1 My ex-husband Henry talks to birds. On our divorce reality show, he spent ten hours venting to a sparrow about my suffocating possessiveness and the horror of me constantly wiring him money. Overnight, he became the pampered canary, cashing in on viral fame with streams and brand deals. Jealous, I tried to ride his coattails, only to be mocked by his co-host on air. Can the ex-wife stop clout-chasing? she smirked. Henry came home crying over her. His rabid fan base tore me apart online until I was afraid to check my phone. That night, drunk by my open window, I slurred my misery into the dark, unaware a bird was listening. It flew straight to Henry to report my breakdown. The next day, as his co-host started her stream, a passing flock bombed her perfectly styled hair with droppings. Henry appeared on camera, a smug finch perched on his shoulder. Rumors are trash, he declared, his voice ringing with righteous indignation. We are not a couple. I didn’t even go home last night, but apparently, my ex-wife spent the evening crying her heart out to my birds. … It all started on the show when Henry told the cameras, “My ex-wife is emotionally constipated. She is like a motorcycle; one twist of the throttle, and she zooms right out of your life.” I was so incredibly furious that I chased him out of the interview room, screaming. Our shouting match was captured live on camera as we dragged each other from the set to the backstage corridors. Naturally, the footage of our explosive toxic dynamic spread across the internet like wildfire. To the public, we were the couple most guaranteed to fail the show’s marriage counseling phase. Honestly, I agreed with them. That night, feeling defeated, I went to the director’s office to officially withdraw from the production. But the director looked at me with a strange, amused expression. “Your ex-husband predicted this. He knew you would try to quit tonight, and he asked me to deliver a message.” Before I could ask what it was, the director stood up, placed one foot on his office chair, raised his middle finger at me, and squeaked in a high-pitched, mocking voice: “Ex-wife, you are pathetic! If you want to admit defeat, do it to my face instead of sneaking away like a coward!” After finishing his theatrical performance, the director coughed into his hand, cleared his throat, and offered me a sheepish smile, returning to his usual polite self. My chest rose and fell with hot anger. I turned on my heel, ready to hunt Henry down and rip his hair out. But as my foot crossed the threshold, a sudden realization hit me. If I confronted him now, my pride would be completely ruined. Henry would think I was crawling back to admit defeat. To protect my sky-high dignity, I swallowed my anger, gritted my teeth, and went back to my room. The next morning, filming resumed as scheduled. The producers arranged for the couples to sit face-to-face in a quiet, neutral room to have an honest conversation. A highly perceptive relationship counselor sat between us, tasked with translating our passive-aggressive remarks and untangling our deep-seated emotional knots. Because of our violent history, Henry and I were securely strapped to our chairs with heavy ropes before the cameras started rolling. The crew was terrified we would tear each other apart if left unrestrained. I stared coldly at the faint red mark my palm had left on Henry’s cheek the day before, letting out a sharp, dismissive scoff. Henry ran his tongue over his inner cheek, his dark eyes radiating pure annoyance. We clearly detested the very sight of each other. Even the veteran counselor looked intimidated, struggling to find a way to break the icy silence. Following the script, we were asked to answer the opening question: “What made you choose your partner in the beginning?” I hesitated for a fraction of a second. Henry, however, didn’t hesitate at all. “Because she is filthy rich,” he blurted out. The veins on my forehead throbbed. He had literally treated me like a sugar mama. The counselor cleared his throat awkwardly, turning his gaze toward me. “And you, Kathryn?” I glared at Henry, my voice dripping with venom. “Because he was the cheapest option on the market!” Henry’s eyes flared with anger. He began thrashing against the ropes, practically dragging his heavy wooden chair across the floor. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Kathryn?!” Seeing him lose his cool brought a sudden rush of satisfaction. I leaned back, let out a slow, appreciative whistle as my eyes scanned his tense, well-toned torso, and added, “Well, his body isn’t half bad. Excellent value for my money.” Henry froze. He slumped back into his chair, suddenly quiet, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. “If the love is gone, is it really necessary to humiliate him like this?” An indignant female voice broke the silence. We both looked over to see Hailey, the personal assistant Henry had hired for the show. Her fists were clenched, her eyes burning with fury as she glared at me. The smirk vanished from my face. Henry, seeing my mood drop, crossed his legs triumphantly, clearly thrilled that someone from his camp had come to defend his honor. A wave of discomfort washed over me, but I couldn’t put it into words. Revealing my jealousy would make me feel inferior, so I chose to shut down completely, staring blankly at the floor. As I retreated into my usual silence, Henry’s triumphant smirk faded. He leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed. “Hey, say something.” “Giving me the silent treatment again?” “If you are upset, just say it. Playing the silent martyr won’t make me feel sorry for you.” His gaze was intense, searching my face as he tried to coax a response out of me. “Why are you mad, Kathryn?” My lips parted slightly, my defenses starting to crumble under his persistent gaze. But before I could speak, Hailey stepped forward, cutting off the cameras. She placed her hands protectively on Henry’s shoulders. “Henry, you don’t need to grovel to her!” I closed my eyes, turning to the counselor. “Are we finished here?” Due to the interruption, the shoot had to be paused. The crew rushed over to untie us. I rubbed my sore wrists, stood up without a word, and walked back to my room. I skipped dinner entirely, lock keying myself inside as a heavy cloud of misery settled over me. Had agreeing to come on this show been a massive mistake? I didn’t expect the production team to edit that exact argument and post it online. A clip of me walking away from the table was turned into a viral GIF with the caption: The runaway motorcycle zooms out of your life! In an instant, relationship bloggers and meme accounts flooded the internet with commentary. The producers, realizing our toxic chemistry was a gold mine for ratings, poured more resources into capturing our drama. To protect my pride and avoid admitting defeat, I endured the daily torment of filming. Besides, Henry didn’t have the money to pay the contract termination fee. If I walked away, I would have to cover his fine as well, which was a financial loss I refused to accept. So, I spent the remaining days of filming with a scowl on my face, refusing to engage with anyone. I didn’t say a single word to Henry, mimicking the agonizing silence of our court-mandated divorce waiting period. We were like two strangers occupying the same space. Despite the crew’s best efforts to force a reconciliation, our icy wall remained unbroken. This silent war persisted until the very last day of the show, the final decision ceremony. Henry and I were placed in two separate cars, driving from opposite ends of a long, sun-drenched highway. If we wanted to give our marriage another chance, we had to step out of our cars and embrace in the middle of the road. If not, we would stay in our vehicles, driving past each other into separate lives. As the car began to move, my heart hammered against my ribs. We had been through this cycle so many times. We were like oil and water, constantly clashing, entering cold wars, separating, and then, driven by some inexplicable magnetic pull, passionately reconciling, only to remarry and start the cycle all over again. Our safe held a stack of marriage and divorce certificates, yet we could never seem to end this chaotic dance. This time, I wanted to end it for real. As the car approached the middle of the highway, the host beside me asked, “Kathryn, what is your choice going to be? The viewers are dying to know if this is truly the end.” I ordered the driver to stop. I stepped out of the vehicle, standing on the asphalt under the blazing sun. The heat radiated through the soles of my shoes, making my eyes water. The host beside me gasped in pure shock. “Unbelievable! We honestly thought you would be the last person to get out of the car.” Yes, even I thought I wouldn’t. I was the runaway motorcycle. If I could easily walk away, we would have ended years ago. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t have agreed to do this show. I could scream, I could ignore him, but when faced with the absolute end, I simply couldn’t let him go. Just as I prepared myself to spend the rest of my life tangled up with this idiot, Henry’s car slowly rolled past me. The window was rolled down. Henry was resting his chin on his hand, staring blankly at the passing landscape. When his eyes met mine, flushed red from the heat and the sun, his eyes widened in sheer horror. The car didn’t stop. It carried him away, his shocked face vanishing as the vehicle sped down the highway. A dull, heavy ache bloomed in my chest. My pride and dignity lay shattered on the hot asphalt, baking under the merciless sun. I stared at the disappearing car, my throat tight with confusion. How could he not get out? Did he really want to let me go? My voice was dry as I turned to the crew. “Can I go home now?” The host remained dazed for several seconds before quickly calling for a production car to take me back to the hotel. I packed my bags immediately, called a private car, and fled back to my empty house. I shut off my phone, disconnected my computer, and hid from the world. When I finally stepped back into the public eye, it was for the show’s post-finale reunion interview. I showed up disguised in a large face mask and dark sunglasses, looking incredibly ridiculous on camera. Henry arrived a moment later, looking relaxed, with a long-tailed finch perched happily on his shoulder. The sight of him looking so carefree made my blood boil. How could he be in such a good mood while I was drowning in misery? “Look at her,” Henry whispered to the bird on his shoulder. “She is brooding again.” The bird let out a series of cheerful chirps as if agreeing with him. Our usual host cleared his throat, trying to suppress a chuckle as he pointed the microphone at me. “Kathryn, did you… pfft… did you not watch the final episode after you left?” Seeing them laugh at me made me want to rip my mic off and leave, but the crew quickly held me back. “Wait! Don’t go! We aren’t laughing at you. There is a piece of footage you missed after you drove away.” They played the clip on the monitor. The video showed that the moment I had gotten into the production car and driven away, Henry had leaped out of his moving vehicle, sprinting down the highway in a desperate attempt to catch me. When he couldn’t keep up, he stopped, panting heavily as he glared at the camera crew. “She is unbelievable! She is going to be furious with me now. I am officially on death row!” “Why does she have to be so stubborn? She had a resting bitch face for days, so I honestly thought she wouldn’t step out of the car. I figured it was too hot anyway, so I didn’t bother getting out to prove my devotion, but of course she actually got out!” Henry had paced back and forth, muttering a laundry list of nicknames for me: “her royal highness, the drama queen, the runaway motorcycle, the queen of emotional suppression, the unpleasable dictator.” Since the show was over and no one wanted to listen to his rants, he had sat under a tree and complained about me to a flock of sparrows for ten hours straight. His assistant, Hailey, had recorded the entire thing and posted it online, which was how Henry had become a viral sensation. Looking closely, I realized his clothes and watch were significantly more expensive than before. Along with his fame, the internet had started shipping Henry and Hailey, calling them a match made in heaven. Knowing that he was doing well, the heavy knot in my chest loosened. If leaving me allowed him to thrive, then our separation actually had a purpose. After a few brief questions, the crew let me go, keeping Henry and Hailey behind to film more promotional content. Soon, my company was preparing to launch a new product line. The marketing department asked if I could leverage my connection with Henry to secure a brand collaboration, hoping to ride his viral wave. Remembering how much money I had spent on him over the years, I agreed without any guilt, sending a team to pitch the proposal to his agency. Instead of a business response, I was met with a massive wave of online hate. Hailey had started a live stream, displaying our business proposal to the camera while mocking me. “The ex-wife needs to stop clout-chasing,” she sneered. “Henry came home last night and cried in my arms because of her constant harassment.” The internet tore me apart, and the brand’s reputation plummeted. Our public relations department told me that only a direct statement from Henry could save our launch. But since they were working together, I assumed Henry had authorized her stream. Unable to sleep, I sat by my open window, drinking wine and cursing Henry’s ancestors to the sky. I didn’t know his avian spy was listening. The next day, as soon as Hailey began her live stream, a flock of birds descended from the sky, pooping repeatedly on her head. Shortly after, Henry launched a stream of his own, holding up a termination contract. “Rumors are trash, and we are not a couple!” Henry announced. “My former assistant violated our contract by publicly humiliating a business partner for personal clout. She has been fired.” He then held up the familiar finch, offering a helpless smile. “I haven’t even been home yet, but apparently, my ex-wife was crying to my birds last night.” The tide turned instantly. Our product launch was a massive success, and the shipping community went wild over our toxic, chaotic dynamic. I love this messy, obsessive, dysfunctional couple! They are perfect for each other! Healthy relationships are great, but toxic drama is peak entertainment! The runaway motorcycle and her pampered canary, I am begging you to get back together! Eventually, Henry invited me to his studio. It was small, cluttered with samples, and barely had any space to walk. I frowned, looking around. “I have a much larger studio space in my building…” Henry cut me off with a lazy grin. “I am a pampered canary now, Kathryn. If you keep feeding me sugar-mama cash, how am I ever supposed to stand on my own two feet?” He handed me a beautifully crafted birdcage with a bird inside. “After failing a thousand times, I finally found the root of our problem,” he said, his voice softening. “It is not that I am bad, or that you are bad. We just suck at communicating. Communication is key, Kathryn.” I stared at him, startled, as his slender finger gently tapped my lips. “If you can’t bring yourself to say the truth to me, say it to the bird. Nobody else can understand bird language anyway. That way, only I will ever hear your secrets.” When an emotionally suppressed girl meets a man who can literally speak to birds, she really has no escape.
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