From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 211

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**TITLE: Dreams Folding Into Broken Time**
**Chapter 127: It’s Killing Me**

“I don’t care!” I yelled, my voice slicing through the tense air like a knife. “Just stop it! Stop dictating who I should be. I can’t breathe under your suffocating rules anymore. It’s exhausting! It’s killing me! I can’t—”

My voice shattered, the words falling apart like glass. For a heartbeat, the only sound that filled the room was the relentless beeping of the monitor, a steady reminder of life’s fragile nature.

“Oh God,” she gasped, her shoulders trembling with emotion. “What have I done?”

And then I turned to her. She was a mere shadow of herself, her frail body sinking into the hospital bed, skin pale as if drained of all color, eyes rimmed with red from sleepless nights and silent tears. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, each one a struggle. She seemed so small, so utterly breakable.

A wave of guilt crashed over me, pulling me under its weight.

What was I doing? She was the one fighting leukemia, battling a disease that threatened to consume her, and here I was, screaming and tearing open wounds that neither of us had the strength to heal. I was hastening her suffering, making it worse.

I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth, fighting to regain my composure. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, my voice raw and choked. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

She sniffled, her hands fumbling for a handkerchief on the bedside table, the fabric crinkling as she dabbed at her tear-streaked cheeks. “No,” she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I’m the one at fault. I shouldn’t have—”

I interrupted her gently, my heart racing. “Does he know?”

Her eyes widened, darting up to meet mine, the confusion evident. “What?”

“Does he know he’s my father?”

There was a pause, a hesitation that felt like an eternity. Her gaze dropped to the blanket covering her legs, as if the answer were woven into its very fibers. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to mine.

“Yes.”

The air in the room seemed to vanish, leaving me breathless. “Since when?”

That question hung between us, heavy and suffocating. She swallowed hard, her throat working as if the answer was lodged there. Her fingers twisted nervously in the sheets, searching for strength that was clearly absent.

“Since the day I found out I was pregnant with you.”

The words fell between us like lead, anchoring me to the spot. I felt paralyzed—unable to move, blink, or even think. Breathing became a distant memory.

The silence stretched, and I felt the world tilt, as if everything I had known was quietly rewritten without my consent.

All this time.

Every single memory, every conversation, every family gathering, every story shared—now, they seemed like threads in a web of deceit spun with good intentions.

I sank back into the chair beside the bed, a paradox of feeling weightless yet burdened. “You mean,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “he knew? This entire time? Every time he looked at me, every time he said my name, every time he watched me cry—he knew?”

She nodded, her expression weary. “He didn’t want to hurt you. He thought it was better this way. He believed it would keep you safe.”

“Safer,” I echoed, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. “Right. Because secrets are always safer.”

Tears blurred my vision, and I despised them. I hated how my body betrayed me when I needed to feel strong. “You don’t understand,” I said, my voice quaking. “You kept me from the truth my entire life. You made me love the wrong people, trust the wrong people, obey the wrong people.”