My friends always told me I was dating a girl with "main character syndrome"—someone who was a master of the silent treatment and petty tantrums. On the morning of our courthouse wedding, the photographer I’d hired was already waiting downstairs. I finished getting dressed and urged Zoey, "Come on, turn off the game. We need to go." She only threw me a cold, dismissive look, deliberately queued up for another match right in front of me, and locked the bedroom door from the inside. She was always like this. I never knew what triggered her, or how long her mood would last. I was always expected to knock on her door, dissect my own behavior, apologize, and buy her some expensive luxury item she had casually mentioned weeks ago just to make peace. But this time, my hand hovered over the wood, unable to knock. The "I'm sorry" that usually slipped so easily from my tongue felt like a dry bone caught in my throat. I had been coddling her for five years. Five years of bending myself backward until I felt completely numb and hollow. The sudden realization that this would be my life forever—this endless cycle—terrified me. "Zoey!" I called out. The room went quiet for a moment. I could picture her perfectly: putting down her controller, reclining in her gaming chair, waiting to hear my voice break as I begged for forgiveness. She loved the chase. She loved watching me crawl back. But today, I used the last shred of my energy just to speak evenly. "Please come out. We planned this months ago. The photographer is waiting outside." My only answer was the sudden blast of the game's volume. I hadn't given her the right answer. I hadn't apologized. I stood there in the quiet hallway. After a long moment, I reached up, untied my tie, and began taking off my suit. I washed my face with cold water, rinsing away the exhaustion and the quiet tears I didn't even realize were falling. Looking at the man in the mirror, all I saw was a ghost. I was so tired. I didn't want to play the savior anymore. … I walked to the entryway to put away my newly polished dress shoes. Zoey's sneakers were kicked carelessly into the corner, as always. They were a new pair of platform sneakers, bought specifically for today so she'd look taller in the photos. But the moment she got them, she wore them out to a greasy taco truck down the street, leaving deep oil stains on the white canvas that wouldn't come out. We had argued so late last night that I hadn't had the energy to clean them for her. I stared at them for a second, then stepped right over them, my pace quickening as I headed out the door. The photographer had been waiting by his car. The first thing I said to him was, "I'm so sorry, man. You can go. We're not doing this today." I paid him the 50% cancellation fee. Since he still got paid for his time, he wasn't angry. Instead, he leaned in and lowered his voice. "Hey, man... to be honest, when you guys came in to choose props last week, I wanted to say something. Your girlfriend... she acts like a giant toddler." "Remember when she wanted water? She wouldn't get up. She made you walk three blocks to get it. Then, when you came back, she drank both bottles—yours too—without even looking at you." "Honestly, Chase, off the record? I don't think she deserves you." My instinct was still to defend her. "She really wanted sparkling water, but the bodega's fridge was broken, so I only got flat. She was just frustrated." But seeing the pity in the young photographer's eyes, my words died in my throat. I could only manage a bitter smile. Yeah. Just because the water wasn't cold, she felt entitled to ruin my day, and to punish me by drinking my bottle too. She didn't care that I had worked a ten-hour shift, walked blocks in stiff leather shoes, or that in ninety-degree heat, I was suffocatingly thirsty too. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A Venmo notification. Zoey had just sent money to Ryan, her favorite male coworker, with a note: "For stomach meds and warm soup. Feel better!" He had a chronic stomach issue. She remembered his pain, went out of her way to send him care, and wanted him to know she was thinking of him. She knew how to care for people. She just didn't want to waste it on me. My mind drifted back to last night's fight over a plate of pork chops. Well, it wasn't a fight. It was just her screaming. "You know I like spicy food!" she had yelled, throwing her fork down. "Why are these so bland? Did you even try, or do you just not give a shit?" My doctor's report and prescription for my gastritis were sitting right there on the coffee table. She had been lounging on the couch playing games next to them for hours, never once glancing at them. "My stomach has been acting up," I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady. "The doctor told me to avoid spicy food for a while." "If you didn't want to cook for me, just say so. Don't make up pathetic excuses." She pushed the plate away, refusing to eat another bite. I looked at her. "Zoey, do you even know what day it is?" She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "What? Is your birthday supposed to be a national holiday or something?" "...No." It wasn't. Our birthdays were only a few days apart, so we usually lumped them together. I bought the cake; she blew out the candles. But yesterday, I had walked past a bakery after a long call with my mother. Since her remarriage, we only spoke around the holidays. Hearing her say "Happy Birthday, sweetie" had made me feel strangely sentimental. So, I bought a small chocolate cake. Zoey had stared at that cake on the counter for a long time. For a foolish second, I let myself hope. Maybe she would say something nice. Maybe she had secretly bought me a card, or a small gift. But she said nothing. Her eyes were hard, almost accusatory. "You think you're special because it's your birthday?" she sneered. "Special enough to throw away the gift I bought you?" I remembered the giant plush bear sitting on the hallway table when I came home. It was huge, cheap, and shed fibers everywhere. I had moved it out to the balcony. "That was for me?" "Duh. Do you think I'd buy that garbage for myself?" "Zoey, I'm highly allergic to synthetic plush fibers. I've told you this a hundred times." Every time I brought it up, she would just roll her eyes. "You're so dramatic," she’d say. "Next time, you get nothing." But there always was a next time, and it was always another plush toy. I rubbed my palms, which were already starting to itch just from thinking about it. "I literally break out in hives. Please, just don't buy them anymore." "Will hives kill you?" "What?" "I asked if it would kill you. I went out of my way to buy you something. Is it really that hard to hold it, take a photo, and say thank you? You're so ungrateful." I sat there, utterly silenced by the sheer absurdity of her anger. And, like always, I folded. "I'm sorry." "My bad." "I won't do it again." But she wasn't done. "Chase," she said, leaning in, her voice dripping with venom. "Do you want to know why your parents didn't want you when they split? Why they passed you around like hot garbage?" "Because you're impossible to love." She knew exactly where to twist the knife. Every time she brought up my childhood, it brought back the paralyzing memory of standing in that courtroom, listening to my parents argue over who "had" to take me, while the lawyers looked on with cold, professional pity. The only way to stop the roaring in my ears was to let the anger take over. So, I picked up the birthday cake I had bought and threw it against the wall. It shattered into a sticky, ugly mess. Zoey just whistled, turned on her heel, and went back to her video game. I spent the rest of my birthday night on my knees, scrubbing chocolate frosting off the baseboards, crying silently into the rag. "Am I really ready to marry her tomorrow?" I had asked myself over and over. One voice whispered: "She just has a temper. She's not a bad person. And you’ve wanted a family your whole life. Don't throw this away." But another, quieter voice asked: "Can you really survive a lifetime of nights like this?" I must have been lost in my thoughts for too long, because the photographer was looking at me with genuine concern. "Hey, man. You okay?" I shook my head slightly. "Just... a little lost." "Look, I know it's none of my business," he said gently. "But marriage is a long haul. If you're having doubts, maybe take some time to think about it." "Yeah," I breathed. "I think I need to do that." When I walked back upstairs, Zoey was leaning against the doorframe, fully dressed. She looked away the moment our eyes met, her jaw tight. This was her version of an olive branch. A tiny, grudging peace offering. She knew she had pushed me to the absolute edge last night, so she was giving me just enough space to calm down so I wouldn't "ruin" her day. "I sent the photographer home," I said. She stiffened. "Whatever. I told you hiring a photographer for a courthouse wedding was a waste of money anyway." The living room was a disaster—laundry piled high on the sofa, mixed with mail and empty takeout containers. I sighed and began folding the clothes, one by one. When I picked up her purse to move it, a cascade of colorful wedding mints spilled out onto the floor. She lunged forward, snatching them up. "Who told you to go through my stuff?" she snapped. But she didn't close the bag. She left it wide open, letting me see the rest of the mints inside. Last month, while walking through Target, I had mentioned that we should buy some nice mints and candies to hand out to the clerk and the photographer at the courthouse. "It's just a nice gesture," I had said. Zoey had scoffed. "God, Chase, are you really that desperate? You want everyone to know some lonely, aging bachelor finally managed to trick a girl like me into marrying him?" The words had stung so badly I couldn't even force a laugh. I just walked away. And because I didn't play along, she had thrown a fit, stormed out of the store, and driven off, leaving me standing in the parking lot with a cart full of half-scanned items. There had been no apology then. But now, she was standing here, waiting for me to fall to my knees in gratitude because she had remembered and bought the mints. This was her grand gesture, and I was supposed to feel honored. I had always been so good at reading her mind, but she had never once bothered to look at mine. If she had, she would have seen the quiet terror taking root. I was done playing my part in this exhausting, toxic play where we scream, freeze each other out, and then pretend everything is perfect again. I didn't say a word. I just kept cleaning the couch. After a minute of tense silence, she slammed her purse onto the floor. "Chase!" she yelled, looking around the room until her eyes landed on her shoes. "Why haven't you cleaned my sneakers yet?" "I swear, you do nothing all day. They're filthy. Look at them!" "I'm telling you right now, if those shoes aren't spotless, I'm not getting married today." I looked at the sneakers, lying crookedly by the door. Then I looked at the rest of my life, stretching out ahead of me like a long, grey highway of endless chores and eggshells. No matter how hard I worked to keep her happy, it would never be enough. I looked at Zoey, who had already thrown herself back onto the couch, her eyes darting to me to see if I would run for the shoe cleaner. In that exact moment, without a single shred of hesitation, I said, "Zoey, let's not get married. Not today. Not ever." Right as the words left my mouth, her game found a match, and the loading screen music started up. I didn't know if she had actually heard me. But as I spoke those words, a crushing weight lifted off my chest. I felt light. I walked to the door, picked up the trash bag, and stepped out into the hallway. As I passed her dirty sneakers, I "accidentally" stepped right on the white canvas, leaving a dark, dusty footprint. When I turned back around, she wasn't looking at her phone. She was staring at me, her eyes dark and incredibly sharp. "What do you mean, 'not ever'?" "Chase, my youth is valuable. I don't have time to play games with you." "If we aren't getting married, we're breaking up." Breaking up? I had lived with her for so long I couldn't even remember what a quiet apartment felt like. I'd have to find a new place, sure, but... maybe I could find something closer to my office. I could sleep in an extra thirty minutes every morning. The thought of it felt like a warm breeze. "Give me a week to move out," I said.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "536335", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel