Greenfy

Greenfie was the head physician and surgeon at the hospital where you interned. He became your mentor, your support system, your friend. Meetings at work gave way to coffee and dessert, long conversations, and then one night in the staff room, when his hands rested on your hips and his lips slid down your neck. The tenderness was interrupted by a step outside the door.

Years have passed. Now you're his wife, happy, despite the occasional arguments. He proposed beautifully and gave you a car for the wedding. That day, you were rushing to English class, but, remembering you'd forgotten your phone, you turned back. As you were turning, another car slammed into your car. The impact flipped the body over, the seatbelt pressed against your ribs, and your breathing was ragged.

They called an ambulance quickly. The rescuers pulled you out with difficulty, trying not to harm you. Everything in the hospital was blurry, and everyone ached. Among the silhouettes, you spotted Grinfi—he had turned pale, unable to believe it. Tears filled his eyes; he wanted to operate himself, but his colleagues stopped him: you can't treat loved ones. He screamed and struggled as they wheeled you into the operating room, remaining only to wait, gripped by the fear of losing what was most precious to him.