Love Without the Right to Be Close
Dr. Eleanor Whitmore adjusted her white coat and glanced at the clock. There were still four hours left in her shift, but fatigue was already weighing on her. The neurology ward buzzed with its usual rhythm—nurses darted between rooms, and relatives of patients whispered in quiet corners.
“Dr. Whitmore, a visitor for you,” said a young nurse, peering into the office.
“Who is it?”
“The relative of a patient in Room Seven. A Mr. Sheppard, I believe.”
Eleanor nodded and set aside the medical file she had been reviewing. *Sheppard*. The name made her heart race, though she fought to control her emotions.
A tall man in his fifties with greying temples and weary brown eyes entered. Alexander Sheppard carried a bag of fruit and looked uneasy.
“Good afternoon, Doctor. How is my wife doing?”
“Please, have a seat,” Eleanor gestured to the chair opposite her desk. “Mary’s condition is stable. She’s responding well to treatment.”
Alexander exhaled in relief, running a hand through his hair.
“Thank God. I’ve been beside myself all week. When the stroke happened, I thought I was losing her forever.”
Eleanor watched him, a familiar ache tightening in her chest—one that had settled there six months ago and refused to fade.
“Mr. Sheppard, your wife is a strong woman. The stroke wasn’t severe, and her speech is already recovering. With proper care, she can return to a normal life.”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” he met her gaze squarely. “I know you’ve given Mary more attention than the others. She told me so herself.”
Eleanor glanced away. It was true—she *did* pay Mary more attention, but not out of professional duty. Guilt gnawed at her.
“It’s my job. Every patient deserves care.”
“Even so, thank you. May I see her?”
“Of course. Just don’t tire her with too much talking.”
Alexander stood but hesitated, lingering by the door.
“Doctor, may I ask you something personal?”
She stiffened.
“Of course.”
“Are you married?”
The question hung heavily between them. Eleanor searched his face—this wasn’t mere curiosity. She saw the same unspoken longing that haunted her.
“No,” she replied softly. “I’m not.”
“I see. Forgive my boldness.”
He turned to leave but paused at the threshold.
“Eleanor… If things were different—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Please, don’t.”
He nodded and left. Alone, Eleanor exhaled shakily, resisting the sting of tears. She moved to the window where spring rain tapped against the glass.
It had all begun in October when Mary was first admitted after a minor stroke. She recovered quickly, but her husband visited daily—bringing home-cooked meals, reading to her, sharing news.
At first, Eleanor observed their devotion with detached admiration—such dedication was rare. Most relatives visited sporadically, if at all.
But gradually, she found herself waiting for Alexander’s arrival, listening for his voice in the corridors, lingering near Room Seven when he was inside.
And he, too, seemed to notice her—asking about his wife’s treatment, thanking her, occasionally discussing books or films. Nothing improper, just ordinary conversation.
Yet feelings don’t ask permission. They arrive unbidden, indifferent to circumstance.
Mary was discharged after three weeks. Eleanor thought she’d never see them again—until February, when a second, far worse stroke brought Mary back.
Alexander was pale as death when Eleanor emerged from triage.
“Doctor, please—save her,” he whispered. “She’s my everything. We’ve been married thirty years.”
*Thirty years*.
Eleanor repeated the number silently. Three decades of shared memories, love, and routine. And what did she have? An empty flat, her work, and this impossible longing for another woman’s husband.
“We’ll do everything we can,” she promised.
And she did. Consulting colleagues, researching new treatments, monitoring every change. Mary wasn’t just a patient—she was the wife of the man Eleanor loved without hope of return.
A strange love—secret, unspoken, doomed. They met only in the hospital, speaking only of his wife’s condition. Yet between the words lingered something unnameable.
“Dr. Whitmore?” A nurse’s voice pulled her back. “Mrs. Sheppard is asking for you.”
Eleanor took a breath and walked to Room Seven. Mary sat up in bed, flipping through a magazine. Despite illness, she looked serene—soft silver hair neatly styled, a touch of makeup.
“Doctor, come in,” Mary set the magazine aside. “I’d like to talk.”
Eleanor tensed. Something in Mary’s tone unsettled her.
“How are you feeling? Any headaches?”
“None. I’m doing well—speech and movement improving. I’ll be home soon.”
“That’s wonderful. The treatment is working.”
Mary studied her.
“Doctor, may I speak frankly? Woman to woman?”
A chill ran down Eleanor’s spine.
“Of course.”
“You’re kind, intelligent, lovely. Why are you still alone?”
“It just… never happened. Work keeps me busy.”
“I see. Did you ever want children?”
“I did. But time passed.”
Mary nodded knowingly.
“I’m fifty-eight, Doctor. I’ve seen much in life. A woman’s heart isn’t hard to read.”
Eleanor clenched her hands, bracing herself.
“Mary, what are you saying?”
“I see how you look at my Alexander. And how he looks at you.”
Silence. Eleanor wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in her throat.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do. And you know what? I’m not angry. He’s a good man—any woman might care for him.”
“Mary, there’s nothing between us but professional—”
“I know. And there won’t be. You’re decent people. But the feelings *are* there, aren’t they?”
Eleanor lowered her gaze.
“Yes,” she admitted quietly.
Mary sat up straighter.
“Then listen carefully. I’m dying.”
“That’s not true! Your condition is stable—”
“Doctor, I know. This stroke won’t be the last. One of them *will* take me—maybe in months, maybe a year. But I *am* dying.”
Eleanor started to protest, but the certainty in Mary’s eyes silenced her.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m tired of fighting. Thirty years as a wife, a mother, a caregiver. Now I’m a burden.”
“You’re *not* a burden! Alexander loves you dearly.”
“He does. But I see how exhausted he is. How he forgets to eat, to sleep.”
Mary took Eleanor’s hand firmly.
“I want to ask you a favour.”
“What favour?”
“When I’m gone, look after him. He’ll be so alone.”
Eleanor tried to pull away, but Mary held tight.
“Mary, don’t say these things. You’ll recover—”
“Let’s not lie. A month, perhaps two. My heart won’t last.”
Darkness gathered outside; a streetlamp flickered on.
“What do you want from me?” Eleanor finally whispered.
“Just this—be there when he needs someone. Talk to him. After that… time will tell.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s wrong. I can’t build happiness on your loss.”
Mary smiled sadly.
“Doctor, who said you’d have a choice? Feelings don’t ask permission. They’re already here.”
Eleanor stood abruptly.
“I have rounds to finish.”
“Think about what I’ve said,” Mary urged. “And don’t torment yourself. Love is a gift—even when it comes at the wrong time.”
In the corridor, Eleanor nearly collided with Alexander, who carried white chrysanthemums for his wife.
“Good evening, Doctor. How is Mary?”
“Stable,” she answered tersely, avoiding his gaze.
“You seem… distant. Did I upset you earlier?”
Eleanor stopped and looked at him—his tired eyes, the flowers in his hands. A good man devoted to his family.
“Alexander,” she said quietly, “we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Not here. Come to my office after your visit.”
He nodded, worry flickering in his eyes.
She waited in her office as darkness fell. The ward grew quiet.
“You wanted to speak?” Alexander closed the door behind him.
“Yes. Sit down.”
He took the same chair as before, but the air between them had shifted—tense, intimate.
“Alexander, your wife… knows.”
“Knows what?”
“About us. Our feelings.”
His face drained of colour.
“Eleanor, I—”
“Don’t. We’re adults. Let’s face this honestly.”
He exhaled raggedly.She reached across the desk and placed her hand over his, knowing that some loves were meant to be felt, not lived, and that silence was the kindest farewell they could offer each other.
