Love Fades Along With Endless Snow

My wife is a world renowned chief neurosurgeon. Yet, in our eight years of marriage, she has never once written me a prescription or ordered a scan, even when my head felt like it was splitting open.

Last week, her department hosted a symposium on the latest minimally invasive surgical techniques, and I attended as her spouse. Right in the center of the massive projector screen was a detailed slide analyzing a highly complex meningioma resection. My heart warmed, foolishly thinking she was finally preparing to operate on my own brain tumor.

But a resident standing nearby whispered to another, "Dr. Rachel worked on this surgical plan for five long years. She oversaw every single simulation herself, staying up until dawn."

"I heard that for Lucas, she even handpicked every single layer of surgical gauze herself."

I stood frozen.

Lucas. He was Rachels protg, and ironically, the underprivileged medical student I had been personally sponsoring for the past three years.

When we got home that night, I could not help but ask her, "Could you perform my tumor resection yourself?"

She was busy scanning Lucas's medical files and did not even bother to look up. "It is just a minor procedure. I have already booked the associate chief for you."

She was willing to spend five years perfecting a surgery for another man, while I could not even get ten minutes of her time for a proper consultation.

That very night, I booked the earliest flight out. Since she chose to fight tooth and nail for her darling boy, I would grant her wish and fade away forever into the endless snow of Switzerland.

"Is it really alright for the next of kin signature line on this organ donation consent form to be left blank?" the coordinator's voice on the phone was gentle.

I opened my desk drawer and slipped the signed consent form into the hidden compartment of my suitcase. "My family is very busy. They do not have time to worry about whether I live or die."

"Mr. Scott, the tumor is pressing hard against your brainstem. You could suffer a fatal hemorrhage at any moment."

I stared calmly at the first winter snow drifting past the window. "It is fine. Let it be."

Hanging up, I pulled out the one way ticket to Switzerland. There were only four days left before my flight.

At half past eleven that night, Rachel returned. She wrapped her arms around me from behind, resting her chin in the crook of my neck.

"You bought your ticket so early?" she murmured. "Once his surgery is over next week, I will take you to Switzerland to see the snow."

The sterile scent of hospital disinfectant clinging to her was laced with the rich, woody cologne Lucas always wore. I stared at the study wall, which was covered in CT scans of Lucas's brain, and remained silent.

Rachel let out a soft laugh, her warm breath brushing against my ear. "Why so tense? You barely even get a cold. Do not scare yourself. Lucas already looked at your scans, and he said it is just a tiny benign growth. You will be back on your feet three days after the surgery."

I froze. My wife was one of the top neurosurgeons in the country, yet she had let an unlicensed intern decide whether I lived or died.

My voice felt dry and thick. "Is that what Dr. Bennett said too?"

Rachel let go of me and walked over to the water dispenser. "Dr. Bennett has been swamped with his research team lately. I have not had the chance to show him your scans yet. But Lucas is incredibly sharp. He has a real gift for this."

Looking at her casual, uncaring expression, a wave of intense nausea hit me. Without warning, a sharp, white hot agony exploded deep inside my skull. I began to tremble violently, cold sweat instantly soaking through my pajamas.

Rachel frowned, grabbing her coat and throwing it over my shoulders. "Are you cold even with the heater on full blast? Your health is really going downhill lately." She did not even bother to look down at my deathly pale face.

Suddenly, the phone on the desk rang. It was the custom ringtone she had set for Lucas. Rachel instantly put down her glass and swiped the screen.

"Dr. Rachel, my head hurts so much, is the tumor pressing on my nerves again?" Lucas's tearful, panicked voice drifted through the line.

Hearing him cry, Rachel's expression shifted instantly to sheer panic. "Don't move. Take deep breaths. I am on my way." The desperation in her voice made it sound as if she were facing the most critical exam of her life.

She spun around and bolted for the door, not even pausing to button her coat. I reached out, my trembling fingers gripping her sleeve. "Rachel, tonight is our anniversary. Can you please stay?"

