years of marriage.

Sitting on the floor with the yearbook in my lap, another memory hit me.

During our first year of marriage, I asked him why he never called me by my name. He had laughed and said he was just used to calling me "wifey" because it felt more intimate.

But now, I realized he had barely ever uttered the name Amelia.

It was as if saying another woman's name was a form of betrayal to him.

And I, from start to finish, was nothing more than a vessel, carrying his deceased lover's heart so she could keep beating.

"Amelia, is something going on with you lately?"

Phoebe's face appeared on the FaceTime call while I was sitting in Wesley's study, sorting through his old hard drives.

"No, everything's fine."

"Don't lie to me. Your dark circles are practically down to your chin. Is Wesley giving you a hard time?"

I hesitated for a moment before forwarding her the screenshot of the donor's will.

The other end of the line went dead silent for ten whole seconds.

"What a bastard," Phoebe swore under her breath. "He married you just for this?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

"What's there to be unsure about? The will says 'Wesley's beloved,' you didn't even know him when you got the transplant, and then he actively sought you out. Amelia, use your brain."

I kept quiet. I had run through that exact logic all night long.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I want to verify a few more things."

"Verify what? Whether he loves you or the heart beating in your chest?"

Her words were brutal, cutting straight to the bone. I opened my mouth, but no defense came out.

After hanging up, I continued scanning the files on the drive. Most of it was work-related, but there was one encrypted folder named "0520."

I tried three passwords.

The first was my birthday: incorrect.

The second was our wedding anniversary: incorrect.

For the third attempt, I entered 20210520.

The day Evelyn died.

The folder clicked open.

It was filled entirely with photos. Evelyn reading in the library, Evelyn running on the track, Evelyn fast asleep against his shoulder.

The last photo was of her in a hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, her face pale, her body hooked up to a tangle of tubes.

The caption below read: "Our final moment."

I closed the folder and put the hard drive back exactly where I found it. My hands were shaking, but my eyes remained dry. I couldn't cry.

Suddenly, I remembered the speech Wesley gave at our wedding.

He had looked at me and said, "From this day forward, I will spend the rest of my life protecting you."

The guests had cheered, and my mother had wiped away tears of joy.

Only now did I realize who the "you" in his promise actually was.

At eight in the evening, Wesley came home on the dot, carrying a box of almond tarts.

"Give these a try. They're from that old bakery downtown. I stood in line for thirty minutes."

I took the box and opened it. The tarts looked beautiful, dusted with sliced almonds, smelling sweet and buttery.

"Wesley, do you remember when I first told you I liked almond tarts?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Right when we first met, wasn't it? You said you'd loved them since you were a kid."

"I never said that."

He blinked.

"I'm severely allergic to nuts, Wesley. I get hives if I even touch them. I told you that on our very first date."

The air in the room instantly turned heavy. The smile on Wesley's face stiffened for a second before he quickly recovered.

"Oh, really? I must have mixed it up. Don't eat them then. I'll get you something else tomorrow..."

"The person who loved almond tarts was Evelyn, wasn't it?"

His hand gripping his briefcase tightened. The silence stretched even longer this time.

"Amelia, what are you trying to say?"

"Nothing." I smiled, closing the box. "I'm going to take a shower."

I turned toward the bathroom, but after a couple of steps, I paused.

"By the way, our anniversary is next week. You remember, right?"

"Of course I do."

"What date is it?"

He couldn't answer.

Our wedding anniversary was November 3rd. Evelyn's birthday was May 20th.

Every year on May 20th, Wesley took a day off, claiming it was for a company team-building event. I had never doubted him.

The rush of the shower water drowned out everything else. I stood under the spray, letting the hot water stream over my face, unable to tell the difference between the water and my tears.

"How do you want to spend our anniversary?"

During breakfast the next morning, Wesley brought up the topic himself. I looked at him as I chewed on my toast. He was calmly adding sugar to his coffee, his expression perfectly normal.

"What do you think?"

"Should we book a table? You mentioned wanting to try that new steakhouse downtown."

"Sure."

I didn't point out that he had clearly looked up our anniversary date the night before. I had seen a notification on his phone screen earlier that morning: "Nov 3, Anniversary." Created: Last night, 11:47 PM.

In three years of marriage, this was the first time he had ever put our anniversary into his calendar. Yet, on his calendar, May 20th had a recurring red dot every year, empty of words but never missed.

After he left for work, my phone rang from an unknown number.

"Is this Amelia? I'm calling from the transplant registry office at Mercy Hospital."

"Yes, speaking."

"You underwent heart transplant surgery at our facility three years ago. According to our post-op management policy, we are due for an annual follow-up. Would you be able to come in for a checkup this week?"

"Yes, I can make it."

"Excellent. I'll schedule you for Wednesday morning. Also, I wanted to verify if Wesley remains your primary emergency contact?"

"Yes, he is."

"Perfect. The notification will be sent to his number as well."

I hung up, a thought blooming in my mind.

If Wesley received this notification, how would he react? Would he be anxious? Caring? Or would he simply be checking to see if his investment was still performing well?

On Wednesday morning, I went to the hospital alone without telling him.

After the tests, the doctor looked at my charts and declared everything normal.

I hesitated before asking, "Doctor, is there any way for me to get information on my donor?"

The doctor adjusted his glasses. "According to regulations, donor and recipient information must remain strictly confidential."

"What if the donor's family reached out to me directly?"

"If both parties agree, it can be arranged through the proper channels. But as far as our records show, your donor's family has never submitted such a request."

Never submitted.

