Chapter 1: The Comments Know Everything

I spent three years caring for my husband while he lay in a coma. The night I finally sold my house and hired a top specialist to try to save him, my phone lit up with a flood of strange online chatter—dozens of weird messages scrolling across the screen like some twisted ticker tape. For a moment, I just stared, trying to figure out if these were social media comments, hallucinations, or something even creepier.

The blue glow from my phone lit up the dark hospital room, throwing long, ghostly shadows over the tile floor and the blinking machines. I blinked hard, bone-tired, and kept scrolling, my thumb numb from the endless feed. Messages were popping up out of nowhere, like the whole world was tuned in to watch my life unravel on some reality show I never signed up for.

"THIS IS THE FINAL TEST! 🚨 Once the side chick blows her last cent bringing in the German doc, the ML (male lead) will KNOW she wasn’t after his $$$, WAKE UP, and take her back to his billion-dollar fortune. Mark my words! 💰💍"

I clenched my jaw. Who did these people think they were, talking about my heartbreak like it was just some plot twist for their amusement? The words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I glanced at the digital clock—2:14 AM, those red numbers glaring back at me. Three years of this, and out there, life just kept going, like nothing had changed.

"LMAO, what if she hires the expert? How’s my sweet, gentle heroine supposed to keep up the coma act then? 😂"

"FR! I’m just WAITING for the ML to sneak out at midnight, kiss the heroine, and go full romance mode. #TeamHeroine"

I stared at the comments, totally thrown. Then I looked at Owen Caldwell—my husband—lying silent and still in his hospital bed.

He was pretending? Seriously? No way. That couldn’t be true.

I marched back to the attending physician. Owen needed to be checked again.

Standing under the harsh fluorescent lights, shivering in my thin cardigan, I waited while Dr. Wallace flipped through his clipboard. My voice shook. "Are you sure? No change at all?" The sharp smell of antiseptic stung my nose, making me feel even smaller, almost invisible.

He gave me the same answer as always.

"Ms. Morgan, Mr. Caldwell still shows no signs of waking up."

He looked tired, his eyes darting away from mine—maybe out of pity, maybe something else. I squeezed my hands together, so tight my nails dug into my palms, desperate not to fall apart in front of him.

I took a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.

I knew it. Owen would never lie to me.

But then, the comments popped up again.

"LOL, thought the side chick was gonna figure it out. Good thing doc didn’t spill! 😅"

"Bruh, my heart STOPPED—thought the ML’s act was gonna get EXPOSED!"

"Relax, y’all! Owen Caldwell OWNS the hospital. Staff ain’t sayin’ a WORD. She’ll never find out."

My stomach dropped as I read.

I glanced at the doctor, who wouldn’t meet my eyes and tried to comfort me:

"Ms. Morgan, you’ve been so devoted these past three years. Just keep holding on. I believe he’ll wake up soon."

He offered a weak smile, but it faded fast. He said "soon" like he always did, like it meant nothing at all. The hallway suddenly felt colder, the buzz from the vending machine at the end of the corridor way too loud.

How soon is soon?

I didn’t answer. I just turned away.

Again and again, I called his name. Just like I used to, back when we were dating.

I sat by his bed, tracing the lines of his hand with my fingers. "Owen," I whispered, my voice cracking. I told him about the first time we met, about the little coffee shop where he spilled his drink and how we laughed together. My tears blurred everything, but I kept talking, hoping maybe he’d hear me.

I cried, telling him about our past, begging him to wake up and look at me. He didn’t move at all. For a second, I just wanted to scream. Why wouldn’t he come back to me?

Beep. Beep. Each one counted the hours I’d lost. I pressed my forehead to the cold metal rail, letting memories flicker—our first date, his goofy smile, the way he’d squeeze my hand when he was nervous.

I don’t know how long I cried. When I finally stopped, my head felt clearer.

The ache was still there, but it felt more like a bruise than an open wound. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, bracing myself to keep going. No matter what strangers said, I knew my own heart.

I still had no idea what those comments were. None of it had ever been proven. I didn’t believe Owen—the man I’d shared so much with—could lie to me.

I’d already sold my house, and my flight was this afternoon. I wiped my face, stood up, and started packing. I paused, feeling a weird mix of hope and dread knotting in my stomach.

The room was cluttered with the stuff of three years—blankets from home, old framed photos, a chipped coffee mug. I carefully folded Owen’s favorite sweatshirt, the one I always draped over him when the AC was blasting. My suitcase felt impossibly heavy, every item a memory I couldn’t let go of.

In the past two years, I’d filled Owen’s hospital room with my life. After selling my house, this was all I had left. Since I’d be gone for a while, I packed while talking to Owen.

"Remember the first time you spent my birthday with me? I wished we could go to Germany together. You promised you’d take me, but I never thought I’d be going now to find someone to save you. If I’d known my trip would be to find a doctor for you, I never would’ve made that wish."

I fiddled with the travel guide I’d bought years ago, its pages still stiff and untouched. My voice sounded small in the quiet room, words hanging there like a prayer I wasn’t sure anyone would hear.

"Owen, I’ll be gone at least a week. I already set up for Mrs. Harris to look after you. When I come back, you’ll be awake!"

My chest tightened as I tucked a photo of us into his drawer, hoping he’d see it if he woke up while I was gone. I brushed his hair back, like always, and kissed his forehead. "You better be here when I get back," I tried to joke, but my voice shook.

But then the comments appeared again:

"Wait, the side chick’s leaving for a WEEK? That means the leads get a whole week to themselves! 😏"

"RIGHT? With her gone, ML + heroine = hospital makeout marathon. I’m here for it!"

"LOL, you guys are wild. She won’t even be gone a week. Bet she gets in a car wreck on the way to the airport, misses her flight, and loses her shot at the German doc. That’s how she fails the ML’s test and he stops believing in love, only hooks up with our sweet heroine."

My hand froze mid-pack.

The suitcase handle slipped from my fingers, thumping against the linoleum. For a second, I just stood there, staring at my hands. Was this real? Could these strangers actually know what was about to happen to me?

I would get in a car wreck?

How could they sound so sure?

Still, I refused to believe it. Some random comments couldn’t make me doubt Owen.

So I decided to test it myself.

With my suitcase in hand, I got into a rideshare to the airport. My heart pounded the whole way.

The city was just waking up. Streetlights flickered off, and the sky was streaked pink and gray. I slid into the backseat, clutching my bag, every muscle tense. The driver—a young woman with a Cubs keychain swinging from the mirror—caught my eye in the rearview.

The first thing I told the driver: "Please drive carefully."

She grinned. "Don’t worry, I drive like my grandma’s riding shotgun." Her easy laugh helped a little, but I still gripped the seatbelt so hard my knuckles turned white as we hit the highway.

But there was still an accident. At a turn, a car with busted brakes slammed into a bunch of vehicles, and our rideshare was totaled. The driver and I weren’t badly hurt, but traffic was a mess, and I was stuck on the overpass waiting for rescue, missing my flight to Germany.

Crash. Metal. Glass. The sounds echoed. I sat on the curb, knees scraped, as the sun crept over the skyline. Paramedics checked my pulse. My suitcase was dented and dirty, my phone buzzing with texts I ignored. I cried for reasons nobody there would ever understand.

I sat there, numb, and then—right on cue—the comments reappeared:

"Bro, these two are WILD! Even on the rooftop? ML’s stamina is LEGENDARY! 😂🔥"

"Nurse x patient roleplay, lol, forbidden but SO HOT."

"Honestly, this secret hookup is spicy, but I just want the side chick out so the leads can go at it 24/7 for us! 😈"

"Don’t worry, she already crashed her car. No German doc, she’s OUT. Boot her!"

Those comments were so disturbing, I barely noticed my injuries. I just ran.