**Love Without the Right to Intimacy**
Eleanor Whitmore adjusted her white coat and glanced at the clock. Four hours remained until the end of her shift, but exhaustion was already creeping in. The neurology ward bustled with its usual rhythm—nurses darting between rooms, relatives murmuring in quiet corners.
“Dr. Whitmore, you have a visitor,” said young nurse Katie, peeking into the office.
“Who is it?”
“A relative of the patient in room seven. Mr. Harrington, I believe.”
Eleanor nodded and set aside the medical file she had been studying. *Harrington.* The name made her pulse quicken, though she fought to steady herself.
A tall man in his fifties, with greying temples and weary brown eyes, stepped inside. Alex Harrington carried a bag of fruit and looked troubled.
“Good afternoon, Doctor. How is my wife?”
“Please, take a seat,” Eleanor gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “Margaret is stable. She’s responding well to treatment.”
Alex exhaled in relief, running a hand through his hair.
“Thank God. I’ve been beside myself all week. When she had that episode, I thought I’d lose her for good.”
Eleanor studied him, an old ache tightening in her chest—one that had settled there six months ago and refused to fade.
“Alex, your wife is a strong woman. The stroke wasn’t severe, and her speech is recovering. With proper care, she’ll regain a normal life.”
“Thank you for everything,” he met her gaze directly. “Margaret says you’ve gone above and beyond for her. More than the other doctors.”
Eleanor looked away. It was true—she *had* given Margaret more attention. Not out of duty, but guilt gnawing at her from within.
“It’s my job. Every patient deserves care.”
“Still, I’m grateful. May I see her?”
“Of course. Just don’t tire her with long conversations.”
Alex rose but hesitated.
“Doctor, may I ask you something… personal?”
Eleanor tensed.
“Go on.”
“Are you married?”
The question lingered in the air. His eyes held the same unspoken turmoil that haunted her.
“No,” she replied softly. “Never have been.”
“I see. Forgive the intrusion.”
He turned to leave but paused at the door.
“Eleanor, I wanted to say… if things were different—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “Please don’t.”
He nodded and left. Alone again, Eleanor fought back tears, stepping to the window where spring rain tapped against the glass.
It had begun last October, when Margaret was admitted after her first minor stroke. Recovery had been swift, but Alex visited daily—bringing homemade meals, reading to her, chatting about ordinary things.
At first, Eleanor observed their devotion with detached professionalism. Such dedication was rare. Most relatives visited sporadically, if at all.
Gradually, she found herself anticipating his arrivals—listening for his voice in the corridor, lingering near room seven when he was inside.
And he noticed her too. He asked about Margaret’s treatment, thanked her, sometimes discussed books or films. Nothing improper—just human connection.
But feelings don’t ask permission. They arrive uninvited and take root, indifferent to circumstance.
Margaret was discharged after three weeks. Eleanor believed she’d never see them again, forcing herself to forget that unwelcome flutter in her chest whenever Alex was near.
Then February came.
Margaret suffered another stroke—more serious this time. Brought in by ambulance, Alex was pale as death.
“Doctor, please save her,” he begged when Eleanor emerged from the examination room. “She’s my everything. Thirty years together.”
*Thirty years.* Eleanor repeated the number silently. Decades of marriage, memories, love. And what did she have? An empty flat, her work, and this impossible longing for another woman’s husband.
“We’ll do our best,” she assured him.
And she did—consulting colleagues, researching new treatments, monitoring every change. Margaret wasn’t just a patient; she was the wife of the man Eleanor loved without the right to say so.
A strange love it was. Secret, unspoken, doomed. They met only in hospital halls, spoke only of medical matters. Yet between the words hung something neither dared name.
“Eleanor,” a nurse’s voice snapped her back to reality. “Room seven is asking for you.”
She sighed and made her way to Margaret’s bed. The woman sat with a magazine in hand, her short grey hair neatly styled, a touch of makeup softening her features.