She paused, looking back at me with a sigh. "Lucas is critically ill, Scott. You need to show some maturity as his sponsor."

I did not say a word, but my grip on her sleeve did not loosen. Rachel gently but firmly pried my fingers away. "I am just going to check his vitals. I will be right back."

The door slammed shut behind her.

The moment she left, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor as a metallic, copper taste flooded my mouth. I coughed violently, splattering a dark pool of blood onto the pristine white rug. It was a terrifying, stark contrast.

Yet, all I could hear was the echo of her marriage proposal eight years ago. "Scott, these hands of mine can hold a scalpel steady, and they will protect you for the rest of your life."

Back then, if I so much as nicked my finger slicing vegetables, she would panic and spend half an hour carefully dressing the tiny wound.

My mind drifted to the medical report buried under a stack of magazines in the corner of the drawer. It was my official diagnosis: a malignant glioblastoma of the brainstem. But Rachel had never once looked inside that folder.

I quietly wiped the blood from my lips and dragged my suitcase out from under the bed. The closet was packed with expensive clothes Rachel had bought me over the years: row after row of bespoke, high end suits. She had forgotten that I only wore casual clothes. But she remembered perfectly that Lucas loved tailored suits.

I ripped the suits off their hangers, stuffing them ruthlessly into a trash bag. As I cleared out the drawers, a receipt fluttered to the floor. It was for a custom Patek Philippe watch. The engraving request read: "S & L", Rachel and Lucas.

I stared at the slip of paper. My eyes burned, but my heart remained uncannily quiet. I took a quick photo, crumpled the receipt into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash.

My phone lit up with a text from Rachel: "Lucas is highly unstable tonight. I need to stay at the hospital to monitor him. Go to sleep early."

It was not until the morning sun began to pierce through the curtains that I realized I had been sitting in the dark all night. I washed my face, splashed cold water over my tired eyes, and hailed a cab to the hospital.

As I walked past the courtyard outside the inpatient ward, I stopped. The winter sun was bright and crisp. Rachel was gently pushing Lucas in his wheelchair, letting him soak in the morning warmth. Over his hospital gown, Lucas was wearing Rachel's expensive, custom made woolen coat.

"Scott, hey! What brings you to the hospital?" Lucas looked up at me, his smile radiating pure, simulated innocence. "Dr. Rachel stayed by my side all night. She even insisted on feeding me water herself, even though I told her I could manage."

Passing nurses cast curious glances our way. Rachel did not correct him. She simply leaned down to tuck the coat closer around his shoulders.

"I told you, Scott, Lucas should not be under any stress right now," she said, her voice cool. "Please do not bring your drama here and pressure him."

I stared at the woman I had loved with every fiber of my being for eight years. Her immediate, instinctive reaction was to assume I was here to pick a fight.

I pointed toward the main building. "I am just here for a follow up."

Lucas gasped, covering his mouth. "A follow up for a tiny benign tumor? Is not that overkill?" As he spoke, he casually lifted his wrist to adjust his sleeve. In the bright morning light, the gold face of the custom watch gleamed, the engravings "S & L" clearly visible.

"Do you like it? Dr. Rachel said since I have a major surgery coming up, she wanted to buy me a little something to keep my spirits up." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black credit card, twirling it between his fingers. "She has been covering all my tuition and living expenses these past few years. You do not mind, do you?"

I recognized that card instantly. It was the joint account card I had set up specifically for charity. Three years ago, Rachel had introduced Lucas to me, calling him a brilliant but impoverished medical student. Seeing a shadow of Rachels younger self in his features, I had not hesitated to finance his entire education.

I took a step forward, grabbed Lucas's wrist, and unclasped the watch strap. I let the expensive timepiece slide off his arm and smash onto the concrete. A crisp, sharp crack echoed through the quiet courtyard.

Rachel's face hardened, but for once, her tone softened slightly. "Why are you acting out like this today? I already spoke to Dr. Bennett about your procedure. Stop making a scene. Or, if you can wait a little longer, I will perform the surgery myself after I am finished with Lucas's."

Looking at her pitying, patronizing expression, a bitter pang struck my chest. "Wait? Why is it always me who has to wait?"

Rachel offered her usual, clinical justification. "His condition is far more urgent. Besides, yours is just a minor growth. A few days' delay will not kill you."

I nodded slowly and turned on my heel. "Alright. Remember what you said today."

"Scott! Stop right there!" Rachel called out, but I did not slow down.

In the consultation room, Dr. Bennett looked thoroughly uncomfortable. "Rachel only mentioned in passing that you had a tiny cyst and asked me to take a quick look when I had a moment. She has not actually sent me your scans yet."

She had not even booked an appointment for me. It was just a casual afterthought.

I nodded and pushed the refusal of treatment form across his desk. "There is no need to look at them anymore. Could you please export my electronic medical files to a flash drive?"

Dr. Bennett's eyes widened as he read the document, his face turning pale. "Scott, this is no joking matter! Do you have any idea..."

"I have already signed it. It is legally binding," I interrupted softly, packing the documents into my bag.

Leaving the hospital, I drove straight to a law firm. "Mr. Scott, are you absolutely certain you want to liquidate all your assets, including the estate, and donate everything to charity?" the attorney asked, seeking confirmation for the third time.

That estate was the house Rachel had gifted me when she proposed. It had been our home for seven years.

"I am certain." I signed my name with a steady hand.

Back home, I pulled out several large cardboard boxes and began erasing every trace of my existence. My easel, my paints, and the oil landscapes that lined the walls, memories of our once happy life, were packed up and shipped to local charities. The house emptied out piece by piece, mirroring the growing void in my chest.

I sat on the bare living room floor, quietly watching the snow begin to fall outside. "Rachel, I will not be waiting for your surgery after all."

Three days remained before my flight. Perhaps Rachel had finally sensed something was wrong. Breaking her usual routine, she came home early, holding a bouquet of white bellflowers, my favorite.

She stopped in her tracks, staring at the half empty living room. "Where did all our furniture go?"

I sat on the remaining sofa, motionless. "Just clearing out some old clutter. I donated it."

Rachel did not press further. She walked over and handed me the flowers, her voice softening into the gentle tone she used to have during our early years of marriage.

"I am sorry about my attitude the other day. I was out of line." She sat beside me, reaching out to wrap an arm around my shoulder. "Lucas's surgical plan is finally locked in. I can finally breathe a sigh of relief."

"Once his operation is done, I will take you to Switzerland for that ski trip you have always wanted."

I subtly leaned away from her touch and took the bouquet. The petals were fresh, dotted with morning dew. But as I adjusted the stems, a gold embossed card slipped out and fell onto the floor. Written in elegant, flowing script was a single line: "Wishing you a speedy recovery, Lucas. Love, Rachel."

The room fell into a heavy silence. Rachel's expression faltered, and she snatched the card off the floor. "The florist must have mixed them up. I ordered two bouquets," she muttered, her explanation thin and unconvincing. "One was for you, and the other was from the department for Lucas."

I did not call her out on her lies. I just watched her perform. "Would a department card be signed 'Love, Rachel'?"

Rachel snapped, standing up abruptly. "Scott, I swallowed my pride to come home and apologize. What more do you want from me?"

I did not have the energy to argue. I pulled a document from the drawer and handed it to her. "Since you are here, sign this."

She frowned as she took it. "Marital Asset Transfer Agreement?"

I offered a casual lie. "I am looking into a new venture and need to mitigate some financial risks."

Without reading a single line, she flipped to the back page and scribbled her signature. She tossed the pen onto the coffee table, her tone shifting back to dismissive ease. "You need to grow up, Scott. Operating all day is exhausting. Home is supposed to be a sanctuary, not a battleground. You really need to learn how to be a supportive partner."