Which meant Wesley had never used any official channel to find me.

So how on earth had he tracked me down?

As I walked out of the hospital gates, my phone vibrated. It was a message from Wesley:

[I received the hospital notification. Why didn't you tell me? I would have gone with you.]

I replied:

[I'm already done. Everything is normal.]

He texted back instantly:

[Let me know next time. I don't feel comfortable with you going alone.]

Not comfortable.

Was he worried about me, or was he worried about this heart?

I slipped my phone back into my pocket and stood at the entrance for a long time. Then, I hailed a cab and gave the driver an address: Greenwood Cemetery.

I had looked it up online. Evelyn was buried there, in the quietest section of the grounds.

Following the markers, I found her headstone. It was clean white marble, bearing the same bright, smiling photo I had seen on his hard drive.

In front of the stone sat a fresh bouquet of white roses. The petals still carried the morning dew.

Today was Wednesday. Wesley had told me he had an early morning board meeting.

I knelt down, noticing a small card tucked under the stems. Written on it in Wesley's unmistakable handwriting were two words:

"Miss you."

I stood up, my legs feeling weak.

Three years. On every day he claimed to be in meetings, traveling, or working late, how many times had he actually been standing right here?

Whispering "I miss you" to a cold piece of stone, only to come home and press his hand against my chest to count her heartbeat as he drifted off to sleep.

I felt a sudden wave of nausea, not directed at him, but at myself, for being so utterly blind for three whole years.

My phone rang again. It was Wesley.

"Amelia, what do you want for dinner? I can get off work early and cook."

I looked at Evelyn's smiling face on the headstone while listening to the warm, gentle voice coming through the receiver.

"Anything is fine. You choose."

"Alright. I'll make those honey-glazed ribs you like."

My favorite was classic, smoky BBQ ribs. Honey-glazed ribs were likely Evelyn's preference.

"Okay."

I hung up, taking one last look at the white roses.

As I turned to leave, I spoke to Evelyn in my mind.

I'm sorry. I'm going to return her heart to him.

"Amelia, you seem a bit distracted tonight," Wesley said, swirling the red wine in his glass as he looked at me across the table.

"I'm fine. Just thinking about some projects at work."

"Leave work at the office. Tonight is our night."

He spoke with such quiet sincerity. I looked into his eyes, searching for any trace of guilt or hesitation.

There was none.

He looked at me with pure warmth and focus, like a husband deeply in love with his wife. If I didn't know the truth, I would still believe I was the happiest woman in the world.

"Wesley, let me ask you a question. You have to be completely honest with me."

"Go ahead."

"Do you love me?"

He smiled, reaching across the table to cover my hand. "Of course I love you."

"What do you love about me?"

"I love..." He paused for a beat. "I love everything about you."

What a textbook, flawless answer. But it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

"If one day my heart gives out and I need another transplant, if I have to replace it with someone else's heart, would you still love me?"

His grip on my hand tightened slightly.

"Why are you asking that? did something go wrong with your checkup today?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"Amelia, don't let your mind wander. Your heart is perfectly healthy. Nothing is going to happen."

"I said if."

He set his wine glass down, his expression turning solemn.

"There is no 'if.' I won't let anything happen to your heart."

I caught his choice of words. It wasn't "I won't let anything happen to you." It was "I won't let anything happen to your heart."

I pulled my hand back and took a sip of my wine.

"I'm just joking. Don't look so serious."

He let out a breath, his smile returning. "You scared me. I thought the doctor had found something."

"Actually, the doctor said I've recovered beautifully. I don't even need to come back for annual checkups anymore."

"Really? That's incredible news."

His joy seemed entirely genuine, but I couldn't tell if he was happy for my health or for the safety of the heart inside me.

On the way home, he held my hand as we walked along the sidewalk. The streetlights stretched our shadows out, making us look like any other devoted, ordinary couple.

"Wesley."

"Yeah?"

"If one day I'm no longer around, what would you do?"

He stopped walking, turning to look at me. "Amelia, what is wrong with you today? Why do you keep saying these things?"

"I just wanted to know."

He pulled me into his arms, resting his chin against the top of my head. "You aren't going anywhere. I won't allow it."

I buried my face in his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was steady, strong, and slow, carrying a rhythm entirely different from the borrowed heart beating inside my own chest.

In that moment, I made my decision.

Once we returned home, I waited until he fell asleep. I waited until his hand found its usual spot over my heart, and his breathing turned deep and even.

I gently moved his hand away and sat up.

In the drawer of my nightstand was the package I had prepared earlier: a signed set of divorce papers, a letter, and a one-way ticket to Southport for six in the morning.

I placed the divorce papers and the letter side by side on his pillow. Then, I opened the closet and pulled out my packed suitcase.

I didn't take a single thing he had ever bought me. None of the jewelry, the designer bags, or the dresses, because they had all been chosen according to Evelyn's taste. I took only the clothes I had owned before our marriage and a single notebook.

Tucked inside the notebook was our wedding photo. I looked at it one last time, pulled it out, and laid it on top of the divorce papers.

At the door, I glanced back at the bedroom. Wesley rolled over, his hand reaching out across the empty sheets. Not finding me, his brow furrowed slightly, his palm clenching the air before falling loose.

I pulled the door shut quietly behind me and rolled my suitcase to the elevator.

The hallway at four in the morning was as silent as a tomb. As the elevator doors slid shut, a muffled shout echoed from inside the apartment, a voice rough with sleep and sudden panic:

"Amelia?"

The elevator began its descent.

I took a deep, steady breath, letting his voice fade behind the concrete walls.