I’ve always been the clingy one in our relationship. Hand-holding whenever we walked, a text to check in when we were apart, a goodnight kiss before sleep. But Caroline was my exact opposite. Her boundaries were ironclad. She said holding hands was sweaty and gross, so her hand would lie limp in mine, never squeezing back. She claimed kissing was unhygienic; whenever I leaned in for a kiss, she’d turn over, presenting me with the cold curve of her shoulder. She told me my daily updates—the funny memes, the details of my lunch—were pointless noise. "Stop wasting my time," she’d say. When my face fell, she would just look at me with those cool, analytical eyes. "I come home on time. I put my paycheck into our joint account. Isn't that the best proof of love?" So, I spent five years convincing myself that she was just practical. Unromantic, but stable. Until I was sitting in the waiting room of a fertility clinic, scrolling through a forum thread. "What does chemical compatibility actually feel like?" The top-voted answer read: "It’s a physical instinct. Like being dehydrated and needing water, or craving fruit when you're vitamin deficient... When she talks to me, I stare at her lips and feel a literal thirst. I hate sharing my day with people, but with her, I wish there were twenty-five hours in a day." And right beneath it, a highly liked reply: "So what you're saying is, you have a chemical compatibility with me? That explains why you talk so much nonsense, keep me up past midnight, and actually tried to steal a kiss the other night!" Attached were two screenshots of endless, crowded chat logs. They talked about a stray dog by the road, the shape of the clouds, a bitter cup of coffee... Simple, warm, domestic sharing. The kind I had starved for. My chest tightened as I zoomed in on the profile pictures in the screenshots. One was Caroline. The other was Larry—my best friend. The nurse called my name. I sat frozen for a second, then stood up. "I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I won't be doing the vasectomy." … The doctor looked up from his clipboard. "Did you talk it over with your partner?" I looked down at my phone. My last text to Caroline was from three days ago: "I'm heading to the urology clinic on Friday. Thinking about getting a quick procedure done. Any chance you could come with me?" Caroline had always said she didn't want kids. She said if marriage meant having children, then we shouldn't get married. I wanted to surprise her. I planned to get the vasectomy in secret, hoping she'd see the surprise, and then I could finally ask her if we could build a life together. But she only replied with three words: "Drink some water." Scroll up, and it was just a graveyard of my attempts. Memes, work frustrations, places I wanted to take her. Every single one was met with the same dismissive, canned replies. If the opposite of chemical compatibility is visceral aversion, then what was I to her? I forced a smile at the doctor. "No partner. No need to consult." It was late afternoon when I got back. Larry had been staying at our place for nearly a month after quitting his job. The moment I walked in, I saw them by the kitchen counter. Larry was holding a pair of chopsticks, blowing on a piece of braised rib before feeding it directly to Caroline. She took it, chewed, and smiled. "Delicious," she murmured. A wave of nausea hit me. I remembered when I was making soup a few months ago. I had instinctively offered her a taste from my spoon. Her reaction had been violent. "Do we have to completely abandon hygiene just because we're dating? That’s disgusting." She had pushed my hand away so hard the hot broth spilled over my fingers. They were blistered and swollen for two weeks. I must have been blind. They were practically dripping with intimacy, and I had never questioned it. One was the love of my life for five years; the other was my best friend of twenty. The sound of the front door closing broke the silence. Larry came out of the kitchen, carrying the pot of ribs. "Tyler! You're back just in time. I made braised short ribs. Here, try some." He grabbed a clean pair of tongs, giving me an apologetic grin. "I used those chopsticks for Caroline and me, so I won't use them for you. Don't want you catching our germs." "Caroline and me." He said it so naturally, as if I were the guest in my own home. I just wanted to disappear into my bedroom before my face betrayed me. "Not hungry," I said. Caroline frowned. She put a piece of rib on my plate. "Larry made this specially for you. Don't waste his effort." I looked at the meat, then at her, wanting to laugh hysterically. I can't eat pork. I had a severe aversion to it after being forced to eat it as a child. Once, early in our relationship, I accidentally ate a dish with pork fat and went into anaphylactic shock. Caroline was the one who drove me to the ER. And Larry? He was my childhood friend. He knew. Yet here they were, offering me pork. When I didn't move, Caroline's frown deepened. "Is this how you treat a guest?" Larry quickly tried to smooth things over. "It's fine, really. He probably just doesn't have an appetite." I locked myself in my bedroom and finally let the tears fall. I couldn't understand. If Caroline felt a biological aversion to me, why stay? And Larry... I had practically raised him. When his abusive father ignored him, I bought him food, shared my toys, walked him to school. Why would he steal my girlfriend? By eleven, I had scrubbed my face and composed myself. Caroline came into the room, fresh from the shower, but before she could even lie down, Larry knocked on the door. "Caroline! I just found this hilarious thread on Reddit. You have to see this." She instantly started to get up. I grabbed her wrist. "It's midnight, Caroline. Does he have no concept of boundaries? And since when do you have time for stupid jokes?" She didn't look at me as she pulled her hand away. "We shouldn't make our guest feel unwelcome. Besides, we share a sense of humor. It’s not a waste of time." As the door clicked shut, Larry’s laughter drifted down the hallway. "Look at this one, it's so dumb..." I covered my eyes. I had told Caroline that exact same joke three times. Each time, she had looked at me with cold irritation: "Using stupid jokes to kill time is incredibly selfish, Tyler." To punish me for "wasting her time," she had blocked my number for an entire month. The laughter continued past midnight. I pulled out my phone and texted my supervisor. "Hey, about that West Coast relocation opportunity... is it still open? I'd like to apply." The call came through almost instantly. "Tyler? I thought you turned it down because you were planning on proposing?" "Plans changed," I said. "I'll take the transfer." A brief silence on the line. "Okay. There’s one slot left, but you’ll need to leave in six days. Can you manage that?" "Yes," I said. By sunrise, the apartment was empty. I looked down from the balcony and saw them walking back from the local market. Larry was holding a bunch of white gardenias—his favorite flower. They had gone to the farmers' market together. Last year, I made a bucket list of a hundred things I wanted us to do. The very first item was "Go to the Sunday farmers' market together." I had begged Caroline dozens of times. "Let's wake up early, buy fresh flowers, and cook breakfast." She hadn't even looked up from her research papers. "I have data to collect in the mornings, and you like to sleep in. Why disrupt our schedules just to torture each other?" She was a woman of rigid principles. But for Larry, she could wake up at six and buy fresh gardenias every day. Below, Larry said something that made her laugh. Then, playfully, he grabbed her hand and bit down gently on the soft flesh between her thumb and index finger. Caroline's eyes crinkled into a smile. She let him. When he let go, he pressed a soft kiss to the spot he had just bitten. A violent wave of nausea hit me, and I gagged over the balcony railing. Five years. Caroline had never kissed me like that. Once, I tried to steal a kiss before sleeping, and she spent ten minutes in the bathroom scrubbing her face with antibacterial soap. When she came back, she demanded we sleep in separate rooms. "Saliva is full of bacteria, Tyler. Your juvenile romance is exhausting. If you're going to keep acting like a child, we should live apart." Clenching my fists, I whipped out my phone and texted her: "So you’re into "juvenile romance" now?" The screen lit up instantly: "I'm busy. Don't text me this meaningless garbage." I looked back down. Caroline was laughing at something Larry said. Her phone was in her purse. So who had replied? I walked into her home office. Her laptop was open, logged into her messages. Larry’s chat was pinned to the top. Mine? Muted. I sent another text to test a theory: "My hormone results came back today. The doctor wants to talk in person." Almost instantly, the phone buzzed: "Drink some water." My blood ran cold. I searched her computer and found a simple custom auto-reply script she had set up for my contact. If the text contained words like 'look,' 'funny,' or 'laugh,' reply: "I'm busy. Don't text me this meaningless garbage." If the text contained emotional words, reply: "Don't overthink it" or "Get some sleep." If it mentioned being sick or hurt, reply: "Drink some water." I always knew she blew me off, but I never realized even her dismissiveness was automated. She couldn't even bother to write more than three variations of a script. The front door opened. Larry walked straight into the bathroom. "Caroline, I'm using your towel! Mine is too thin." Caroline called out, "Sure. Throw it out if it’s old, just use mine." The strict hygiene boundaries she used to shield herself from me had completely vanished. Last winter, I came home drenched from the rain and accidentally used her towel to dry my hair. She snatched it away and threw it directly into the trash. "Sharing towels spreads skin diseases. Do you have zero basic common sense?" I never touched her things again. Visceral aversion. I should have seen it sooner. I bit my lip, stepping out of the office just as Larry walked by. "Hey, Tyler, you using the laptop? I need to look something up." Caroline, hearing this, slammed her mug onto the counter. "Don't touch my computer! How many times do I have to say it? Even in a relationship, people need privacy. Is that concept too difficult for you to grasp?" Larry sighed playfully. "Oh, come on, Caroline. He was just opening it for me. Don't be so hard on him!" Caroline's cold expression instantly melted. "Fine. Only because you asked." Larry didn't even ask for a password. He swiped the trackpad and unlocked it. He was logged into her browser, her bookmarks, her saved profiles—all things she had password-protected from me under the guise of "privacy." Larry knew every single one of them. The air in the room felt thick, like poison. I grabbed my coat and walked out. I spent the next few days preparing the paperwork. When the official transfer notice came through, I sat alone in the company breakroom, staring at my name on the paper. I didn't cry. It just felt like a heavy stone was lodged in my throat. My manager looked at me. "Are you sure you don't need to discuss this with your partner?" I folded the paper and slid it into my pocket. "No partner," I said. "I'll be ready in five days." When I got home, there were several pairs of shoes at the entrance. The living room was packed with people, the coffee table buried under beer cans and bags of chips. Larry stood up to greet me like he owned the place. "Tyler! You're back. These are Caroline's colleagues from the lab. We're just having a few drinks." He leaned in and whispered, "Since I'm still job hunting, Caroline wanted me to meet some people who could help me get a foot in the door." How generous. Three years ago, when our department did a joint project with her lab, I ran into her and tried to say hi. She walked right past me, pretending I was a stranger. When we got home, she lectured me: "I don't want people at work knowing we're dating. It looks unprofessional, like I'm trying to get you favors." I sat on the far edge of the sectional, watching them. Caroline was laughing, sharing embarrassing childhood stories. Larry gasped, "You actually did that?" Caroline grinned. "My parents banned me from the kitchen for a year." I had never heard that story. Caroline hated when I asked about her past. But here she was, laying her life bare just to make Larry feel included. A guy with glasses chuckled. "Larry, you and Caroline get along so well. You should give Tyler some pointers. They’ve been together five years and still act like strangers." Everyone laughed. Even me. Because it was true. I had been performing a five-year solo act. When the beer ran out, Larry stood up to grab more. Several people stopped him, waving him back down. "No, Larry, you stay. Let Tyler go. He’s not really talking anyway." Caroline nodded. "Go ahead, Tyler. Larry's in the middle of a story. Don't ruin his fun." I stood up so fast my chair scraped the floor. I didn't care about the beer; I just needed to breathe. I walked around the block for an hour before heading back. Most of the guests had left, leaving the apartment a total disaster—cigarette ashes, peanut shells, half-eaten pizza, empty cans. Caroline looked up from her phone. "Clean up the room, will you? Larry's back is sore, he shouldn't be bending over." I stared at her. "My back hurts too." Larry quickly stood up. "It's fine, I'll do it. Just a little tight, no big deal." Caroline pushed him back onto the couch and turned to me, her voice sharp. "Since when does your back hurt?" I looked at her. My lower back had a chronic injury. Three years ago, when we moved in together, I carried a heavy wardrobe up the stairs to save money. I slipped and rammed my spine against a metal railing. I was bedridden for two weeks. She had forgotten. Every single detail of it. I picked up an empty beer bottle and slammed it onto the hardwood floor. It shattered with a violent crack. Larry jumped. "Tyler, what the hell is your problem? I said I’d clean it!" My voice was dead quiet as I looked at him. "Larry, have I ever done you wrong?" I had been the perfect friend. When we were kids and he got acute food poisoning in the dead of winter, I carried him on my back to the clinic through the snow, scraping my knees to the bone. When his father threatened to pull him out of college for money, I sent him my entire year of savings. Larry’s face went white. "If you want me to leave, just say so!" He slammed the guest room door shut. Caroline stood in the middle of the mess, her face dark with anger. I knew what she was going to say—that I had embarrassed him, that I was being dramatic. I didn't give her the chance. "I'm tired," I said. "We'll talk tomorrow." She saw the hollow exhaustion in my eyes and kept her mouth shut. "Fine. Tomorrow then. I have something important to tell you." But the next morning, she didn't wake up early for me. Larry had thrown a tantrum and started packing. When I got out of bed, Caroline was already on the phone with a real estate agent. "Is it close to the subway? How's the neighborhood security? Send me a video of the place." She asked about everything—the elevator brand, the neighbors, winter heating, afternoon sun. When we moved in together, she told me she was too busy to look at apartments. When I sent her options, she told me to just pick one because "none of those details matter." I stood there until she hung up. "Do you have time for me now?" She grabbed her coat. "Not right now. The apartment Larry wants is highly sought after. We'll talk tonight." The door clicked shut, leaving me in the silence of the empty flat. I sat there for a long time. Then I packed my bags, leaving her keys and my joint account card on the entryway console. At the airport, I sent her one last text: "Caroline, I'm boarding a flight. Guess where I'm going?" The response was instantaneous: "I'm busy. Don't text me this meaningless garbage." The script. I laughed out loud—at my own stupidity, and then, with a strange sense of relief. Larry, however, sent a text: "Tyler, you're a great friend. Caroline is amazing. She bought coffee and gift cards for all my new neighbors so they’d look out for me. She’s staying over tonight to make sure the building is safe. Don't worry, there are two bedrooms." I stared at the screen until the boarding announcement echoed through the terminal. My coworker asked if I had anyone coming to say goodbye. I smiled. "No. Nobody." I walked through security without looking back. Five years of beautiful lies had finally come to an end. While waiting to board, I opened the home security app. A notification popped up. Caroline had walked into the apartment. She called my name, her voice echoing in the empty rooms. Then, she saw the envelope on the console containing her card and my relocation notice. As she read it, she froze.
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