My Kidney is Now Yours

On the day Zachary Lake stands at the pinnacle of global technology, accepting his award, I'm lying in a hospital bed, abandoned by doctors because I can't afford treatment for kidney failure.

On TV, the host asks him to call the person he's most grateful for. Without hesitation, he dials my number.

"Shannon, do you regret leaving me?" he asks.

I clutch the astronomical medical bill in my hand, the paper crumpling beneath my fingers. Forcing a light tone, I reply, "Can you take me on as your kept woman now that you're a big deal?"

On screen, his face remains expressionless as he hangs up without a word. Then, his cold voice pierces through the broadcast. "Now, I have nothing to feel grateful for."

But what he doesn't know is that when he was on the brink of death years ago, I was the one who gave him my kidney.

After Zachary Lake's interview aired, the name Shannon Morrison became a lightning rod for public fury. It was a story of a heartless gold-digger and a brilliant, wronged young man.

People loved a good reversal-of-fortune story, the kind where tides turned over time, and karma finally catches up. This one fitted the mold perfectly.

Thankfully, I was just an ordinary nobody, so the wave of online witch hunts hadn't quite reached me… yet. Still, the internet was alive with speculation, with most of it cruel and aimed right at me.

"Stop reading that." Dr. Yuri Shaw, my attending physician, gently pulled the phone from my hands and shook his head.

"I'll help you apply for hospital assistance. It's not time to give up just yet."

His voice was kind and steady, like a lifeline I could hold onto.

I gave him a faint smile and shook my head. Right now, he might be the only person in this world who still wanted me to live.

"No need," I said softly. "There's no point anymore."

I steadied my breathing and turned to leave. The door creaked open until it was just a crack, and then I saw a familiar figure not too far away.

Even after five years, I could recognize that silhouette in a crowd without hesitation. I calmed my nerves. I wasn't ready to meet Zachary face to face.

I reached for the door, ready to shut it and retreat, but before I could, a man waiting nearby yanked the door wide open.

"Why are you dawdling around?" he snapped.

Due to inertia and the constant pain wracking my body, my legs gave out, and I fell to the ground. The commotion drew everyone's attention—including Zachary's.

Supporting myself against the wall, I struggled to stand up, desperate to flee. Unfortunately, his hand gripped my wrist tightly.

"What's this? You're bold enough to stalk me now?"

He was breathless from running. I looked at him through the strands of hair clinging to my forehead.

He looked healthy and strong. His recovery progress must've been quite smooth.

Five years ago, our careers had just started to take off. However, fate played a cruel joke on us.

The endless nights, back-to-back meetings, and drinking sessions with investors finally caught up to him. He was diagnosed with uremia.

Dialysis and medication bled us dry. Investors pulled out as soon as word got out. To pay his medical bills, I ran the company by day and worked multiple jobs by night.

But life didn't always reward sacrifice. All our determination and holding on never brought us a donor. It never gave us a miracle.

On that winter night five years ago, when the first snow began to fall, I got the call. Zachary was dying. Yuri was the attending physician then, too.

He looked at me—hollow-eyed and worn to the bone—and didn't even have the heart to hand me the paperwork.

"Is there nothing else I can do?" I asked, voice trembling. I dropped to my knees and clutched his white coat, begging him.

"A suitable donor is nearly impossible to find, and voluntary matches are even rarer. Ms. Morrison, I…"

"I—can I be tested? Do you think I can be a match?"

Later, Yuri told me he'd only agreed because I looked like someone on the brink of collapse. But to his surprise, the match between me and Zachary actually came back positive.