While I Bled He Chased Sparks

Simon was the most celebrated fireworks designer in the country. In our seven years together, I had hinted a thousand times that I wanted a show created just for me.

Every time, he’d simply run his fingers through my hair with a soft chuckle. "Next birthday, babe.

I’ll design the most beautiful show you’ve ever seen." On the night of my birthday, my heart hammered with anticipation as I rushed down to the coast.

But beneath the canopy of blazing colors, I saw Simon. He was holding Daphne, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

The fireworks bloomed over the ocean, a breathtaking canvas of light that felt entirely like someone else's dream.

I stood frozen at the edge of the sand, catching the drifted chatter of the onlookers. "I heard the designer puts this on for his muse every single year." "A milliondollar show just for her.

Now that’s real devotion." I stood at the very periphery of the crowd, watching the two of them bathed in a shower of falling light. A sharp, hollow ache bloomed in my chest.

When we got back to the apartment, Simon handed me a beautifully wrapped box. "Happy birthday!" he said. "It’s a robot vacuum—top of the line.

Now you don’t have to bend over to clean. Your back will thank me." I stared down at the sleek, practical machine. And suddenly, a quiet, empty smile crept onto my face.

It took seven years to love Simon.

But letting him go took only a single, silent second. … Simon tore open the packaging with meticulous care. "It's the newest smart model," he explained, adjusting the dock. "Let the tech handle the chore from now on.

You shouldn't have to work so hard." I glanced at the receipt sticking out of the box. Nearly two thousand dollars. It wasn't cheap.

In the past, I would have bent over backward to convince myself: "He loves you, Diana. He’s just practical." But tonight, I had seen that sky.

I had seen the golden trails of light cascading over the water, bridging the ocean to the horizon like an endless dream.

A dream that didn't belong to me. "The display tonight," I said softly, "was that yours?" His hands paused for a fraction of a second.

When he spoke, his voice was perfectly casual. "Yeah. Daphne is back in the country.

I promised her a long time ago I’d do a show for her every year." "Every year." The words hung heavily in the quiet room, pressing down on my chest like lead.

I had waited seven years. Waiting for Simon to be less busy, waiting for his "next time," waiting for the promised masterpiece. But Daphne didn't have to wait.

Her sky lit up every single year, without fail. Noticing my silence, Simon crossed the room and took my hands in his. "Diana, fireworks are just a flash of light.

They burn out, and then they're gone.

I got you this because I actually want your daily life to be easier." I offered a faint smile, withholding the bitter questions that used to claw at my throat.

He let out a soft sigh of relief and ruffled my hair. "I knew you'd get it. You've always been the sensible one." "Sensible." That word again.

In seven years, I’d heard it enough to make me sick.

On my birthday, when I asked for flowers, he bought me an air fryer. "Flowers die in a week," he’d said. "This lasts for years." For our anniversary, when I suggested a weekend trip to the coast, he got me a neck massager. "You always complain about your shoulders.

This is way more practical than driving all that way." When I begged for just a little romance, he'd pull me close and chuckle. "We've been together forever, babe.

Leave those silly romantic gestures to teenagers." I used to tell myself he was just a realist.

Simon dealt in grand spectacles of light; perhaps when your job is literal magic, daily life becomes mundane. I thought he saved his creativity for his work.

But tonight, the truth settled in. He understood romance perfectly. He just chose not to waste it on me. Daphne loved golden glitter trails.

He would stay up until three in the morning adjusting the chemical burn rates just to get the hue right. Daphne loved the ocean. So he painted the entire horizon for her.

Then a memory flashed in my mind: the most breathtaking part of tonight's show, the indigo and lavender nebula that swept across the dark sky, was from a sketch I had drawn on a napkin seven years ago.

I had leaned over his drafting table, eyes bright, and whispered, "Simon, if you ever design a show for me, can you make it look like a violet galaxy spilling into the sea?" At the time, he had laughed, calling it childish. "That's not how pyrotechnics work, Diana." Yet tonight, that exact childish galaxy had bloomed right over Daphne’s head.

Simon’s phone buzzed on the counter. The name "Daphne" flashed on the screen.

He glanced at me, picked up the phone, and stepped out onto the balcony, leaving the sliding door cracked open.

His quieted voice drifted into the warm living room, filled with a tenderness I had never received. "Did you like the indigoviolet sequence tonight? ...

Yeah, actually, Diana had scribbled down a rough idea years ago.

She doesn't understand the chemistry of it, she just likes pretty concepts, so I took her doodle and rebuilt it properly." My fingertips went entirely numb.

Then, Daphne must have asked him something else. Simon chuckled softly. "She won't mind. She’s always sensible about these things.

Besides, her life revolves around cooking and doing chores—she doesn't know anything about art or fire. My shows are for people who actually understand the medium.

Like you." I stared down at my phone, at the confirmation message for my upcoming appointment at the clinic. An absurd laugh bubbled up in my chest.

The fireworks I had waited seven years for weren't a matter of effort or timing. It was simply that, in Simon's eyes, I was never worthy of the art.

I used to think that if I just held on a little longer, he would finally turn around and see me. But now, the smoke had cleared. It was time for me to walk off his stage.

The next evening, Simon took me to a college reunion at a downtown lounge. I hadn’t expected Daphne to be there. She sat next to Simon, looking effortless in a white slip dress.

A few old friends were already teasing them. "Daphne, you made it! God, remember college? You and Simon were the golden duo. The pyrotechnic prodigy and the visual arts queen.

Everyone thought you'd be married by graduation." I froze at the entrance of the private room. Daphne was two years ahead of me.

Back in college, she was the girl everyone wanted to be. Brilliant, radiant, her installations permanently featured in the main gallery.

She was the reason I had first heard of Simon. Everyone said they were a match made in heaven.

When Simon eventually asked me out, I had quietly wondered if fate had finally decided to be kind to me.

But now, looking at Daphne seated beside him, those nostalgic jokes felt like tiny needles stitching through my skin. I forced a polite smile and took a seat on Simon's other side.

Halfway through the night, I slipped out to the restroom. When I returned, the heavy door to the private room was slightly ajar.

Inside, someone who had clearly had too much to drink laughed. "But seriously, Simon. You and Daphne were inseparable. How did you end up chasing Diana right after?

We still talk about how wild that was." The room fell quiet for a second.

Simon, his voice loose from the bourbon, muttered, "That's old history." But Daphne let out a soft laugh. "Oh, come on, Simon. Why be shy?

We had that massive fight, and he was desperate to prove he didn't need me." Her voice was quiet, but it pierced the air. "Diana happened to walk by the campus café right then.

He pointed at her and told me, 'Watch this. I'll have her in three days. You really think you're irreplaceable?'" A round of chuckles erupted. "No way!

So Diana was just a dare?" Daphne hesitated, perhaps realizing she’d gone too far, and sighed softly. "I mean, I don't mean it like that. Diana is sweet.

It's just... that's how it started." In an instant, the world went completely silent. The air left my lungs, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.

The romance I thought had been written in the stars was actually just a spiteful boy pointing at a random girl on a sidewalk.

I had replayed our first meeting a thousand times in my head: Simon intercepting me on the quad, books clutched to my chest, his smile catching the autumn sun.

I had spent seven years believing I was lucky. Now I knew I was just a punchline. "Do you regret it now, though?" someone asked. The room went still.

I held my breath, pressed against the cold drywall of the corridor. Even now, broken as I was, a pathetic part of me was waiting. Waiting for him to say "no".

Waiting for him to say that somewhere along those seven years, he had actually fallen in love with me. But the silence stretched. It stretched until my fingers went completely cold.

He didn't say a word. In that moment, I wanted him to lie. Just for the sake of mercy. But his silence spoke louder than any words ever could.

Inside, the sound of a glass shattering broke the quiet. "Oh, ouch! That's hot!" Daphne gasped. Simon was on his feet instantly. The door to the room was thrown open.

He was already ushering Daphne out, completely blind to me standing in the doorway. The impact knocked me off balance.

I hit the hard tile floor, a sharp, whitehot spasm tearing through my lower abdomen. It felt as if something vital inside me was being ripped apart.

Simon looked down, his brow furrowing. "Diana? What are you doing standing out here?" I trembled, my hands instantly flying to clutch my stomach. "Simon...

I have to tell you, I'm..." Before I could finish, Daphne let out a sharp, theatrical wince.

Simon’s attention snapped back to her, panic flashing in his eyes. "Diana, I need to get Daphne to the ER. Take an Uber home, okay?

It was just a small trip—you'll be fine once you get off your feet." I reached out, catching the edge of his sleeve, my fingers trembling violently. "No, Simon, wait—" But he pulled away, sweeping past me down the corridor.

As they went, Daphne looked back over his shoulder. She caught my eye, her lips curving into a slow, triumphant smirk.

I sat on the freezing floor, watching his back recede into the dim light of the hallway. The cramping intensified, a heavy, dull ache.

And then I felt it—the warm, slow trickle of blood down my thigh. I managed to get myself to the emergency room.

After what felt like hours of testing, the doctor came in, looking grave. "The fetus is still there," she said, looking down at the clipboard. "But you are threatened with a miscarriage.

You cannot sustain any physical or emotional stress right now." She glanced at the empty hallway behind the curtain. "Where is your partner?" I was silent for a long moment. "There's no one," I whispered.

The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. The child had a father. I just didn't have a way to tell him.

The sun was long gone by the time I discharged myself, clutching a bag of prescriptions.

When I pushed open the door to our apartment, Daphne’s laughter spilled out of the living room. She was standing in front of the fulllength mirror, wearing my wedding gown.

Simon stood behind her, adjusting the delicate tulle veil over her shoulders.

It was the gown I had spent weeks searching for, visiting five different boutiques before finding the one.

When I had texted him a picture of it, he had taken hours to reply with a simple, "Looks fine." But now, his eyes were wide, filled with an awe he had never shown me.

Catching my reflection in the mirror, Daphne gasped, smoothing down the satin skirt in mock panic. "Diana! Oh, please don't be mad. The boutique delivered it today.

Simon mentioned you weren't feeling well, so I thought I’d help check the fit for you." I stood in the doorway, my fingers cutting into the paper pharmacy bag.

I could see the safety pins cinching the waist. Pinning it to Daphne's measurements. I remembered trying it on in our bedroom.

The waist had been slightly loose, and I’d turned to Simon, asking if I should have it tailored tighter. He hadn't even looked up from his screen. "Whatever you want, Diana.

It's fine." Yet here he was, smoothing every wrinkle on Daphne with agonizing precision. The urge to scream, to demand answers, died inside me.

All that was left was an immense, hollow quiet.

Daphne bypassed the silence, picking up the printouts of the wedding plans from the coffee table. "Oh, and we were looking at the fireworks layout for the reception.

Honestly, the current theme is a bit cliché. What if we changed it to that violet galaxy design?" She looked at my pale face, tilting her head. "You don't mind, do you, Diana?

I just think it would look so much more romantic." My throat burned. The violet galaxy. My napkin sketch. The promise I had lived on for seven years, given away like scraps.

Simon looked down at the layout. "Sure," he said. He didn't even look at me. "A wedding show needs to be spectacular anyway.

Daphne always did understand my aesthetic better." I wanted to laugh out loud. My dress was on her body. My wedding was being reshaped in her image.

Even my childhood dream had to go through her to be realized. Daphne began flipping through the seating arrangements. "Should we put me at the head table, Simon?

I mean, given our history, sitting too far away might make people think we're hiding something.

It would look less awkward if I'm close." Simon murmured, "Of course you're at the main table. You're not an outsider, Daphne." Not an outsider.

Which meant I, the bride, was the only stranger in the room, interrupting their beautiful reunion. Simon finally walked over, reaching out to pat my shoulder. "Go get some rest.

Let Daphne handle the details. Her taste is better suited for this anyway." I stepped back, avoiding his touch, and walked into the bedroom without a word.

I heard him sigh with relief behind me. He probably thought I was just being "sensible" again. I opened my closet and began silently packing my clothes into a duffel bag.

