Chapter 3

For those same two years, I had been forced to watch her retreating figure too. My phone buzzed.

Michael sent another photo, this time of his meal. Again, a woman's outline appeared in the glass reflection, followed by his message: [Have you eaten yet? You have a weak stomach. Don't skip meals.]

I kept opening the photo and backing out again. While I hesitated over how to reply, I realized I'd already walked back to the apartment I'd lived in before marriage.

With no Michael and no one else there, I finally worked up the courage to ask, [Are you alone?]

He replied, [Yeah], and all my courage drained away.

Michael was thoughtful and kind by nature. When a teacher graded me wrong and cost me first place, he dragged me along to get it fixed.

When older kids bullied me and I didn't dare tell my parents, he came back bruised and smiling. "Emily, don't be scared. I won."

Someone like him wouldn't have missed the giveaway in those photos. There was only one possibility: he had done it on purpose so I'd notice, on purpose so I'd know, on purpose so I'd give up.

After that, I stopped reaching out to Michael first. He was probably relieved that I finally got the hint. Sometimes he'd ask if I'd eaten or slept well, but that was as far as it went.

And my replies stayed polite and formal: "Already ate" and "Slept fine."

My life returned to what it had been before the wedding: work, home, and the occasional hangout with friends.

One day, just as our food arrived, my friend tipped her chin past me. "Look over there. Doesn't that guy look kind of familiar? Like Michael?" I turned toward the window and met Michael's gaze.

On the ride back, I kept my head down and said nothing. On their way to the mall, Mr. and Mrs. Carter had run into Michael, who had apparently come back and was shopping with Sophie.

Veins stood out on Mr. Carter's forehead as he snapped, "How many times have I told you to cut things off with her?

"I didn't care how you played me behind my back before, but you're married now. What do you take Em for? What do you take your home for?"

Mrs. Carter clenched her teeth and barely stopped herself from hitting him. In the end, they threw out one last line: "Keep this up and I'll act like I never had a son." Then the front door slammed shut.

Michael stood there for a while before going upstairs. I followed behind him and saw how tightly his fists were clenched, his knuckles white. A numb tingling spread through me.

I stopped outside his bedroom door, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to knock.

The next morning, I saw that Michael hadn't gone out. I sat across from him. After thinking all night, the only words I managed to force out were, "I'm sorry."

"Yep." He kept looking at his phone without raising his head.

When I tried to explain that yesterday's timing had been pure coincidence, he was quiet for a long moment before finally looking up. "I know. I don't blame you.

"You got dragged into getting yelled at too. That must've scared you, huh?"

I shook my head. If anyone had the right to feel wronged, it was Michael. He couldn't be with the person he loved, and now he had two years of marriage on top of it, with nowhere to vent.

But those weren't words I, the one benefiting from all this, had any right to say. So the air fell quiet again.

The clock ticked on and on. After breakfast, Michael said, "For a while, I'll be sleeping here. Don't lock the door at night."

"Oh. Okay." I hurriedly swallowed my porridge, and when I looked up again, he was already gone.

Even though Michael had moved back in, he left early and came home late, so I barely saw him. He said he didn't blame me, but some resentment had to remain.

That continued until yesterday, because today was my birthday.