In the hospital, my husband and his lover planned my funeral — until the nurse said…

Still Here

Chapter One: Awake in the Dark

My name is Lauren Mitchell, and three weeks ago, I opened my eyes in a hospital room and realized something was terribly wrong.

The world around me was a blur of fluorescent light and muted voices. I could hear the steady beeping of machines. I could feel the weight of a tube in my throat. I could sense people moving around me, but I could not speak. I could not lift a finger. I could not even turn my head. I was fully awake inside a body that would not respond.

At first, I thought this was simply part of recovery. Maybe the doctors had given me medication. Maybe the paralysis was temporary. But then the door to my room opened and I heard footsteps I knew by heart.

My husband, Evan Carter—the man I trusted for ten years, the man I believed would never hurt me—walked to my bedside. He sighed softly and said something that froze my entire world.

“Maybe it is better if she does not wake up. Maybe letting her go is the kindest option.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to move. I wanted to beg him to explain. But I lay there in absolute stillness, listening as my husband stood over my motionless body and quietly wished for my death.

That was the moment I knew my nightmare had only begun.

Chapter Two: Before the Storm

Before that day in the hospital, if anyone had asked me about my life, I would have told them it was steady and warm, the kind of ordinary happiness people take for granted.

I had been married to Evan Carter for ten years. He was thirty-eight, confident, sharp, and successful in ways that made our friends admire him. Evan worked in commercial real estate, a field that demanded long hours and sharp instincts. He thrived in it.

We lived in a cozy craftsman-style home in the Queen Anne neighborhood of Seattle, surrounded by maple trees and quiet streets. It was the sort of place where neighbors waved and children rode bikes down the block. On weekends, we drank coffee on our porch and planned future trips to Napa Valley, Colorado, maybe even Europe one day.

For a long time, I truly believed we were building a life that would last.

I taught English at a public high school—a job I cared about more than I realized. My students were loud, unpredictable, and endlessly surprising. Evan liked hearing the funny stories from my classes, and I liked hearing about the projects he was managing. We filled our evenings with simple routines, shared meals, and Friday night takeout. We had talked about starting a family once I felt ready.

Everything shifted the moment Evan hired a new assistant.

Her name was Brooke Adams. She was twenty-seven, bright, organized, and always dressed like she was on her way to a magazine shoot. Evan mentioned her casually at first. Brooke handled this contract. Brooke reorganized that client file. Brooke saved them a fortune on a project that almost fell apart.

I did not think much of it in the beginning. A good assistant can make or break an entire office. But as the weeks turned into months, her name started appearing in more of our conversations than I expected. Evan stayed later at work. He made more weekend trips. He seemed tired, distracted, glued to his phone.

Looking back, the signs were all there. But when you love someone, you convince yourself the cracks you see are nothing more than shadows. You tell yourself everything is fine, even when something deep inside whispers otherwise.

Chapter Three: Shadows and Signs

The changes were subtle at first, the kind you brush aside because acknowledging them feels too heavy. Evan started carrying two phones, claiming one was for work emergencies. He would step out onto the porch to take calls, speaking in low tones that drifted back into the house like distant echoes I was never meant to hear.

Our Friday night dinners slowly disappeared. At first it was one cancellation, then two, then half a dozen. Every time he had a reason that sounded reasonable enough—a late meeting, a sudden client crisis, a deadline he had to meet. I listened, nodded, and told myself marriage required patience. I told myself stress could change a person temporarily.

But the truth lingered, growing louder week by week.

When I surprised him with lunch at his office, Brooke was already sitting beside him, laughing at something on his screen. They were close—much too close. She stood up quickly when she saw me, brushing a hand down her perfect blouse, as if erasing evidence of something I was not supposed to see.

Another time, I walked into his home office to find him smiling at his phone the way he used to smile at me. When he noticed me, he locked the screen so fast the motion felt like a reflex he had practiced.

My sister noticed it before I did. During a family dinner, she leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure everything is okay between you two? He seems different.”

Different. A simple word that captured everything I refused to admit.

Still, I tried to believe in us. I reminded myself of the man I married, the one who held my hand at airports and danced with me barefoot in our kitchen. I clung to those memories, hoping they meant something, hoping they could outweigh the uneasy silence that had settled between us.

But the distance grew. The more he pulled away, the more I felt myself slipping into a place I did not recognize—a place filled with quiet suspicion and the fear that I was losing someone without understanding why.

Chapter Four: The Crash

And then came the night that would change everything.

It was a rainy Thursday in early March, the kind of Seattle rain that falls in sheets and blurs the entire world into streaks of gray. I had stayed late at school for parent-teacher conferences. By the time I packed my bag and walked to my car, the parking lot was nearly empty and the streetlights were glowing like hazy halos through the mist.

I remember sitting behind the wheel, taking a long breath, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that had followed me for weeks. I kept thinking about Evan, about the way he avoided my eyes, about the way he always seemed halfway out the door, even when he was home. I told myself I would talk to him that night. I told myself we needed certainty, answers, anything to stop the growing silence between us.

I pulled onto the highway, driving carefully as the rain hammered against the windshield. I had taken that route thousands of times. It felt familiar, predictable.

I was going fifty-five miles per hour, both hands on the wheel, focused on the road.

Then the traffic ahead of me slowed. I pressed the brake. Nothing happened.

I pressed harder. Still nothing.

My heart slammed into my ribs. A cold shock shot through my body. I pumped the pedal again, desperate, terrified, but the car did not respond. It was like the brakes had vanished beneath my feet.

The red glow of a truck’s tail lights flashed ahead of me. I yanked the wheel to the right, trying to reach the shoulder. The rain made the roads slick as glass. The tires lost traction. The car spun violently, the world tilting and twisting as I screamed into the empty night.

Metal collided with concrete. The airbag exploded against my face. My head snapped back. There was a hollow, crushing sound as the driver’s side crumpled inward. Then everything went black—like someone had cut the cord holding me to the world.

Chapter Five: Trapped

When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed surrounded by machines, tubes, monitors. The steady hum of medical equipment filled the room. I tried to lift my hand—nothing. I tried to open my mouth—nothing. I tried to scream—nothing.

Terror poured through me like ice water. I could hear, I could think, I could feel, but I was trapped in a body that refused to move.

The doctors believed I was unresponsive, but I was awake. Awake for every moment that was about to come.

The first few days in the hospital blurred together. Doctors spoke over me. Nurses adjusted machines and family members whispered about my chances. Every voice was clear. Every word reached me. But no one knew I was listening. No one knew I was fighting inside a body that refused to obey a single command.

I kept hoping Evan would come rushing in, devastated, desperate, terrified of losing me. I imagined him holding my hand, whispering that everything would be okay. I waited for the man I used to know, the one who kissed my forehead every morning without fail.

He did visit, but not the way I expected.

One afternoon, the door opened and I heard two sets of footsteps. Evan’s voice came first, low and tense. A woman answered him, her tone sharp, impatient. It took only a second for me to recognize it.

Brooke.

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