Thirty-Nine Point Two
“Thirty-nine point two…” I whispered hoarsely, as if I weren’t speaking to the room at all, but somewhere into the cracks in the ceiling.
The words fell heavily into the silence. Fever pounded in my temples, every joint ached, and the blanket clung to me like wet sand. Vitaly stood in the bedroom doorway but didn’t come any closer. He held himself as though an invisible quarantine line stretched between us — one he absolutely could not cross.
“Well… I warned you,” he muttered through the sleeve of his T-shirt pulled over his nose. “The subway was a bad idea. Didn’t I say so?”
I didn’t need a lecture. I needed a glass of water. Or at least one simple human sentence: “I’m here.”
When a Home Stops Feeling Shared
“Vitya… please… bring me a glass of water. And check if there’s anything for fever in the medicine cabinet.”
He shifted awkwardly in the doorway. After eleven years of marriage, I recognized that posture instantly. It was the look of someone hoping to disappear until the problem “solved itself.”
“Lena, seriously?” he laughed nervously, though there wasn’t a trace of warmth in his voice. “If I catch this too, how am I supposed to go to tomorrow’s meeting? Do you know how much money depends on it?”
I closed my eyes.
As if financial planning were the most important thing while my body burned with a forty-degree fever. Sometimes illness reveals not the weakness of the body, but the weakness of someone else’s responsibility.
I heard the kitchen faucet turn on. A minute later he came back — and stopped in the doorway again. He simply placed the glass on the floor. “You can take it when I move away.”
The sentence sounded as though I weren’t his wife, but some dangerous source of infection. The three meters between me and that glass felt farther than another city.
“I’d Better Stay at My Mother’s”
From the hallway came a familiar sound.
Zip. Pause. Zip again. With difficulty, I pushed myself up onto one elbow.
“Where are you going?” Vitaly appeared in the doorway already dressed. Jeans, a clean sweater, a mask over his face. In his own apartment.
“Lena, well… you understand. The air here feels heavy. The ventilation’s terrible too. I’ll stay at my mother’s for a couple of days. By the time I come back, you’ll probably feel better.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard him.
“You’re leaving?” My voice sounded rough and unfamiliar. “I have almost a forty-degree fever. I may need help.”
“Well, call an ambulance if you get worse,” he shrugged. “You have a phone, don’t you? What exactly am I supposed to do? I’m not a doctor. If I get sick too, then we’ll both be lying here useless. This way I’ll stay healthy, keep working, and later I’ll bring you groceries. I’ll leave them by the door.”
Help:
“Call someone else.”
Care:
“I’ll leave something outside the door.”
Closeness:
“Don’t call me, your voice stresses me out.”
He bustled around the apartment as if preparing for a weekend getaway. The refrigerator door opened, plastic bags rustled, glass clinked.
“I’m taking the lemons, okay?” he shouted from the hallway. “And the honey too. Mom ran out. Besides, you shouldn’t have sweets right now anyway.”
I stared ahead silently. Even the fever didn’t burn as much as his indifference.“You took your keys?” I asked automatically. A wife’s reflex.
“Yep. Get well soon. And… don’t call too much, okay? I need to rest. Your sick voice just makes me tense.” The lock clicked twice. Then silence fell. A thick, heavy silence that settled over the apartment like a layer of dust.
Alone — Which Means an Adult
My phone vibrated on the nightstand. A bank notification. A purchase at a supermarket. He had probably bought something for himself for the trip. And strangely enough, panic didn’t come.
Relief did. As if the constant tension had left the apartment together with Vitaly. With trembling fingers, I opened the delivery app. My hands moved almost automatically:
vitamins, fever medicine, cranberry juice, chicken broth.
“Estimated delivery: 15 minutes.” When the courier rang the bell, I made my way to the door leaning against the walls. The bag hung carefully from the handle.
A stranger whose face I never even saw showed me more care than my husband had in years. If, in your hardest moment, what stands beside you is distance instead of a person — then it’s no longer a family. Just cohabitation.
After the hot broth, my head slowly began to clear.
And suddenly I realized something. At that moment, there was only one adult in this apartment. The one capable of taking responsibility. And that was me. And if I could survive my worst days alone… then why did I need someone who fled from the sound of my breathing?
The Decision That Clicked Louder Than the Lock
I opened a search engine: “Emergency locksmith 24/7.” The locksmith arrived quickly. He looked tired and quiet. He didn’t ask a single unnecessary question.
“Do you want to replace just the cylinder or the whole lock?” he asked matter-of-factly. “The whole thing,” I answered hoarsely. “I want the most secure one you have.”
The drill screamed. Metal groaned. Tiny shavings scattered across the floor. And strangely, the sound calmed me.
As if every screw were saying:
“Enough.”
When the locksmith handed me the new keys — cold and smelling faintly of oil — I took my first real breath since getting sick. “What should I do with the old one?” he asked, nodding toward the removed lock.
For a moment, I stared at the worn metal. How many years had it opened the door for someone who had never truly been home? “Throw it away,” I said quietly.
Healing
The next few days were surprisingly peaceful. Vitaly didn’t call.
Maybe he was afraid of getting infected. Maybe staying with his mother was simply more comfortable. Or maybe he had never cared about anyone else’s needs in the first place.
And me…
I got better day by day.
Because when there’s no one beside you treating your weakness like an inconvenience, your body heals faster. By the third day, the fever was completely gone.
I took a long shower, as if I could wash away every humiliation of the past years. I put on clean pajamas and brewed strong tea with lemon. The same lemons that, this time, someone had brought to me instead of taking away from me.
I sat down in the kitchen. The apartment was quiet. Peaceful. Safe. Then suddenly, the lock began to scrape. Someone was trying to open the door from the outside.
And for the first time in many years, I wasn’t afraid. I simply stood up… and smiled.
Ending
Illness often tests not our endurance, but the true depth of our relationships.
Because when, in your most vulnerable moment, you realize that the only person you can truly rely on is yourself, that realization hurts — but it also sets you free.
Only then do you finally see clearly: who truly loves you, and who merely lives beside you.