In the living room, the robot vacuum was humming, bumping into the dining table leg over and over again—a perfect metaphor for seven years of clumsy, useless devotion. I ignored it.

I packed my passport, my ID, my cards. Outside the door, their voices drifted as they mapped out a sky of colored fire. It was fine.

No matter how bright they made it, those lights would never have to touch me again. At two in the morning, a blinding pain woke me.

I sat up, clutching my stomach, the room spinning into darkness. Simon wasn't in bed. I hesitated, then dialed his number. It rang for what felt like eternity before connecting.

In the background, I heard Daphne sobbing, calling his name. Simon's voice was sharp with stress. "Diana?

What is it?" I slumped against the wall, barely able to breathe through the agony. "Simon... I'm bleeding. There's so much blood..." There was a brief pause on the line.

Then, Daphne let out another loud, dramatic cry. Simon’s tone hardened. "Diana, you need to call a cab and get to the hospital.

Daphne got a spark burn on her hand during the test fire. I can't leave her right now." My grip on the phone tightened.

A tiny ember on Daphne’s hand was worth more than my entire body failing. "Simon," I whispered, "what if something really happens to me?" He let out an irritated sigh. "Don't dramatically exaggerate.

Can you not pick tonight of all nights to pick a fight? Daphne is in actual pain here. Just be reasonable for once." Daphne wailed again in the background.

Simon muttered, "I have to go. Text me when you're at the clinic." The line went dead. The silence returned to the dark bedroom. I looked down at the dark stains on my palms.

Seven years of my life, boiled down to a dial tone. It wasn't even worth another tear. I called an ambulance myself.

In the back of the emergency vehicle, I kept my hands pressed flat against my lower stomach, but I could feel the life draining out of me.

At the height of the pain, a dark thought crossed my mind: "Maybe dying on the way wouldn't be so bad." At least then, I wouldn't have to face the fact that I had wasted seven years on a ghost.

When the gurney rolled into the ER, a nurse rushed alongside me. "Where is your family?

Your emergency contact?" I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I don't have anyone." Saying those words didn't hurt as much as I expected. It was just hollow.

Like the last remaining piece of me had finally evaporated. The doctor’s face was grim after the procedure. "The pregnancy is gone," he said gently. "The hemorrhaging was severe.

If you had arrived ten minutes later, we might not have been able to stabilize you." He paused, lowering his voice. "Because of the scarring and complications... conceiving in the future is going to be very difficult." I stared at the harsh fluorescent lights of the ceiling.

No tears came. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A notification from social media: Daphne had posted. It was a photo of her hand.

There was a tiny, barely visible red smudge on her knuckles. Simon was halfkneeling before her, carefully dabbing ointment on it.

Her caption read: "When the sparks fly, I'm glad you're the one holding the ice." A comment below read: "Simon is literally hovering.

That's not a burn, that's just pure devotion." Daphne had replied with a blushing emoji: "He completely overreacted, honestly." I stared at the screen and let out a quiet breath. "Overreacted." I guess overreaction was a luxury reserved for those who were loved.

A red speck on Daphne's hand made his sky fall. While I bled out in an empty apartment, and he called it a tantrum. By dawn, the IV bag was empty.

I dragged myself back to the apartment, my body feeling like lead. The apartment was dead quiet.

The robot vacuum had run out of battery in the middle of the hallway, sitting there like a discarded, expensive joke.

I pulled the hospital discharge papers out of my bag and laid them flat on the kitchen island. Next to them, I slid off my engagement ring and set it gently on top of the paper.

None of it mattered anymore. My flight was in three hours. I was leaving the city, and I was leaving Simon behind forever. Simon didn't return until midmorning.

He walked in carrying a bag from the pharmacy, likely remembering my latenight call about the bleeding.

He opened the door, his eyes landing first on the dead vacuum, then on the open bedroom door showing a halfempty closet. Finally, he saw the kitchen island. The ring. The papers.

Simon froze. He walked over slowly, his hand trembling as he picked up the medical report. His eyes scanned the blackandwhite text. "Spontaneous miscarriage.

Severe postoperative hemorrhaging. High risk of future infertility."