Wait…Why Did Everyone I Love Suddenly Call Me a Bitch?! novel Chapter 57

Chapter 10

Jackson was the one who brought me to the hospital.

He’d been searching for me everywhere. Eventually, that girl’s post led him to my parents’ old house.

By the time he found me, I was already dying.

When he rushed me to the ER, he saw everything. The bald head I’d been hiding under wigs because of chemo. The way cancer had twisted my body into convulsions, blood pouring from my mouth in thick,.

I must’ve looked pathetic.

But he was… calm. Eerily calm.

Made sense, I guess. He didn’t love me anymore.

He had his own life now. His own future.

And I was just a ghost from his past.

“I talked to your doctor. He says you’re stage four. They can only do palliative care now. But… it might buy you some time.”

His eyes were downcast. That’s when I noticed-dark circles underneath, bloodshot veins spiderwebbing across the whites.

He’d never smoked before. Now he reeked of cigarettes.

“I contacted some hospitals overseas. They’ve got more advanced treatments. I reached out to a few cancer specialists. It might… make things easier for you. Less painful.”

He paused, his hand trembling as it touched my face. He took a shaky breath.

“I booked you a flight for next week. Everything’s arranged. Once you’re strong enough, someone will take you there.”

I looked at him and smiled-cracked lips pulling apart.

“Too far. Chemo hurts. I don’t want to suffer anymore.”

Jackson’s mouth opened, then closed.

Finally, he said:

“Then let’s go home.”

He signed me out of the hospital, against medical advice, and brought me back to the old house.

Being there made me feel… lighter. Like I could breathe again.

What surprised me was that Jackson didn’t leave.

He stayed.

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He took me fishing. Made me apple pie. We dug up wild yams in the woods behind the house-like two old people at the end of their lives, spending their last days in peace.

He never asked about what happened three years ago. Never asked about my cancer. It was like none of it had ever happened.

On the third day, Jackson came back from the market with sweet potatoes.

He roasted them in the yard, just like my mom used to-golden and fragrant, the smell filling the air.

Every winter, when I was cold, I’d beg my mom to roast sweet potatoes. I’d grab Jackson’s hands, press them against the warm skin of the potato, and we’d share it-one bite for me, one for him.

The warmth would spread all the way to my heart.

But now, I couldn’t eat anything.

I stared at the roasted sweet potato in front of me, silent.

Finally, I asked:

“Why are you still here? You should go home.”

No matter what, he was married to Isabella. He had a wife. A life. He needed to move on.

Jackson’s answer was quiet.

“There’s nothing to go back to.”

At first, I didn’t understand what he meant.

Not until the fifth morning, when a line of police cars surrounded the house.

Isabella was dead.

Jackson had killed her.

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