Chapter 1
I was always the type who loved to share every little detail of my life.
Simon Reed was an ER doctor, and I was a reasonably well-known painter.
We decided to forgo the wedding and the guests entirely. We'd go to Glacora for the northern lights and spend time by the sea, listening to the waves together.
For the past six months, I had been eagerly putting together our itinerary, booking flights, and looking up hotels.
Whenever I sent him something I thought was special, his replies were always "Okay," "Sure," or "Whatever you want."
I figured he was too swamped with work to sweat the small stuff.
But then, one day, I saw the messages he sent to Emily Lane: [I got the strawberry cake from that shop. I'll wait for you after work.]
[By the way, I booked tickets for that exhibition you mentioned wanting to see this weekend.]
It turned out his "busyness" was selective.
He didn't lack time. He just didn't want to make time for me.
A week before the wedding, I canceled all the flights and hotels.
On the exact day he thought we were heading off on our honeymoon, I packed my bags and went to the beach we were supposed to visit together.
This time, my Instagram feed showed only the scenery and not a trace of him.
*****
Simon pushed the door open just as the clock on the wall ticked past 2 AM.
The sensor light in the entryway flickered on, illuminating his exhausted face.
As a doctor in the ER at Central City Hospital, he always carried that faint smell of antiseptic that wouldn't wash out. It was the trademark of his profession and the excuse I used to comfort myself countless times for the past two years.
"Why aren't you asleep yet?" Simon asked casually as he changed his shoes. His voice was raspy from staying up all night, and his brow furrowed out of habit. It was a silent reprimand for my "lack of consideration."
Only a floor lamp was lit in the living room. I was curled up in the corner of the sofa with my laptop on my knees.
On the screen was the booking page for the Northern Lights cabin in Glacora, with a red countdown ticking down that reminded me that we were down to the last three days before our planned departure.
"I was waiting for you," I said, closing my laptop and looking at him.
Simon changed into his slippers, but he didn't walk over to give me a hug like a normal husband would. Instead, he headed straight for the bathroom and turned on the tap to wash his face.
"Didn't I tell you I was on a night shift tonight and might get called in for an emergency? My phone's on silent, so you really shouldn't wait up," he said.
The rushing water drowned out the slight edge of impatience in his voice.
I went quiet for a couple seconds, then asked softly, "Simon, am I a bother to you?"
Simon's movements stilled for a moment in the bathroom.
He turned off the water, grabbed a tissue to dry his hands, and came out, looking at me with a tired, helpless expression. "Sophie, I'm exhausted. I have a handover tomorrow morning. Can we not get into these late-night emotional talks right now?"
It was always like this.
No matter what I said or did, it always seemed to be a burden to him.
I took a deep breath and pointed to his phone on the coffee table. "Your phone lit up just now. You got a message."
Simon froze mid-wipe. In that split second, I caught a flicker of panic in his eyes. It was the type of stress response one'd expect from an ER doctor facing a sudden crisis.
But he covered it up fast, walking over to pick up his phone with a flat tone. "It's probably just the department group chat."
"Is it?" I looked at him. "Then why did the screen say 'Emily'?"
The air froze. Simon's thumb hovered over the screen for a moment as he unlocked it, but he didn't try to hide anything. He went straight to WhatsApp.