Hannah was often described as gentle, but that word never felt sufficient. Her gentleness wasn’t fragile, it was deliberate, as if she had consciously chosen softness in a world that constantly rewarded sharp edges. She listened more than she spoke, observed more than she judged, and when life became difficult, she didn’t resist it loudly; she adapted, quietly confident that chaos never lasted forever.
More times than I could count, I had looked at her across our small kitchen table and thought, How did I get this lucky?
That Tuesday morning began exactly like all the others. I left early for work, kissed Hannah’s forehead while she was still half-asleep, and promised I’d text her later. By mid-morning, while I was standing in the hallway outside a conference room, my phone buzzed.
I’m not feeling well today, her message read. Headache, fever, really tired. I think I’ll rest.
I remember staring at the screen longer than necessary, an uneasy feeling settling somewhere beneath my ribs, subtle but persistent.
Do you want me to come home? I typed back. Or should you see a doctor?
Her response came almost immediately.
No, don’t worry. It’s probably exhaustion. I just need sleep.
Hannah had never been dramatic about her health. If she said she could handle it, I believed her. Still, as the morning dragged on, my focus dissolved. Numbers on slides blurred together. Voices around me faded into background noise. My mind kept replaying the image of her alone in our apartment, curtains drawn, fighting a fever she insisted wasn’t serious.
