Chapter 3

That afternoon, Alex's old stomach pain flared up again.

I used to keep a box of stomach pills in his office and remind him not to skip meals.

But he turned his office upside down and couldn't find a pill.

The pain was so bad that he was drenched in cold sweat. He had to ask his assistant to run to the pharmacy.

When the assistant came back, he asked, puzzled, "Mr. Morrow, you hardly had stomach pain before. Ms. Stewart always had your medicine ready. What's changed?"

Alex froze for a second.

That was true.

He didn't get stomachaches because I always took care of him in every possible way.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

For the first time, my face appeared in Alex's mind.

He thought of me busy cooking in the kitchen with my apron on.

He thought of me handing him the stomach pills and gently reminding him to take them.

He thought of me gazing at him with those gentle eyes.

He shook his head, trying to shake those thoughts away.

He believed I was throwing a tantrum.

He was convinced that I would come back when I was done making a scene.

He kept telling himself that.

But the unease in his heart kept growing.

On the seventh day after I left, Alex worked overtime and didn't get home until three in the morning.

As usual, he pushed open the door.

He expected to see the living room glowing with a cozy yellow nightlight, a glass of warm milk waiting on the coffee table, and a plate of his favorite pastries.

No matter how late he came home, I was always there waiting for him.

But tonight, the living room was pitch-black.

It was cold, empty, and lifeless.

He stood in the doorway for a long time before it finally hit him that I was gone.

He turned on the lights and changed his shoes.

The throw pillows on the couch were in their usual spots, and the remote was right where it always was.

But something was missing.

The lamp that was always left on for him and the person who always waited up for him were gone.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

It was empty.

All that was left were a few bottles of leftover Coke from Mandy and a couple of frozen pizzas.

He grabbed a bottle of Coke and took a big gulp.

The icy drink slid down his throat, and his stomach instantly cramped up.

He doubled over, clutching his stomach, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

He then remembered that I'd told him a million times he had a weak stomach and should never touch any cold drinks.

Whenever he tried to sneak a Coke, I'd always catch him and swap it out for warm milk.

No one was there to stop him now.

He should be happy about that.

But he couldn't bring himself to feel happy.

He closed the fridge and headed upstairs.

He pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

Every trace of me was gone.

My skincare products, perfume, and pajamas were all gone.

The vanity was bare, with only his razor and watch still there.

In the closet, his clothes hung neatly, but the half that once belonged to me was empty.

He made his way to the bed and sat down on the edge, lost in thought.

There was still a faint trace of my gardenia scent lingering on the bed.

It was a cheap bottle of perfume he grabbed at the airport duty-free for our third anniversary.

But I cherished it as if it were a treasure, wearing it every day for five years.

He used to complain that the scent was too light, and he never liked it.

But now, as he breathed in the last lingering hint of that fragrance, he felt unexpectedly reassured, as if something inside him finally settled.

He lay down on the bed, burying his face in my pillow. He reached out and traced the faint indentation in the middle, the shape left by five years of me sleeping there.

The pillow still smelled like me.

He closed his eyes and was surprised at how quickly sleep came.

It was the first time he'd slept soundly since I left.

The alarm woke him up the next morning.

Still half-asleep, he reached out for the glass of water on his nightstand.

But his hand came up empty.

Every morning, I used to leave a glass of water on his nightstand.

It was always the right temperature, not too hot, not too cold.

He sat up, staring at the empty nightstand, and that old frustration started to creep back in.

After washing up, he headed downstairs, and as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he caught a strong smell of something burning.

Mandy was by the stove, fumbling with the eggs and looking out of her depth.

The eggs in the pan were burnt to a crisp, and smoke was billowing through the whole kitchen.

"Alex, you're up. I'm making you breakfast." Mandy smiled.

She waved at him enthusiastically.

Alex took in the chaos all around him, and his face instantly turned grim.

Flour was everywhere on the floor, egg mess smeared across the counter, and pots and pans tossed all over the place.

When I was around, the kitchen was always sparkling clean.

The stove was so shiny that not even a stray hair could be seen.

"Stop," he said coldly.

"Huh? Why? I got up early to make you breakfast," Mandy said, her eyes welling up with tears.

"I said stop," Alex snapped, his patience running out. "Look at what you've done to the kitchen."

Mandy let out a loud sob.

"Alex, you're actually yelling at me? You never used to yell at me. Is it because you still love that woman?" she cried.

Alex looked at her, throwing a tantrum and sobbing, and suddenly felt a wave of irritation wash over him.

He used to think Mandy's little tantrums were cute.

But now, all he felt was irritation. Her voice was noise to him.

Once again, I popped into his mind.

I never made a scene or cried in front of him like that.

No matter how much he hurt me, I took it quietly.

And the next morning, I'd still be there, making him breakfast like nothing had happened.

"I'm tired," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Go home. I need some time alone."

With that, he turned and headed upstairs, closing the bedroom door behind him.

He shut Mandy's sobs out, leaving her crying outside the door.

He leaned against the door and closed his eyes.

My face filled Alex's mind, crowding out everything else.

Regret began to gnaw at him.

He wished he'd never treated me with such indifference.

He hated himself for not treasuring me when he still had me.

He grabbed his phone and dialed my number.