Is life like a drama?
Are we all characters in its play?
I’m the hero, my gal the heroine.
We met by chance, fell in love
almost instantly—love at first sight.
We talked of everything under the sun,
wove dreams of our shared tomorrow.
Built castles in our minds,
planned marriage, kids, a life entwined…
We made love—passionate and tender,
gentle or rough, slow or hurried.
Savoring the afterglow’s warm bliss.
Inseparable, always together;
months later, I proposed, she said yes,
slipping on the ring I placed there.
Life bloomed; we loved without end.
Talked endlessly, never bored.
Silences sang—telepathic grace.
One day, an accident struck.
Spinal cord severed, doctors said.
Paralysed below the chest,
confined forever to a wheelchair.
Castles crumbled, dreams turned dust.
Routines shattered; independence gone—
dependent now on others’ hands.
My love beheld this broken shell,
so unlike the man she’d known:
from striding joy to wheelchair-bound recluse.
She broke the bond, returned my ring.
Married another “lucky” man;
they live happily ever after.
In drama, twists would heal me whole,
miraculous recovery, her faithful wait.
We’d wed as planned, happily forever.
But life ain’t scripted like a play.
Reality mocks fiction’s grace.
No miracle came—I wheel on.
