ROOM 317
My name is Emily Carter.
If anyone had asked me how much I trusted my husband, I would have said—completely.
Ryan Carter, my husband, was the CEO of a small but fast-growing media company. He was composed, intelligent, and always appeared dependable. For seven years of marriage, I never once doubted his loyalty.
Until he started complaining about stomach pain.
1.
At first, it was nothing serious.
A slight ache here and there. He said it was stress, indigestion, exhaustion from work.
Then the pain became more frequent.
One evening, he doubled over on the couch, sweating and pale.
“I think something’s wrong,” he groaned.
I rushed him to the hospital.
After some examinations, the doctor said it might be gastritis and suggested observation. Ryan was admitted for the night.
“You can go home,” he told me gently. “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing serious.”
I hesitated, but he insisted.
That was my first mistake.
2.
From that night on, Ryan started being admitted to the hospital regularly.
Always the same reason: stomach pain.
And every time, he told me not to stay.
“There are nurses here,” he said. “You should rest.”
I believed him.
Until one night, something felt off.
It was a Thursday. He said he had severe pain again and needed to be hospitalized. I drove him there, watched him settle into the bed, and left as he asked.
At around 10 p.m., I called him.
The phone rang for a long time before he answered.
“Hello?” His voice sounded… too calm.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
Then I heard it.
A soft laugh.
A woman’s voice.
My heart tightened.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In my room,” he replied quickly.
I opened the location app on my phone.
The dot appeared on the map.
Third floor. Recovery ward.
But I remembered clearly—his room was on the fifth floor.
3.
I didn’t hesitate.
I grabbed my coat and drove to the hospital.
The corridors were quiet, lit by cold fluorescent lights. I walked slowly, my heart pounding louder with every step.
Room 317.
The door was slightly open.
Inside, I saw them.
Ryan lay on the hospital bed, his shirt unbuttoned.
Beside him sat a young nurse in a light blue uniform. Her hand rested on his chest. She leaned close, smiling.
“I worry about you,” she whispered.
Ryan smiled back.
My breath caught in my throat.
I pushed the door open.
Both of them froze.
“Emily…” he whispered.
I stared at him, my voice eerily calm.
“So this is your illness?”
Silence.
The nurse’s face turned pale.
“How long?” I asked.
He lowered his head.
“Three months.”
Three months.
Three months of lies. Of fake pain. Of hospital visits that were never about illness.
I turned to the nurse.
“Did you know he was married?”
She looked down and said nothing.
I laughed softly.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You deserve each other.”
Then I walked out.
4.
I filed for divorce a week later.
Ryan called endlessly. Sent messages. Begged.
“I made a mistake.”
“It meant nothing.”
“I love you.”
I never replied.
I moved into a small apartment near the coast. I cut my hair. I started over.
One afternoon, weeks later, I received a message from an unknown number.
I’m the nurse… I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was married.
I stared at the message for a long time.
Then I deleted it.
5.
Months passed.
I found peace.
One evening, sitting by the window, watching the ocean, I realized something:
I didn’t lose my husband that day.
I lost the illusion I had been living in.
And sometimes, losing an illusion is the first step toward freedom.
