The day I moved out, I sent Robertson a voice message. "Let's break up." A second later, he replied with one word: "Okay." My best friend Catherine sat across from me, her jaw practically hitting the floor. "You two were about to get married. Breaking up is that simple?" I took a sip of coffee, bitterness spreading through my mouth. "Because he didn't even listen to my voice message." No matter what message I sent him, he only ever replied with "okay." It actually didn't bother me at first. I'd gotten used to it. Until I discovered that when other women sent him voice messages, he'd smile and patiently listen to every word. When I saw that 60-second voice message marked as "read" on Robertson's phone, he was still asleep. The light from the phone screen hit my face, and tears just streamed down. I knew Robertson found it troublesome. He didn't like chatting. He didn't like listening to voice messages. Over the years, I'd learned to accept it. But that fully-listened-to 60-second voice message carved a wound straight through my heart. Thiago. His high school classmate. His gaming partner. They chatted about games every day, mixed with everyday conversation. Their chat history took up twice as much storage as mine. Love becomes heavy through difference. Robertson's character seemed to have crumbled too. "Baby... come here." Perhaps my crying was too loud. Robertson stirred awake, half-conscious. His arm reached out and pulled me tightly into his embrace. His warm arms carried Robertson's unique scent, and my tears broke through the dam. He loved me too, didn't he? He still wanted to hold me while sleeping... In that moment, I wanted so badly to wake him up and confront him. To have a huge fight. But I was truly exhausted. Robertson and I were pressed close together, yet I felt he was so far away. This bed was too wide. I lay on my side like that all night, letting the tears fall silently. I thought Robertson and I had reached the end. The next day I started looking at apartments. After half a month of searching, I settled on a two-bedroom. During all this time, Robertson didn't notice a thing. Even today when he left, I answered a call from the moving company and he didn't pay attention. After eating with Catherine and saying goodbye, I returned to the apartment Robertson and I shared. This apartment was bought by Robertson's parents as our wedding home. Although we weren't married yet, to save money, Robertson and I had moved in early. I didn't actually need to come back. After all, this home barely had anything of mine left in it. But I wanted to see how long it would take a forensic scientist—someone who survived by detecting the smallest clues—to notice his future wife had moved out. I'd just sat down when the door behind me opened. "Home early today?" Robertson bent down to change his shoes, greeting me naturally, no different from any other day. As expected, he hadn't listened to that voice message. Like an auto-reply bot, he'd just responded with "okay." I opened my mouth, bitterness filling it, hard to swallow. "Why didn't you make dinner?" Robertson glanced at the empty dining table and asked with surprise. Unless there was something unusual or special plans, I basically cooked for him every day. I didn't answer. Robertson put down his bag and went into the bathroom.
Through the door, I could hear Robertson typing on his phone. And some audio leaking out. No need to guess—he was chatting with Thiago. I'd actually made a scene about this once before. Robertson didn't take it seriously. He thought I was making a big deal out of nothing. "I'm with you every day. Why would I need to chat online? If it's urgent, you can call. If it's not urgent, you can tell me when I get home." "Thiago is different. We don't see each other every day, so of course we chat!" I rubbed my temples and walked into the bedroom. When I came back out, Robertson had already ordered takeout and was eating. Only one portion. Nothing for me. I couldn't help but laugh, my voice trembling as I asked him, "Why did you only order one?" "Huh? Did you want some?" "I thought you were dieting to fit into your wedding dress!" When he said this, Robertson didn't even look up at me. If he'd just looked up, he would have seen my tears. But he didn't. "Robertson, let's talk." I took a deep breath. The instant I pulled out a chair to sit down, he stood up. "No time. Thiago and I are scheduled to play games." The takeout container left on the table for me to clean up. The pulled-out chair. The man walking away. In that moment, I felt all the pressure in the house rushing toward me. My chest felt like it was covered with a plastic bag. Even breathing became difficult. In the study, they'd already connected their mics. "Robertson, interested in the new movie? I've been looking forward to that film for so long." "I knew you'd say that. I already bought tickets. I'll take you tomorrow." "You're so thoughtful!" "I just heard a coworker mention it today and immediately ordered them to surprise you." Robertson's thoughtless replies echoed in my ears, word by word. For Thiago, he always had time, always had heart. For me, he only had one line: "She's a friend, you're my wife. Can they be the same?" Robertson, if being your wife is this exhausting, I'd rather be your friend. With a bang, I kicked open the study door. Robertson spun around sharply, instinctively covering the microphone. He frowned, looking at me in confusion. "Tomorrow we're scheduled to try on wedding dresses. Did you forget?" Sharp edges leaked through my tone. Robertson seemed to sense my mood and looked troubled. "I made plans with Thiago to see a movie tomorrow. I already bought the tickets." "How about you go try on the dress yourself? I wouldn't be much help anyway. Or maybe ask Catherine to go with you?" In one second, he'd figured out a compensation plan and an excuse. Accompanying his wife to try on wedding dresses wasn't important. Accompanying his female classmate to the movies was. "No." I refused flatly. Robertson glanced at the game on his computer screen. Thiago's urging voice came through the headset. He was getting anxious. "Dixon, can't I have my own things, my own plans?" "Do I have to revolve around you once we're married?" These words almost made me laugh. When had he ever revolved around me? No messages during work hours. After work, diving straight into games. He hadn't participated in a single wedding preparation. We still hadn't picked out rings together... His world was full. As for who he revolved around—who knew. I looked at him with disappointment. "Robertson, is marriage just my responsibility?" Exhaustion colored my words.
"You're being unreasonable." After saying this, Robertson put on his headset and started the game without looking back. "Women are such a hassle." "Thiago, when you get married, definitely don't be this much trouble." A casual complaint that drew bell-like laughter from the other end of the headset. Robertson and I started dating freshman year of college. At first, Robertson was attentive to me. He'd walk with me, take me to movies. He just really didn't like chatting. But when we met in person, he was always considerate. "I don't like chatting. Typing is a hassle. Listening to voice messages is a hassle too." "I'm like that with everyone." I accepted Robertson's personality. Back then I told myself, that's just how he is. Later, when we were together, he introduced me to Thiago and often brought me to play games with them. But I didn't have the talent for it. After playing for a while, I dropped out. I shouldn't have seen the dense chat history between Robertson and Thiago. Or Robertson's comments on every single one of Thiago's Twitter posts. He'd even message Thiago when he couldn't sleep late at night, but he never reached out to me. That feeling was like swallowing a needle. That night, Robertson didn't come back to the bedroom. He pulled an all-nighter gaming. The next morning I left Robertson a note: "Meet me at the bridal shop." "I have something to discuss with you." He could ignore WhatsApp. He could leave voice messages unread. But a note—surely he wouldn't miss that. But I'd forgotten that some people aren't blind in their eyes, but in their hearts. I sat on the sofa watching couple after couple come and go while my cup of hot water was refilled again and again. Until the staff came over apologetically. "Miss Dixon, we're getting ready to close..." Their hesitant discomfort was a kind of sympathy for me. I walked home in stops and starts. On the way, I checked Thiago's Twitter countless times. "Yay, mission accomplished!" The photo showed a movie theater screen. The hand making a peace sign in the lower left corner was Robertson's. If moving out was my test for Robertson, then this time I truly needed to give up. At the corner downstairs, I saw familiar figures at the BBQ restaurant Robertson and I frequented. His back was to me. Thiago sat across from him, gesticulating animatedly. Until Thiago saw me. Robertson turned around. In the noisy restaurant, an indescribable atmosphere spread among the three of us. "Dixon," Thiago pulled out a chair, letting me sit beside her. "How did the dress fitting go today?" Thiago was making conversation, trying to ease the awkwardness. Robertson's hand holding the fork trembled slightly. Before I could speak, Robertson did. "Waiter, a mango ice cream." I knew Robertson felt guilty. He was trying to apologize to me this way. It was hot. The ice cream was starting to melt when it arrived. "Eat it quick before it melts." I glanced at it but didn't move. Robertson frowned. "Don't you love mango ice cream?" Thiago laughed. "Silly, I'm the one who loves mango ice cream!" Robertson scratched the back of his head sheepishly, looking at me apologetically. "Sorry, I got confused..." I knew he hadn't gotten confused. He'd never remembered my preferences in the first place. Because when we were together, I always ordered. He never had to think about it. Robertson not only didn't remember my preferences—he'd forgotten. I'm allergic to mangoes. I lowered my head and scooped up a spoonful of the ice cream.
Spoonful after spoonful, I ate the entire bowl of mango ice cream right in front of Robertson. That night, my whole body burned up and broke out in a rash. When I got up to find allergy medicine, the living room light turned on. I thought Robertson had remembered. Instead, he just walked past me into the bathroom. "Middle of the night. What are you looking for?" A bland question, spoken nasally. He didn't even glance at me before returning to the bedroom. As for an answer, he didn't care. Looking at the allergy medicine in my hand, I collapsed on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. In that moment, my love died completely. That night, I sent WhatsApp messages canceling all wedding-related arrangements. The next day, I was woken by Robertson's voice. "Why did you sleep on the sofa?" "What happened to you? All these red spots?" Robertson crouched by the sofa, his eyes full of concern. After all these days, it felt like the first time we'd made eye contact. That feeling was strange yet familiar. "Damn it! I forgot—you're allergic to mangoes!" Robertson's guilt came out of nowhere. He called in sick and took me to the hospital. The entire time, he played the part of an extremely attentive fiancé. "Your husband treats you so well." The nurse setting up my IV sneaked a glance at Robertson getting medicine and teased me. But watching Robertson bustle around, my heart was as calm as stagnant water. Well? If he treated me well, I wouldn't be having an allergic reaction. I forced a smile. Three hours of IV drip. Robertson stayed with me, didn't even touch his phone once. It rang a few times, but he didn't look. Actually, I knew it was probably because of his work. Robertson really wouldn't chat during work hours. He and Thiago only started messaging on weekends after work. On the drive home after the IV, Robertson seemed to remember something. "Yesterday you said you had something to discuss with me. What was it?" My hand pulling the seatbelt paused. So he knew all along. He remembered. I shook my head and fastened my seatbelt. "Nothing." Nothing left to discuss. Robertson kept talking on the way, trying to cheer me up, but I couldn't seem to hear a single word. "Want me to make you hot milk when we get back?" Robertson talked as he walked out of the elevator. A few steps later, he stopped. Through him, I saw Thiago crouched at our front door. "I'm so sorry, Thiago. I forgot we planned to play games today." Thiago stood up looking wronged, rubbing her numb legs. "You didn't even reply to my WhatsApp. So annoying." "Are we still playing or not?" Robertson looked troubled and turned to look at me. I ignored him and walked straight past them to open the door. Robertson followed hesitantly, negotiating with me in a low voice. "Let me make you hot milk first. After you drink it, rest well. Thiago and I will play games in the study. We definitely won't disturb you." Thiago had followed inside too. I looked up. "Do whatever you want." Robertson could probably tell my mood was off, and ultimately chose not to play games. He knocked lightly on the bedroom door. "I'll take Thiago home first." Hearing the front door close, I walked out of the room. The glass of milk on the dining table was still steaming. I sat at the table watching the time pass—one hour, two hours. Robertson never came back. Until dusk fell, the door remained still. I knew Robertson wouldn't come back.
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