Woman Donates Kidney To Save Boyfriend’s Life—After the Surgery He Breaks Up With Her
Surgery was set quickly. A string of consultations, lab checks, imaging appointments filled the calendar. She trained less, cut back on her protein, told almost no one. Her coach watched her carefully but said nothing. Maya kept repeating it to herself: this is just a pause, not an ending. I’ll get back on track. I always do.
The surgery went smoothly. That’s what the nurse said when Maya blinked her eyes open.
“Textbook,” the woman chirped, adjusting her monitors. “You’re in recovery. Try to rest.”
But Maya’s thoughts were already racing past the pain. She scanned the room instinctively.
No Aiden. No flowers. Just a clean room, quiet machines, and a chill that didn’t come from the AC.
She tried to lift her head but dizziness pulled her back.
The nurse placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No movement yet. Just breathe.”
Maya’s throat was raw. “Aiden?” she whispered.
“He’s recovering, too,” the nurse said kindly. “Different wing, but both of you did great.”
Maya let her eyes close. The pain in her side throbbed, sharp and unfamiliar—but she held onto the image of Aiden a few doors away, resting, healing, maybe asking about her too.
He’d visit. Of course he would.
By the next morning, the worst of the pain had dulled. Her body still felt foreign, but manageable. She flagged down a different nurse with a hopeful smile. “Would I be allowed to visit Aiden today? Just for a few minutes?”
The nurse smiled gently. “I believe he’s already been discharged. Let me double-check.”
She tapped at her tablet, then frowned slightly. “Yeah—he left yesterday afternoon. Said he felt strong enough to recover at home.”
Maya blinked. “He didn’t… leave a message?”
“Not that I saw. Maybe he just needed space to recover.”
The nurse placed her discharge instructions on the tray and gave her hand a light squeeze.
But the ache under Maya’s ribs deepened—colder than surgical pain. Something else was settling in. Something weightless and heavy at the same time.
The ride home stretched like elastic. She stared out the window, each passing block a reminder that something had changed. Her phone remained silent the entire way.
That night, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt and lying flat on her couch, she texted:
Let me know when you’re up for a call.
No reply.
The next morning, she tried again:
Are you okay?
Still nothing.
His name sat at the top of her message thread like a bruise that wouldn’t fade.
