**Diary Entry**
The music stopped, and the hall froze. Emily could only hear her own breath. Then a single clap broke the silence, followed by a thunder of applause. The audience rose to their feet, many with tears in their eyes.
She glanced at Anthony. He leaned down and kissed her, the salt of her tears lingering on his lips. The clapping faded as people filed out. Anthony pushed her wheelchair toward the exit.
“Tired?”
“No. I’m happy. Thank you,” she laughed through her tears.
***
Emily was preparing dinner, glancing at the clock. Daniel would be home soon. She filled the kettle, quickly chopping vegetables for the salad. Another glance. *Late again. Should I call? No. He’ll say I’m paranoid, that I’m imagining things. I want to believe him… but I can’t. Not anymore.* Her fingers itched to grab the phone.
Her grip on the knife tightened until her knuckles turned white. Then she let go, and the blade clattered onto the table. The hands of the clock crawled, testing her patience. Finally, she dialled. *Please answer. Just say you’re on your way.* But the ringing only mocked her.
She flung the phone. It slid across the counter and teetered at the edge. *Calm down. He’ll come home.*
Daniel returned past midnight. Exhausted from crying, Emily had dozed off, but the scrape of his key woke her. A sliver of light cut beneath the door. She flung it open.
“Bloody hell, Em! Why are you up?” He kicked off his shoes, feigning innocence.
“I want to look you in the eyes. You promised you’d stop seeing her.”
“Not this again. I was at the pub with the lads—”
“I can’t do this. Not anymore,” she cut him off, clutching her stomach as if in pain. “I won’t spend another night listening for your footsteps.”
She crumpled onto the bed, sobbing.
“You’re suffocating me,” Daniel muttered, making no move to comfort her.
“And your phone died again, did it?” she shot back. “You reek of perfume, not beer.”
She snatched his jacket, fishing out his phone. He lunged, but she held it away.
*”Darling, are you home yet? Has your wife started her interrogation?”* she read aloud, her voice dripping with scorn. *”Which of your mates calls you ‘darling’?”*
Daniel tried to grab it, but she shoved it back at him. “Tell her you’re free. I’m leaving. Pack your things by morning.”
He hesitated. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t at the pub—”
Her face twisted in disgust. “What more do you want?” Her voice cracked. “I won’t stay another second.”
She grabbed her bag and left.
Daniel didn’t stop her. Outside, Emily called a cab, then her mum.
“Fighting again? I warned you,” her mother scolded.
“Not now, Mum.” She hung up.
But she never made it there. The cab sped through the sleeping streets when a drunk driver veered into their path. The impact hit her side.
Daniel visited every day after she was moved from ICU. Guilt gnawed at him. If he hadn’t stayed with Rebecca that night, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
The doctors said she’d walk again in months. But a year passed, and she didn’t. The hope vanished. She’d be in a wheelchair for life.
Daniel stayed—for a while. Emily’s mother helped, but how long could a man endure it? Some men don’t leave. He tried to believe he was one of them. But between the guilt, the resentment in Emily’s eyes, and Rebecca’s tempting freedom, he cracked. He left.
Dark days followed. Emily contemplated ending it—pills, or the balcony. But the door was too narrow. She’d never manage to haul herself over the railing. Pills, then. But her mother hid them away, never leaving her alone.
One day in the park, her mother struggled with the wheelchair, the wheels catching on a pothole. A man steadied it just in time.
“Thank you. Heaven sent you,” her mother gasped.
Anthony—that was his name—pushed the chair with ease, weaving around cracks.
“You’ve got experience?” her mother asked.
“Some. I pushed lads in hospital after my injury.”
“You were in the army?”
“Aye. Served abroad. Got discharged after. They told my mum I was dead—some clerical error. Her heart gave out. My wife remarried.” He paused. “I nearly jumped off a roof once.”
Emily listened, realising her life wasn’t the only one shattered.
Anthony started visiting often, taking her out. One day, she confessed, “I always dreamed of dancing. Kept putting it off. Now it’s too late.”
He said nothing. But two weeks later, he wheeled her to a ballroom competition. The organiser lifted her onto the stage, and a dancer spun her in her chair.
The music faded. The room stood in silence—then erupted. People wept as they clapped.
We always think tragedy happens to others. That drunk drivers, broken bones, stolen time—they’re someone else’s story. We delay our dreams, assuming there’ll be a ‘later.’ But ‘later’ isn’t promised. One moment can upend everything. Yet sometimes, in the wreckage, fate sends someone to help you dance again.
—Never wait to live.
