Love Without the Right to Be Close
Emily Wilson adjusted her white coat and glanced at the clock. There were still four hours left on her shift, but fatigue was already weighing on her. The corridor of the neurology department buzzed with the usual activity—nurses darting between rooms, relatives murmuring quietly in the corners.
“Dr. Wilson, you have a visitor,” said young nurse Katie, peeking into the office.
“Who is it?”
“A relative of the patient in room seven. Thompson, I think.”
Emily nodded and set aside the medical chart she’d been reviewing. Thompson. The name made her heart race, though she fought to keep her emotions in check.
A tall man in his fifties, with greying temples and tired hazel eyes, stepped into the room. Alex Thompson carried a bag of fruit and looked uneasy.
“Good afternoon, Doctor. How is my wife?”
“Please, have a seat,” Emily gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “Margaret’s condition is stable. She’s responding well to treatment.”
Alex exhaled in relief and ran a hand through his hair.
“Thank God. I’ve been beside myself all week. When the stroke happened, I thought I was losing her for good.”
Emily studied him and felt the familiar ache in her chest—the one that had settled there six months ago and refused to fade, day or night.
“Alex, your wife is a strong woman. The stroke wasn’t severe, and her speech is already improving. With proper care, she can return to a normal life.”
“Thank you for everything you’re doing,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “I know you’re giving her more attention than the other doctors. She told me herself.”
Emily glanced away. It was true—she *did* spend more time with Margaret than with other patients. But not out of professional duty. Out of guilt, gnawing at her from within.
“It’s my job. Every patient deserves attention.”
“Still, I’m grateful. May I see her?”
“Of course. Just don’t tire her with long conversations.”
Alex stood but hesitated before leaving.
“Doctor, may I ask you something personal?”
Emily tensed.
“Go ahead.”
“Are you married?”
The question hung in the air. She looked into his eyes and knew it wasn’t just idle curiosity. The same emotion tormenting her was reflected back at her.
“No,” she said quietly. “I’m not.”
“I see. Apologies for the impertinence.”
He turned toward the door but paused on the threshold.
“Emily… I wanted to say… if things were different—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Please, don’t.”
He nodded and left. Alone in her office, Emily felt tears pricking at her eyes. She stood and walked to the window, where a spring rain drummed against the glass.
It had all started in October, when Margaret was first admitted after a minor stroke. She recovered quickly, but Alex visited daily—bringing homemade meals, reading to her, sharing news.
At first, Emily observed their closeness with professional detachment. Such devotion was rare in her practice. Most relatives visited sporadically, if at all.
But gradually, she found herself looking forward to Alex’s arrivals. Listening for his voice in the hallway. Lingering near room seven when he was there.
And he, too, seemed to take notice—asking about his wife’s treatment, thanking her, occasionally discussing books or films. Nothing improper, just ordinary conversation.
But emotions don’t ask for permission. They arrive uninvited, settling in the heart without regard for circumstance.
Margaret was discharged after three weeks. Emily told herself she’d never see them again, willing away the strange flutter Alex provoked in her.
Then, in February, Margaret suffered another stroke—this time worse. Brought in by ambulance, Alex pale as death.
“Doctor, save her, please,” he begged when Emily emerged from the ICU. “She’s everything to me. We’ve been married thirty years.”
Thirty years. The words echoed in Emily’s mind. Three decades of marriage, memories, shared love. And what did she have? An empty flat, her work, and a love for another woman’s husband.
“We’ll do everything we can,” she promised.
And she did. Consulting specialists, researching treatments, monitoring every change in Margaret’s condition. This wasn’t just a patient—this was the wife of the man Emily loved without the right to be loved in return.
A strange love, this. Secret, unspoken, doomed. They met only in the hospital, only regarding his wife’s health. They spoke only of medical matters. But between the words lingered something deeper, something that could never be named aloud.
“Dr. Wilson?” The nurse’s voice pulled her back. “Room seven is asking for you.”
She sighed and went. Margaret sat in bed reading a magazine. Despite her illness, she looked remarkably put together—her silver hair neatly styled, a touch of makeup on her face.
“Doctor, come in, sit down,” Margaret said, setting the magazine aside. “I’d like to talk.”
Emily hesitated. There was something unreadable in her patient’s tone.
“How are you feeling? Any headaches?”
“None. My speech is nearly back, movement too. I’ll be home soon.”
“That’s wonderful. The treatment’s working.”
Margaret studied her.
“Doctor, may I speak frankly? Woman to woman?”
Emily’s skin prickled.
“Of course.”
“You’re beautiful, clever, kind. Why are you alone?”
“Just… never found the right person. The job keeps me busy.”
“I see. Did you ever want children?”
“I did. But time slipped away.”
Margaret nodded sympathetically.
“I’m fifty-eight, Doctor. I’ve seen much in my life, understood much. A woman’s heart tells her things.”
Emily clenched her hands, sensing the turn this was taking.
“Margaret, what are you saying?”
“I see how you look at my Alex. And how he looks at you.”
Silence. Emily wanted to protest, but the words wouldn’t come.
“I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“You do. And you know what? I’m not angry. Alex is a good man—any woman would notice him.”
“There’s nothing between us beyond professional care.”
“I know. And there won’t be. You’re a decent woman; he’s a decent man. But feelings exist, don’t they?”
Emily lowered her eyes. Denial was pointless.
“Yes,” she admitted softly.
“There, you see. Now listen carefully. I’m dying.”
“Don’t say that! Your condition’s stable, the prognosis is good—”
“Doctor, I *know*. This stroke isn’t the last. There’ll be another, and another, until one takes me. Maybe in a month, maybe a year. But I *will* die.”
Emily opened her mouth to argue, but something in Margaret’s gaze stopped her.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I’m tired of fighting. Thirty years as a wife, a mother, a homemaker. Raising children, working, caring for parents. Now I’m a burden to my husband.”
“You’re *not* a burden! Alex loves you deeply.”
“He does. But I see how exhausted he is. How much older he looks these months. He tends to me yet forgets to eat, to sleep.”
Margaret took Emily’s hand.
“I want to ask you a favor.”
“What favor?”
“When I’m gone, look after Alex. He’ll be so alone.”
Emily tried to pull away, but Margaret held tight.
“Margaret, don’t talk like this. You’ll recover, live happily for years.”
“Let’s not lie. I’m speaking as one doctor to another. A month or two, no more. My heart can’t take much else.”
The room fell silent. Outside, dusk settled, and a streetlamp flickered on.
“What do you want from me?” Emily finally asked.
“Just this—be there when he needs someone. Talk to him, support him. And then… time will tell.”
“Margaret, I can’t promise you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong. I can’t build happiness on another’s grief.”
Margaret smiled sadly.
“Doctor, do we ever really choose? Feelings don’t ask permission. They’re already there—in you, in him.”
Emily stood.
“I must go. Rounds aren’t finished.”
“Think on what I’ve said,” Margaret urged. “And don’t torture yourself. Love is a gift, even when it comes at the wrong time.”
In the corridor, Emily nearly collided with Alex, who carried a bouquet of white chrysanthemums.
“Good evening, Doctor. How is Margaret?”
“Stable,” she replied stiffly, avoiding his gaze.
“You seem… distant. Did I say something wrong earlier?”
Emily stopped and looked at him—the tired eyes, the silvering temples, the careful hands holding flowers for his sick wife. A good man, devoted to his family.
“Alex, we needThe rain continued outside, blurring the hospital windows as Emily walked away, knowing some loves were meant to remain unspoken.
