THE WEIGHT WE COULDN'T SHARE ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ zhao yufan
SYNOPSIS :: in which your chronic condition gets in between your relationship with james.
CONTAINS :: heavy angst, no comfort (for now hehe), lots & lots of tears, arguing, pcos, endometriosis, doctors, hospital, pulling back, avoidant attachment, negative mindset, hints of depressive tendencies
PLAYLIST :: fine line by harry styles, scott street by phoebe bridgers, medicine by daughter, call your mom by noah kahan, cold by novo amor
AN :: written for all those who struggle with chronic conditions and illnesses too, i feel you and i am here for you. my DMs are always open for you ♡ it is so beyond exhausting, but we fight this together :) i’d also like to add that you absolutely CAN have children with these chronic conditions, but the main lead here tends to think the worst of things :(
There is a particular kind of heartbreak in discovering your suffering was real all along.
Seated in my doctor’s clinic, I’m jittery–hands shaking, nails bitten, knee bouncing up and down to the sound of the clock’s ticking. Everything is simultaneously too loud and too quiet. I’ve been here quite often for the past few months, and before that, in several other clinics just like this one. Each time, I’d go home with the same doctor’s note to simply “get more rest” or “change my diet”. I spent years adapting to pain I should have never had to normalize. Years believing that everybody was in constant wars with their bodies; Years believing that everyone lived this tired.
Nobody tells you how painful it is to finally be understood, to finally be told that there would be a reason, a truth, a diagnosis for everything that had been deemed “normal” by many professionals before them.
I didn’t cry when they told me what it was, nor when the words “PCOS” or “Polycystic Ovary Syndrome” and “Endometriosis” stared back at me–I cried because I finally knew it wasn’t all in my head.
When the initial shock had subsided and the doctor’s appointment had concluded, I still found myself shaking as I walked to the car. I should have done something–called James to pick me up perhaps, but the thought of him had only brought a sinking feeling within me. The feeling wasn’t sudden–it crawled beneath my skin, restless and electric. My chest tightened like a fist slowly closing around my lungs. The space of my car suddenly felt smaller, thinner.
I’d always imagined this moment of diagnosis would come with all the positive emotions—joy, elation, perhaps even comfort. I’d imagined I’d call James immediately–jumping and prancing in delight. In pure relief that there’d finally been a tangible reason for all that I’d been through, a hope for a cure, or a treatment plan I could begin.
But that hope became a complicated thing when I found out there would be no cure waiting at the end of things. Because that is the thing with chronic conditions–they last a lifetime. And as my doctor had explained, the hardest part of PCOS and Endometriosis would not be the pain, but the permanence of it.
Many would argue this diagnosis was not a big deal–from the outside, I looked healthy enough for people to doubt my suffering. I’d learned to smile through the symptoms that were severe enough to keep me awake at night–to keep James awake at night. Sweet, sweet James–who’d stuck with me through the cancelled plans and midnight pharmacy runs and the nights I’d wake up shaking in pain. He’d bury the shame of cancelling plans with his friends last minute, perhaps not even feel that shame at all, if it meant I needed him. Run to the nearest pharmacy at the crack of dawn for me. Hug me and console me through all the physical pain and mental torment that came with chronic conditions.
I recall the nights that pain had made me distant, exhausted, ashamed of needing things. He’d told me once that that had been the part he hated the most. The shame. Not the illness itself. Not the long nights, pharmacy runs, or cancelled plans. He said he’d hated the way I apologized for it, every single time.
How could I bare not to? Just like I could not bare the idea of having James stuck to a lifetime of this–just how much misery would he be in to be left to take care of me?
My phone rings, but I can’t take my hands off the wheel. I’m still parked at my doctor’s clinic, but my hands clutch the wheel with a pressure so intense my knuckles begin to pale. I feel it then–the pain that crawls through my pelvis and wraps around my abdomen, leaving me to simply clutch onto my stomach and hope and pray it goes away.
