On the day I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis, Chris promised he’d bring me some warm broth first thing in the morning. I waited. From sunrise to noon, then through the long, quiet stretch of afternoon into the dark of evening. Finally, at half past eight, my phone buzzed. “Mochi has a bit of diarrhea. Taking him to the vet clinic to get checked out. I’ll head over to you a bit later.” Mochi was his childhood friend Chelsea’s cat. I stared at the glowing screen, a dry, humorless laugh escaping my throat. It turned out that in his heart, my place wasn’t just behind Chelsea. I was behind her cat, too. If there was no room for me in his world, then from this moment on, there was no need for him in mine. … I hadn’t eaten a single bite all day, and my stomach was twisting in sharp, agonizing spasms. At nine in the evening, Chris finally walked through the double doors of my hospital room. His hands were empty. His wool coat was dusted with a few stray white cat hairs. It wasn’t until he looked down and saw my pale, sunken face that he suddenly slapped his forehead. “Dammit, I forgot to grab you something to eat. It’s been such a chaotic day, it completely slipped my mind.” I kept my head lowered, refusing to say a word. Sensing the heavy silence, he offered a rushed defense, his tone thick with justification. “Mochi ate something weird and was vomiting and having diarrhea. Chelsea was absolutely hysterical.” “You should’ve seen her, Hannah. She was holding him, crying her eyes out. I couldn’t just walk out on her like that. It wouldn’t have been right.” As he spoke, a faint, tender smile played at the corner of his lips, as if he were recalling some bittersweet, endearing memory. My mind flashed back to last month. I had a fever of 103 degrees. When I called him, gasping for breath, he told me he was stuck in an important meeting. Yet, when I finally dragged my weak, trembling body out of the clinic, I opened Instagram. There was Chelsea’s latest story. Chris was leaning over her coffee table, carefully painting her nails. The caption read: “No matter how much time passes, you still do it best.” Every single time I actually needed him, he was absent. Because Chelsea needed him more. “Are you hungry? I can go downstairs and see what’s open near the lobby.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said quietly. Because he had promised to bring me food, I had told the nurse earlier that I wouldn’t need the hospital dinner tray. By the time I realized he wasn’t coming, I felt too embarrassed to ask again, so I just endured the hunger. But now, any appetite I had was entirely gone. Chris mumbled a brief “Oh,” sat down in the plastic chair beside my bed, and pulled out his phone. His thumbs flew across the screen, his face lit by the glow of a smile. “Right, tomorrow is our fifth anniversary,” he said, not looking up. My heart fluttered with a tiny, pathetic spark of hope. But then he kept talking. “Chelsea said she knows about this new French bistro by the river. She managed to get us a table.” “For our wedding anniversary? Chelsea booked us a restaurant based on her taste?” Chris didn’t see the issue at all. “Yeah. She said it’s practically impossible to get a reservation there right now. She had to pull a few favors to get us in.” “See? Chelsea really looks out for us.” Honestly, I should have been used to it. Our entire marriage was crowded with Chelsea’s shadow. When we went to the movies, she had to sit between us because of her “social anxiety.” At family dinners, the table was always filled with dishes she loved. Even when we were deciding when to try for a baby, she was there, calculating my ovulation cycle and telling Chris my body hadn’t recovered enough from my last health scare, so we should hold off on getting pregnant. I didn’t agree, but I didn’t fight him either. I was just too tired. The next day, when I was being discharged, Chris actually came to pick me up—a rare gesture. “Mochi needed his follow-up scan, so I just dropped them off at the clinic down the street,” he explained as I got in. The passenger seat still held the faint, sweet scent of gardenia—Chelsea’s signature perfume. Without saying a word, I walked past the passenger door and climbed into the back seat. The entire drive home, Chris did nothing but talk about Mochi’s medical progress. He told me about the gastroenteritis, the three injections the vet gave him, and the specific probiotics they had prescribed. He went into excruciating detail, yet he never once asked about my diagnosis. He didn’t ask what medications I had been given, or when I was supposed to go back for a check-up. When we stepped into the house, a red gift box was sitting on the coffee table, its silk ribbon already unraveled. “What’s this?” I asked. I opened it. