I never thought a broken toe would be the thing that shattered my entire world. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? A silly, clumsy accident, stubbing my foot on the edge of the bed frame in the middle of the night. One second I was dreaming, the next I was on the floor, gasping. The pain was INSTANT, EXPLOSIVE, A WHITE-HOT ROD PIERCING THROUGH MY SMALL TOE.
It wasn’t just a stub. It was a proper, fractured mess. The doctor confirmed it, looking at the X-ray with a sympathetic sigh. Six weeks. Six weeks of crutches, of barely being able to put weight on it, of having to rely on everyone for everything. Six weeks of my life on hold, just because of a goddamn toe. The indignity of it felt almost worse than the physical throbbing. Every pulse of pain was a reminder of my sudden vulnerability. I hated feeling helpless. I hated not being able to do the simplest things, like walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, or even just stand in the shower without an elaborate balancing act.
But then, there was my person. My partner. From the moment I cried out, they were there. Their calm voice, their strong arms helping me off the floor, their gentle hands examining my already swelling foot. They took me to the emergency room, waited patiently, brought me home, and practically carried me to bed. For weeks, they were MY SOLE CARETAKER, MY CHEF, MY CHAUFFEUR, MY EVERYTHING.
Un reloj de época sobre una chimenea | Fuente: Midjourney