“Doctor, do sit.” Margaret set the magazine aside. “I’d like to talk.”
Eleanor stilled. There was something in the woman’s voice—something unreadable.
“How are you feeling? Any pain?”
“Fine.” Margaret smiled faintly. “Speech is nearly back, movement too. Soon I’ll go home.”
“That’s wonderful. Treatment is working, then.”
Margaret studied her closely.
“Doctor, may I speak plainly? Woman to woman?”
Goosebumps prickled Eleanor’s skin.
“Of course.”
“You’re beautiful, intelligent, kind. Why remain alone?”
“It just… never happened. Work keeps me busy.”
“I see. Did you want children?”
“I did. Time slipped away.”
Margaret nodded knowingly.
“I’m fifty-eight, Doctor. I’ve lived long enough to recognize things. Especially matters of the heart.”
Eleanor clasped her hands, sensing the conversation’s turn.
“Margaret, what are you saying?”
“I’ve seen how you look at my Alex. And how he looks at you.”
Silence fell. Eleanor wanted to protest—but the words died unspoken.
“You don’t understand—”
“I do. And I’ll tell you this—I’m not angry. Alex is a good man. Easy to love.”
“There’s nothing between us beyond professional—”
“I know. And there won’t be. You’re decent people. But the feelings exist, don’t they?”
Eleanor lowered her eyes. Denial was pointless.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Then listen carefully,” Margaret leaned forward. “I’m dying.”
*”What?”*
“My condition is stable, prognosis—”
“Doctor, I *feel* it. This stroke won’t be the last. One day—soon—it’ll take me. Maybe a month. Maybe a year. But I *am* dying.”
Eleanor opened her mouth to argue, but something in the woman’s gaze silenced her.
“Why do you say this?”
“Because I’m tired. Thirty years a wife, a mother, a caretaker. Now I’m a burden.”
“You’re *not* a burden! Alex loves you deeply.”
“He does. But I see the toll on him. The exhaustion. He cares for me while neglecting himself.”
Margaret reached for Eleanor’s hand.
“I have a favour to ask.”
“What?”
“When I’m gone, look after him. He’ll be so alone.”
Eleanor tried to pull away, but Margaret held firm.
“You’ll recover—live many more years.”
“Let’s not lie to ourselves. I’m telling you as one doctor to another. My heart is failing.”
The room dimmed as evening fell, the glow of a streetlamp flickering outside.
“What do you want from me?” Eleanor finally asked.
“Just this: be there when the grief overwhelms him. Comfort him. And then… time will decide the rest.”
“Margaret, I can’t promise that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong. I can’t build happiness on your loss.”
Margaret smiled sadly.
“Who says you’ll have a choice? The heart wants what it wants. You two already know.”
Eleanor stood.
“I must finish my rounds.”
“Think on it,” Margaret urged. “And don’t punish yourself. Love is a gift—even when it arrives at the wrong time.”
In the corridor, Eleanor nearly collided with Alex, who carried white chrysanthemums.
“Good evening, Doctor. How is she?”
“Stable,” she replied stiffly, avoiding his eyes.
“You seem distant—did I upset you earlier?”
She stopped, studying him properly—the tired eyes, the greying temples, the flowers clutched for his ailing wife. A good man, steadfast in his love.
“Alex, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Not here. My office, after your visit.”
He agreed, though worry flickered in his gaze.
She waited in her office as dusk settled. The ward quieted; only an hour remained until shift’s end.
“You wanted to speak?” Alex closed the door behind him.
“Yes. Sit down.”
He took the same chair as before, but the air between them had shifted—heavier, more intimate.
“Alex, Margaret knows.”
“Knows what?”
“About us. Our… feelings.”
He paled.
“Eleanor, I—”
“We’re adults. Let’s not pretend.”
He bowed his head.
“You’re right. I… fell for you. First timeSix months later, after Margaret’s peaceful passing, Alex and Eleanor met in the hospital garden, where the first blooms of summer whispered a fragile promise of beginnings.