Even when the physical pain subsides, the ache in my chest never leaves. Not when James calls, once, twice–five times. Not when calls from his friends follow; a message from Keonho, a photo from Martin.
MARTIN: Thought I’d send this to you. Wouldn’t James make such a good dad someday?
The photo feels like a slap to the face. It’s an image of James, with an unfamiliar baby fast asleep in his arms. From the notifications that follow from Keonho, you realize it’s a staff’s baby. You love babies, had always hoped to have a few of them someday.
That hope feels like a fool’s dream now.
JAMES: I’m sorry for spam calling you, just got excited at the thought of your reaction.
JAMES: I know how much you love babies.
JAMES: You must still be in your doctor’s appointment. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. Let me know if you want me to pick you up, love. Practice is ending soon.
For once, the idea of James coming home to you doesn’t feel comforting. It’s scary. Not because of James, no, never him. But because of the doubt that had taken root in your heart and had found it’s way to your head–planting itself like vicious weeds.
I’d been sitting on the bathroom floor when he’d found me. I hadn’t even realized he’d arrived home, missed the familiar jingle of his house keys and his call of my name. I’d folded into myself by the bathtub, tired of heaving the contents of my stomach into the toilet. The heating pad I’d managed to microwave twenty minutes ago had already gone cold beside me.
The apartment was dim, save for the dingy hallway light behind James, who took one look at me and softened immediately. What had I done to warrant that reaction? That softness?
I didn’t answer right away. My hands were gripping the fabric of my sweatpants so tightly my knuckles had gone pale.
He kneels by me, runs his hands through my hair like many times before. Braids it, just so I avoid getting any more vomit in it. He rubs at my back. Kisses my head. I’m familiar with this routine, comforted by it even, but how many more times can he go through this before he gets tired of it? Before he gets tired of me?
He puts his arms around me, attempting to carry me in one gentle swoop, but I put my hands on his shoulders instead; a warning to stop. I know he’s strong, in more ways than one, but I’m just as aware of James’s strength as I am of the weight this diagnosis has caused me to put on. James frowns then, but refuses to comment on what he knows is going on in my head. He knows that sometimes, the only thing louder than the voices in my head is the quiet of his embrace. So he simply holds me, patiently, lovingly, achingly.
The days continue on like that.
It’s an exhausting routine of late night nausea and early morning aches. It makes me cry on the nights I realize this is my reality–but it doesn’t have to be his. He doesn’t need to condemn himself to a lifetime of this.
The abdominal cramps hurt, but the idea of James finding out about the diagnosis hurts further. It’s an ache I can’t describe. The image of James realizing many things: that this is my forever, that I will be in a constant in between state of extreme discomfort and seldom relief, a level of high-maintenance that is exhausting–even for me, pains me.
It started so gradually James almost convinced himself he was imagining it.
At first, it was little things.
You stopped falling asleep on his chest during movies. Stopped reaching for his hand first when you crossed streets. Your replies became shorter somehow, softer around the edges, like you were carefully sanding pieces of yourself down before handing them to him.
James had realized it far before you did–you were pulling back, and he couldn’t recognize why.
Had the weight of being an idol’s girlfriend finally taken over you? The coming home far beyond the hours of daylight, the secretive dates and even more secretive relationship, the tours around the world without you, the company rules and laws he had to follow–had James failed you? Lost you?
No. James tells himself. He can’t have, because to lose you is to lose a part of himself. To lose you is to leave you behind, and James could never do that.
So he tells himself he’s imagining it. Tells himself that maybe you’re busy, or tired, or that perhaps by tomorrow, you will feel normal again. But tomorrow arrives, and you are a little more distant. And the cruelest part? There is nothing obvious to fight.
No argument. No betrayal. No slammed doors.
He keeps reaching for you anyway; physically, emotionally. He tries to get an explanation out of you, but he thinks otherwise. You’re already going through enough. So he’s left with absence, and his greatest love slowly becoming a memory while still standing in front of him.
James believes death would be easier than this.
It’s a Tuesday evening when James’s resolve finally breaks.
It was 5pm, multiple hours before his usual work day ends. You were cleaning what had been left of the dishes when your phone had rung. You picked it up without looking at the contact, a habit of yours that James would softly remind you to stop.
Your last name was uttered, loudly, echoing from your phone speaker and throughout the apartment you and James had learned to call home. You had once again failed to notice James’s presence by the entryway, his figure hidden behind the wall you’d painted together once.
“I’d just like to remind you of your ultrasound appointment tomorrow.” The voice continued. “I’d suggest bringing a loved one, or anyone who may be of support to you.”
The call had ended, and soon after you were typing a message to James, who remained rooted by the doorway.
ME: Yufan, I’m going to Chaewon’s apartment tomorrow.
ME: Don’t come looking for me.
A low, humorless laugh sounded then. It made you jump, relieved only for a moment when you saw it’s source, and then back to fear. “Chaewon’s, huh?” James said sadly. “Why don’t you trust me anymore?”
“What is really going on, love?” James cried out. It was only then that you noticed his tears. “Because with the lying, and the ultrasound, and the pulling away from me, I’m really starting to think things that I do not want to think.”
You were speechless for a moment, feeling the weight he had been carrying finally crash down on you. “I can’t tell you,” You whispered brokenly, shaking your head repeatedly, “Because if I do, then it’s all real. If I tell you, you won’t–” You heave, a deep cry rushing out, “You won’t love me anymore.”
James’s heart shattered. “Wh-why won’t I love you anymore?”
It was as though you had finally come to realize his thoughts then. “No-no! It’s not like that. That’s not what I meant. I’m not cheating, I swear. But-”
“But what, Y/N?” James’s voice broke, “What is going on?”
Y/N. Not “love”, or “baby”. You were sure you’d done it now–led James to cross the bridge from your relationship and into defeat. He’d looked so tired then–the circles beneath his eyes and exhaustion in his posture was normal given his job, but the fatigue in his eyes is what got you. It was over, you’d told yourself. He was tired of you.
“Baby?” He called out softly, “Are you–” He paused, trying to find the words, “Are you pregnant?”
The words hit like a truck. With your condition, you didn’t know if you’d ever be having this conversation of pregnancy again. So, you savour it. That fleeting moment of hope in James eyes that perhaps you’d be starting a family.
You couldn’t give James a family. And that shattered you.
“--Because we can figure it out,” James continued helplessly, “I’ll tell the company, leave if I have to, we’ll move someplace near our parents cause we both know we’ll need them–”
“James–”
“--If this is why you’re pulling back, I swear, we’ll figure things out,” James cried, “Just don’t leave me. Please. Don’t leave me. We’ll make such great parents and–”
“James.”
It was only then that James had noticed the fatigue in him had mirrored in you too. He stopped his rush of words, watched helplessly as you clutched onto your abdomen and fell onto the floor in a cry. He rushed to you then–only to be pushed away once more.
“We can’t.” You cried, “We can’t.”
James stared at you with a sadness so intense it made you want to shrivel up. You could see it then–the confusion that had begun to fade into slow understanding. “We can’t what?” He whispered, but you knew he knew the answer.
“We can’t be parents. Not together.” You finally said, “I might not—I might not be able to give you children.”
Silence. You’re both trapped in a silence so loud it rings in your ears and makes your stomach churn violently. James doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, has this faraway look in his eyes as he gets lost in his thoughts.
You stand then, taking the keys from the pot you two had made together once–in a time when you had been younger, more free, happier. Oblivious from the realities of this cruel world.
And as you leave the apartment, you miss the pained whisper that follows from James:
“Why did you think that would make me love you any less?”
theartofmadeline
amandla
titsay
romaincrisis
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave