Chapter 3
On the day I moved out, Freya didn't leave the house.
She sat on the living room sofa, watching the movers carry out my books, clothes, and computer, box by box.
Her stuff took over the master bedroom and walk-in closet, while my belongings looked downright pitiful in comparison.
Just two cardboard boxes, three storage bags, and an old computer.
As the mover picked up the last box of books, he asked casually, "That's all you've got?"
I nodded.
Freya's expression shifted.
She used to complain that I had too much stuff.
She said my meds, my contracts, my sneakers, and my old photo albums were always in the way.
Now, all of it was piled up by the door, barely taking up much space.
Suddenly, she got up and walked into the kitchen.
Freya called out, "What about this cup?"
She came out holding a white porcelain cup.
There was a small crack around the rim.
She looked at me and asked, "You're not taking it?"
It was the birthday present she gave me in our first year of marriage.
It wasn't like she actually remembered.
Her assistant just happened to buy an extra one when sending out gifts, and she handed it to me without a second thought.
In my previous life, I treated it like a treasure, using it until the bottom turned yellow, and even when I moved, I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.
I took the cup and gave it a quick look.
"I don't want it anymore," I said.
She gripped the cup a little tighter.
"It's still usable," she said.
"It's cracked," I replied.
"I'll just have someone buy a new one," she said.
"No need," I replied.
I tossed the cup into the trash bag.
The porcelain cup hit the crumpled paper inside, making a dull thud.
Freya stared at the trash bag, her throat working as if she wanted to say something.
"Jonah, do you have to talk to me like that right now?" Freya said.
"I'm just being honest," I replied.
She looked like she was about to snap, but with the movers right there, she swallowed it back.
Right before the door closed, Freya called out to me.
"Leave the key," she said.
I took the house key off my keychain and dropped it onto the cabinet by the entryway.
The metal key landed with a sharp click.
Freya stared at the key, her eyelid twitching, like she was holding back something she couldn't say.
"You're really not coming back?" she asked.
"I'll be back in thirty days to sign the papers," I replied.
"What about your clothes? Your winter coats are still in the closet," she said.
"I don't want them anymore," I replied.
"What about your meds? You didn't take your stomach medicine," Freya said.
I froze, my hand still gripping the suitcase.
She actually remembered I had meds for my stomach.
Or maybe she didn't really remember. Maybe she just saw the box still sitting in the drawer.
Back then, when my stomach hurt so bad I couldn't even stand up, I called her. She said she was at an art show with Paxton and told me to just go to the hospital myself.
I held on until I blacked out, and my coworker had to rush me to the ER.
When she got home that night and saw the hospital paperwork, her first words were, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
I kept making excuses for her, like she was busy, she was tired, and she didn't mean it.
It was funny how I could fool myself so easily.
"Just throw it away," I said.
Freya frowned, "Seriously? You're tossing your meds when your stomach's messed up?"
"I'll just buy new ones," I replied.
She took a step closer.
"Jonah, don't be like this," she said.
I glanced at her hand, resting on the doorframe.
Her nails were neatly trimmed, and she still wore her wedding ring.
"Freya, what was I like before?" I asked.
She was at a loss for words.
I answered for her, "I used to put your stomach meds in your bag, in case you drank at those dinners and your stomach hurt.
"I'd remember your cycle and make ginger tea for you before it started. I'd stay up late messaging the doctors at your mom's nursing home, asking about her test results.
"I'd clean your shoes and put them back in the closet."
Her face slowly drained of color.
"I never asked you to do any of that," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
I nodded.
"So I'm not doing it anymore," I said.
As the door closed, I heard a shattering sound from inside.
Maybe it was the cup breaking.
Or maybe she finally knocked something over.
My new place was on the twelfth floor, just a one-bedroom apartment with a balcony that overlooked the overpass.
At night, the headlights of cars slid past one after another. There was no trace of her scented candles, no sound of her high heels, and no dinner table set for someone who'd never show up.
I made myself a bowl of spaghetti and sprinkled some green onions on top.
The steam fogged up my glasses.
My phone buzzed.
It was my mom.
"Jonah, Freya called and said you two had a fight?" she asked.
I set the bowl down on the table.
"It's not a fight. We're getting divorced," I said.
There was a brief silence on the other end, then my mom's voice shot up.
"Divorced? Are you crazy? You spent years chasing after her, finally got her to marry you, and now you're just calling it quits?" she shouted.
I picked up some spaghetti with my chopsticks and blew on them to cool them down.
"Mom, I'm just tired," I said.
She went quiet on the other end.
Back in my previous life, right before my mom passed away, she held my hand and said, "Son, if you can't hold on anymore, don't force yourself."
By then, I'd already been holding on all my life.
Now, it was not too late for me.
My mom lowered her voice.
"Did she do something to hurt you?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Then why?" she asked.
I looked out the window.
Cars kept streaming across the overpass, but not a single one would ever stop for me.
"Because she doesn't love me," I said.
I could hear my mom sniffling on the other end.
"Come home for dinner. I'll make you some soup," she said.
I smiled.
"I'll be back this weekend," I said.
After I hung up, a message popped up on my phone.
Freya sent me a photo.
My stomach meds were sitting on the coffee table.
She asked: [You're really getting rid of this?]
I stared at the screen for a long time before finally replying: [Yes.]
On the other end, the typing indicator kept appearing and disappearing, over and over.
Finally, she just sent one message. [Alright, I get it.]
I set my phone down and started eating my spaghetti.
They were a bit salty.
But it was the most satisfying meal I'd had since my rebirth.
On the first Monday after we separated, I got to the office half an hour early.
In my previous life, by this time, Freya had already run me ragged.
Her mom's nursing home bills, her brother's startup debts, and all the disasters from her company projects, every single thing landed on my shoulders.
I kept bailing her out, even passed up a shot at leading a new project at the Herlands branch just for her.
That project ended up becoming the company's biggest moneymaker.
The guy who took it over got promoted to vice president.
Meanwhile, I was still stuck at my old job, pulling all-nighters just to fix reports, and my stomach problems just kept piling up.
This time, the moment my supervisor dropped the Herlands project proposal on the table, I jumped in.
"I'll take it," I said.
Everyone in the meeting room turned to look at me.
My supervisor, Alexandra Davis, pushed up her glasses.
"Jonah, are you sure? The Herlands project means you'll have to be on-site for three months, and the first few weeks are brutal," she said.
"I'm sure," I replied.