Chapter 4

It dawned on me way too late that I was in love with Ronan.

But by then, he didn't love me anymore.

I was too scared to ask.

I couldn't bring myself to message him anymore.

I was terrified he'd suddenly tell me he wanted a divorce.

I'd be left all alone in this world, nobody to care, and when I died, not a single soul would remember me.

I worked harder, and whenever he crossed my mind, I'd ask a coworker for a smoke.

I wasn't a smoker. The smoke was always so harsh that it made my eyes sting and dry out.

I remembered when we first got married, he'd always show up at the airport with a bouquet, grinning from ear to ear the moment he saw me.

But after a while, he stopped smiling.

He'd just stand there, take my luggage, and say, "You look tired. Let's head home."

He'd cook up a whole feast, filling the table with dishes.

He'd sit across from me, not even picking up his fork, watching me in silence.

His silence made me more lost for words, so I kept quiet as well.

At night, when he wanted me, he was gentle, always holding back, never letting himself go.

One night, I woke up in the middle of the night and noticed he wasn't beside me.

I got up to look for him and found him sitting on the living room couch, staring blankly at the TV that wasn't even on.

I stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him.

He sat there for a long time, and I stood there just as long.

I wanted to walk over and ask him what was wrong, but my feet felt like they were nailed to the floor.

In the end, I retreated back to the bedroom and pretended to be asleep.

The next morning, he made breakfast as usual and saw me off to work, as if nothing had happened.

I couldn't tell what he was thinking that night.

I didn't ask.

He didn't say it.

There was something I never told him.

I saw the wallpaper on his phone.

It was a picture of a girl from behind. Her face couldn't be seen. Her long hair was loose, a few strands lifted by the wind.

She was sitting by the window, sunlight poured in, wrapping her in a gentle glow.

It looked pretty, almost dreamy.

People could see the overflowing love from the photographer.

I stared at the photo for a few seconds and pulled my gaze away.

His wallpaper used to be the default one. I had no clue when he changed it to the girl in the photo.

I couldn't get that photo out of my head.

Over and over, I found myself guessing who that girl could be.

Was she his ex-girlfriend?

Or was it the leading lady from one of his movies?

Or was she the one he truly loved?

I had no clue.

I couldn't bring myself to ask.

I wasn't sure if he would tell me the truth if I asked.

If he did, what would I do?

Should I pretend I don't care or ask for a divorce?

The next day, I bought a ticket and cut my vacation short, heading back to the war zone.

He drove me to the airport.

After I cleared security, I turned back. He was still standing there, silent as a statue.

I waved at him.

But he didn't move.

I couldn't explain how things got to this point.

It was like everything slowly piled up, bit by bit.

Every WhatsApp message I left unanswered, every dinner eaten in silence, every moment when I held back what I wanted to say was like drops of water.

One after another, they filled the glass until it finally overflowed.

That day, I was stuck in the war zone. The signal was spotty, and I saw him all over the trending topics with another woman.

All at once, I felt utterly drained.

It wasn't the kind of tired I felt in the body, but it was the kind that drained me from the inside out.

I typed out the words: [Let's get a divorce.]

I turned off my phone, shoved it in my pocket, grabbed my backpack, and got in the car.

I was heading straight to the front lines, a small town where fighting had just broken out.

I'd heard things were a mess there. Civilians were getting hurt, and we needed to get the story firsthand.

We spent three hours on the road, passing through checkpoints, deserted villages, and ruins shrouded in thick black smoke.

Finally, we rolled up to a makeshift camp thrown together in a hurry.

There were dozens of tents, every one crowded with families who'd lost their homes.

I got out of the car, grabbed my camera, and got to work.

I snapped shots of kids, old folks, homeless couples, and moms cradling their babies.

Their eyes looked vacant and lifeless, like I'd seen in so many places before.

On the third night, I was out near a building in the conflict zone, trying to get some shots, when a distant explosion suddenly ripped through the silence.

A second blast thundered, this time much closer.

I jerked my head up, but before I could react, the building was torn apart.

A third explosion boomed, closer than ever.

The shockwave made the concrete slabs above me tremble violently, dust pouring down in a choking cloud.

I closed my eyes and waited.

I was waiting for the next explosion or for rescue.

Whichever came first, it didn't matter to me.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the screen.

Below the crack, a weak signal bar showed up.

I stared at that signal bar, my fingers trembling as I opened WhatsApp.

Messages started coming in, one after another. Every single one was from Ronan.