A supportive partner? The words felt like a cruel joke.

Before I could reply, her phone rang. It was an urgent call from the hospital. She answered, and her face went instantly pale. "What do you mean his pre op vitals are unstable? His blood pressure is dropping? I am on my way!"

Without a second thought, she grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. I sat there, calling her name one last time. "Rachel."

She stopped at the entryway, turning back with a look of pure exasperation. "What now?"

"If I were to die tonight, would you still leave?"

Rachel stared at me, her eyes flashing with disbelief and anger. "Have you lost your mind? I spend every day saving lives, fighting for seconds. Do you really have to resort to faking an illness just to get my attention?"

Right then, the agony in my skull flared up with monstrous force. The pain dragged me off the couch, sending me crashing onto the hardwood floor.

Rachel looked down at me coldly. "This act again? Fine, play act all you want."

The door slammed shut.

The pain made it impossible to breathe. Cold sweat instantly drenched my clothes as I lay there, enduring the agonizing torment for three endless hours in the dark. I did not call for help. I knew the only person who could save me was currently cradling another man at his bedside.

When the pain finally subsided into a dull throb, I dragged myself up and texted my lawyer: "She signed the papers. Proceed with the transfer tomorrow."

Then, I picked up the bouquet of white flowers and the romantic card, throwing them both into the trash.

"Rachel," I whispered into the quiet room, "you better pray he is actually dying. Otherwise, my life is a terribly high price to pay for your little game."

The next morning, my screen lit up with an incoming image from Lucas. It showed Rachel curled up on the hospital room sofa, fast asleep under Lucas's blue blanket. The caption read: "Dr. Rachel wore herself out helping me prep for surgery last night. Do not be mad, Scott."

Looking at the photo, even the lingering trace of heartache vanished. I slipped the wedding band off my finger, walked into the study, and placed it beneath her prized "Outstanding Young Physician" trophy. Beside it, I laid the divorce papers she had unknowingly signed the night before.

I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the front door, leaving behind the house that had been my prison for seven years. I did not look back.

The snow fell thicker on my way to the airport. Today was the day Rachel would perform her career defining surgery on Lucas. She had spent five years prepping for this moment, and the entire medical community was watching.

I sat alone in the departure terminal. I was so weak that standing was an ordeal, so I leaned back in an airport provided wheelchair. "Sir, your flight begins boarding in thirty minutes. Would you like me to wheel you over?" an attendant asked.

"Thank you, but I would like to wait a bit longer."

I watched the ground crew clear the snow off the runway as planes took off into the gray sky. Thirty minutes left. Across town at the medical center, Rachel would already be scrubbing in.

I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. It was the first time in seven years I had ever disturbed her during work. It rang so long I thought she would ignore it, but then the line clicked open.

"What is it?" Rachel hissed, her voice hushed but dripping with annoyance. "I am scrubbing in. Whatever it is, it can wait until tonight." In the background, a nurse called out, "Dr. Rachel, anesthesia is ready."

I listened quietly. For once, I did not apologize or hang up. "Rachel," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

There was a brief pause on the other end. "Scott, what is wrong with you today? Lucas's surgery requires absolute focus. Do you have any idea how critical this is for my career?"

Yes, I knew. If this succeeded, she would become the youngest prominent neurosurgeon in the country. "I know," I murmured, watching the snow blanket the tarmac. "I only called to tell you one thing."

Rachel exhaled sharply, clearly at the limit of her patience. "Make it quick."

I closed my eyes as a single tear escaped, instantly chilled by the air. "I hope the surgery goes well."

The line went dead with a sharp click. I smiled faintly, wrapping my coat tighter around my shoulders. "You can take me to the gate now," I told the attendant.

The wheelchair glided forward, moving toward the gate, and toward the quiet end of my journey.