We had our wedding three years ago, but my pilot husband has canceled our appointment to make it legal at City Hall eighteen times. The first time, his female trainee had a test flight. I waited on the steps of the County Clerk’s office from opening until closing. The second time, he was driving us there when she called. He pulled a U-turn on the highway and dropped me off on the side of the road. After that, every time we scheduled a date to get our marriage license, his trainee would miraculously have some sort of crisis. Eventually, I decided to leave him. But the moment I boarded a plane to Paris, he went crazy and chased me halfway across the world. We’ve been "married" for three years, yet Ethan has never managed to sign the papers with me. Today was a milestone—his 1,000th successful flight. It was also the seventeenth time he promised we’d go to City Hall. But at his celebration dinner, while his direct supervisor was pressuring me to down shot after shot, Ethan was busy peeling shrimp and feeding them to Lexi, his female co-pilot trainee. I drank until I was dizzy and burning up with a fever. He didn't spare me a single glance. Colleagues around the table sighed and clicked their tongues, looking at me with eyes full of pity. They felt I wasn't worth the effort. Anyone with eyes could see who I was destroying my liver for. When the dinner ended, Ethan, who was supposed to take me to City Hall, flaked on me again. He pulled the car up to the restaurant entrance. As I reached for the door handle, he blocked me with one hand. "Lexi drank too much for me just now. I need to drive her home. You should call an Uber." "We probably won't make it to the Clerk's office this afternoon. Let’s take a raincheck." He didn't even wait for my reaction. He hopped out, helped his trainee into the passenger seat—my seat—and buckled her in. We’ve been together eight years, "married" for three. This was the seventeenth time Ethan delayed making us legal because of Lexi. Usually, I’d break down crying. I’d scream, asking him who his actual wife was, and asking who had really been drinking for him all night. But this time, I just smiled. "Okay. Drive safe." Ethan paused, clearly thrown off by my calmness. After a second, his cold demeanor returned. "I'll buy you a gift tonight to make up for it." He drove off immediately. Before he peeled away, he rolled up the window on the passenger side, terrified the wind might bother a drunk Lexi. In the past, he never allowed the smell of alcohol in his car. whenever I drank for him, he’d drive with the windows down, even in the dead of winter, freezing me to the bone. I realized then: he didn't hate the smell of alcohol. He just didn't care if I was cold. The midday sun in Seattle was scorching, but I felt nothing but a chill in my bones. I took a deep breath and put my birth certificate and social security card back into my bag. I knew it was time to let go of these eight years. That afternoon, I went straight to the airline's HQ and handed in my resignation. "Does Ethan know you're quitting?" my supervisor asked, surprised. I was the airline's Gold Star Flight Attendant for seven years running. Leaving meant walking away from a promising career. I smiled bitterly. "I'll tell him tonight. Though, I doubt he'll care." "It's a shame," the supervisor sighed. "You two flew new routes together, won 'Best Crew' together... even the CEO came to your wedding three years ago. Everyone was so jealous. But now..." She trailed off, shaking her head. Yes, those were beautiful memories. But memories are just ghosts. We can never go back. I got home around 10 PM. The apartment was cold and empty. My phone pinged. An Instagram notification. Lexi had tagged me in a story. “Thanks to Captain Ethan for staying by my side all afternoon! And for the reward: Taylor Swift tickets for tomorrow! Can't wait! <3” I knew then that Ethan, who said he’d be home for dinner, wasn't coming back. This scenario had played out too many times in the last three years. I made myself a bowl of instant noodles and opened my email. I scrolled past offers from a dozen international airlines and clicked on the one from Air France. I hit "Accept" without hesitation and booked a ticket to Paris for two days later. Five years ago, Ethan had the biggest scare of his career on a flight to Paris. Since then, the city had been a taboo subject. He refused to fly there, and out of solidarity, neither did I. Ethan, once I go to Paris, I don't think we’ll ever see each other again. The next morning, I woke up and started packing. I was halfway through when Ethan walked in, wearing a pink dress shirt. A strong scent of rose perfume drifted in with him. I choked slightly on the smell. He used to hate perfume. Because of him, I hadn't worn any for years. I’d even thrown away my expensive collection. It turns out, he doesn't hate perfume. He just didn't like it on me. He saw the suitcases and paused. "Lexi was really hungover last night. It got late, so I grabbed a hotel room by myself. That's why I didn't come home." I looked up at him, surprised. In three years, this was the first time he’d ever offered an explanation without being asked. I nodded silently. He walked over, looking down at me. "You're packing? Do you have a flight?" "Something like that," I said. He seemed to relax hearing that. "I have some errands to run today. I just came back to grab something. I won't be eating lunch here." "Okay." I didn't look up, continuing to fold my clothes. I had planned to tell him over lunch that I quit and that we were done. But it seemed I wouldn't get the chance. Ethan grabbed a red gift bag and a jacket hanging by the door, then hurried out. Crash! The moment the door slammed shut, a picture frame that had hung there for eight years fell. Glass shattered everywhere. It was a photo of us at our first concert. We were holding hands, grinning like idiots. That day, he promised that no matter how busy he was, he’d take me to a concert every year. But ever since Lexi became his trainee, he had forgotten that promise entirely. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the empty room. I stood there for a long time before sweeping up the glass. Then, I threw the photo—and the last shreds of my attachment—into the trash. By evening, I was exhausted and lying on the bed when my best friend, Sarah, called. "What the hell is wrong with Ethan? This is too much. Check Instagram. He's practically flaunting his affair with that fox, Lexi." "You guys aren't even divorced yet! How can he do this?" I opened the app. Lexi’s latest post was at the top of my feed. She was wearing a Van Cleef & Arpels clover necklace, holding the red gift bag Ethan had retrieved earlier. So, he came home just to get her concert gift. The caption read: "Three years of knowing you. So lucky to have you, Captain Ethan. Happy 3rd Anniversary!" It hit me then. Third anniversary? Right. Today was our wedding anniversary. The third anniversary of a marriage that wasn't legally real. We hadn't celebrated it once, so even I had forgotten. I exhaled slowly. "He doesn't need a divorce, Sarah. We never got the marriage license." "What?!" Sarah screamed. "You've been 'married' for three years and he still hasn't signed the papers?!" Yeah. Three years. Seventeen cancellations. At 11 PM, Ethan actually came home. He took off his coat and went to hang it up, but froze when he saw the bare spot on the wall. "Where's our photo?" He walked into the bedroom, looking slightly panicked. "It fell and broke," I said calmly.
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