1 On our fifth anniversary, I found an old phone in Tim’s safe. The password was his first love's birthday. Inside, it chronicled every sweet moment of their past. Meanwhile, his current photo album didn’t contain a single picture of me. "Find anything interesting, Kate? Prying into other people's privacy?" I turned to face the man standing in the doorway. I didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene. I just said, calmly, "Let's get a divorce." Tim formatted the phone right in front of me, his expression so detached it was impossible to read. "Is that better?" he asked. "Still want a divorce?" I nodded, my resolve firm. "Yes." ... "Alright, that's enough. Don't be dramatic." Tim’s brow furrowed with a familiar impatience. "Be good," he said, his voice softening into a practiced, placating tone. "Once the year-end project is done, I'll make time to take you to Aspen to see the snow, okay?" When I didn't respond, a ghost of a smile touched his lips. With his usual careless grace, he tapped a finger against my forehead. "I'm not kidding this time. I mean it." I almost laughed. I’m not kidding this time. So he knew. He knew he’d been kidding all the other times. The trip to Aspen had been a promise he’d postponed year after year. The movie dates where I’d wait alone at the theater entrance until the film started without him. The times he’d sworn he was on his way to pick me up, only to leave me stranded in a downpour, his car never appearing. Tim always broke his promises to me. And now, he thought dangling this one again was some grand gesture, a reward. "No, thank you," I said, taking a deep breath and repeating myself with unwavering clarity. "Tim, I want a divorce." This time, the warmth vanished from his eyes, his patience finally snapping. "Kate, you're being completely unreasonable." "Go to Aspen or don't. I've given you a way out." "Just don't come crying to me later, saying I didn't keep my word." With that, he grabbed his coat from the sofa and turned to leave, not even glancing at the dinner I had so carefully prepared to his tastes. I remained silent. For the first time, I didn't try to make him stay, not even for another minute. He paused at the door, his footsteps faltering for a fraction of a second as he looked back. I had already sat down at the table, picked up my chopsticks, and begun to eat alone. He slammed the door on his way out, the sound echoing with an unvented rage. My heart didn't ache anymore. There was nothing left but a barren wasteland. I used to think that a man like Tim, so far above it all, would never be touched by ordinary, domestic things. But the phone had shown me otherwise. It showed him cooking for the girl he loved. How a single word of her praise made the cuts on his hands and the blisters from the hot pan feel like badges of honor. He had even whispered such childish, sweet things: “Cooking for the person you love is true happiness.” “I’m going to cook for Isabelle for the rest of our lives. Keep her so happy and well-fed that she’ll never want to leave me.” Reading those entries was the first time I truly understood what a complete and utter joke I was. The next day, I met my best friend, a lawyer, at a coffee shop and asked her to draft the divorce papers. "What happened between you two? Is it really that serious this time?" she asked, her face etched with surprise. She knew better than anyone how much I loved Tim. In the past, our fights never went beyond a few days of cold silence. "I'm just so tired," I said, gazing out at the traffic. "And… she's back." That one pronoun was enough. My friend understood immediately. Isabelle. Tim's unforgettable first love. Her name was like a tiny needle embedded in my heart. It drew no blood, but it never stopped pricking me with pain. I had never even met her, yet her ghost had haunted my marriage for five years. Tim insisted on his privacy, yet he and Isabelle had shared a music streaming account. Tim hated exposing his life online, yet his old social media was a shrine to her. The art exhibits he took me to were always by her favorite painters. He claimed shopping with me was a waste of time, yet he had once spent weeks exploring every antique market in the city with her. Two years of dating, three years of marriage, and Tim had never once removed her from his heart. I was nothing more than a placeholder, a comfortable habit to fill the empty space she’d left behind. A second choice. "Okay. I'll handle the papers. I'll make sure you don't get screwed over," my friend promised, her expression worried. "But Kate… are you absolutely sure?" "I told you from the start, he wasn't right for you. He never cleared out his heart before letting you in. You’ve been torturing yourself by being with him." "But you just dove in headfirst and wouldn't listen to anyone." I stirred my coffee, my eyes downcast. "Some walls you just have to smash your head against until you're bloody before you're willing to turn around." 2 The sky was a dreary gray, and the rain started without warning. My friend’s husband showed up to get her. "I told you not to come," she chided gently. "And let my queen get wet? Not a chance," he grinned. "Hey Kate, you want a ride? We can drop you off." I smiled and shook my head. "You two go ahead. I'll just sit for a bit longer." I used to be so envious of their easy affection, the genuine care that flowed between them. Why was it that Tim and I, also husband and wife, always had an invisible wall between us? Why? The answer was simple. He didn't love me enough. And I had been lying to myself for so long, pretending it was just his nature, that he didn't know how to love. When the rain lessened, I stepped outside. Just then, a familiar Audi pulled up to the curb. In the passenger seat was a woman in a cream-colored dress, her hair in soft waves, exuding an air of gentle elegance. Tim got out from the driver’s side and started walking toward the coffee shop, likely just passing through. When he saw me, his expression didn't change, save for a slight arch of his eyebrow. He probably expected me to greet him, but I just looked down at my phone, checking my rideshare app. Distracted, I missed a step and my ankle twisted beneath me. Tim shot me another indifferent glance, his brow furrowing slightly before he disappeared inside. He didn't help me. I gritted my teeth against the shooting pain in my ankle and continued to wait by the curb. A few minutes later, Tim emerged with two coffees. "Let's go," he said, his tone cool and impatient. "Isn't this what you wanted? For me to give you a ride?" "...I didn't." He didn't bother arguing, simply pulling me toward the car and pushing me into the back seat. He placed one of the coffees beside me. I didn't take it. The drive was silent, the atmosphere thick with tension. Suddenly, Isabelle pressed a hand to her forehead. "Tim, I think my blood sugar is dropping. Do you have any candy?" Without missing a beat, Tim reached into the glove compartment and handed her a piece of chocolate. "How many times do I have to remind you? You never learn." Isabelle took it with a small, sweet smile. "I always forget when I get busy. Good thing I have you." They fell into easy conversation, talking about old times, mutual friends, and shared memories. Their words were woven with an effortless intimacy. I sat in the back, an invisible, unwelcome audience. The scenery blurred past the window. We passed the city park, where the giant Ferris wheel turned slowly. It was where Tim and I had our first date. Legend has it that couples who kiss at the very top will be happy forever. I had stolen a kiss from him then. He had stared at me for a long moment, stunned. I thought it was one of our few shared, sweet memories. Only later did I learn that Tim's greatest regret was never having brought Isabelle to ride that same Ferris wheel. Flashes of the past flickered through my weary mind—mostly my one-sided hopes and his dismissive responses. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me. When I woke, we were parked in front of our apartment building. Isabelle was gone. Tim unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look at my swollen ankle, his brow deeply creased. "Kate," his voice was low, "do you really have to do this?" I looked up, confused. "If you wanted me to pick you up, you could have just said so. Did you have to resort to such a stupid trick to get my attention?" His tone was steady, but it was threaded with an irritation he couldn't hide. I didn't know what he was so annoyed about. Maybe I had interrupted his precious time alone with his first love. "You're overthinking it, Tim." "I didn't ask you for a ride." He probably thought I was just being stubborn. He scoffed. "Oh? And what were you planning to do? Crawl home?" "I could have taken a cab," I said, looking him straight in the eye. "I'm not helpless without you, Tim. I clung to you because I loved you. It doesn't mean I'm useless on my own." "Useless? Kate, you're welcome to try leaving. Let's see if I come crawling back to you." The man’s eyes darkened again. I had no desire to argue with him. Soon enough, the divorce papers would be on his desk. Then he would know. This time, I wasn't throwing a tantrum. I was serious. 3 I pushed open the car door, trying to get out on my own. But he was faster. He got out, came around, and swept me into his arms. It wasn't gentle, but he didn't let me fall. Inside, he found the first-aid kit and inexpertly sprayed my ankle with a cooling spray, his expression still cold. "Don't do this again." I watched him in silence. This was Tim’s way. A slap, then a piece of candy. Hot and cold, leaving me in a state of perpetual confusion. Did he have any genuine feelings for me at all? Worrying about whether someone loves you is a fool’s game, and I had been a fool for five years. It was time to wake up. Done trying to read his mind, I simply said, "Thank you." He stood by the sofa, unmoving. "Is there anything else?" I asked. Tim’s lips thinned. "Don't you have anything you want to ask me?" I shook my head calmly. The truth was, I’d already seen Isabelle's social media. The day before, she had posted a photo from the airport. The caption was a single word: "Waiting." I had scoured the comments. There was no like or reply from Tim. But I knew he would go. And he did. "I'm tired. I want to sleep," I said, getting to my feet. "I'll take the guest room tonight." He grabbed my wrist. "Kate!" For the first time ever, he actually tried to explain himself. "It's not what you think with Isabelle. I only picked her up because she just got back to the country and doesn't know her way around. I was just helping out." "Mm-hmm," I said. "You should." He studied my face, searching for any sign that I was faking my indifference. "Kate, it was over between us a long time ago. We're just friends now." I nodded, my disinterest genuine. "I know." He pulled me into his arms, a rare, unprompted attempt at a kiss. His warmth seeped through my clothes, a sensation I had once craved more than anything. He knew I loved physical affection. He thought a simple kiss would fix everything. But I turned my head, and his lips met the air. Tim froze, clearly stunned by my rejection. His face hardened. "Kate, my patience has its limits. You'd better not push it too far." We slept in separate rooms that night. He left the master bedroom for me. When I woke the next morning, the house was silent. He was already gone. I felt nothing. I went to the office and handed in my resignation. If I was leaving, I was leaving completely. I had only taken this job to be with him, to have more time together. But at the office, he insisted we keep our marriage a secret, saying it would be "unprofessional." He deliberately kept his distance. Whenever he needed a subordinate to accompany him on a business trip, he never chose me. During meetings, he treated me like I was invisible. Even when I single-handedly closed a major project, I never received a word of praise from him. His coldness was so pronounced that our colleagues whispered, wondering if he had a personal grudge against me. The HR manager was one of the few people who knew about us. "You're leaving?" she asked, surprised. "But Mr. Sinclair only said you were being demoted, not let go…" I stared at her. "Demoted?" She nodded, her eyes full of pity. "Your position was filled by a new hire, someone from overseas. Mr. Sinclair arranged it himself." A chill spread through my chest. My voice trembled as I asked, "Is her name… Isabelle?" "Yes, that's her." I had to grip the desk to keep from falling. Even though I was already leaving, the news hit me like an earthquake, a crushing wave of defeat. Tim had never given me any special treatment at this company. I had earned my way to the director position through my own hard work and talent. And just like that, he gave it all away to her.
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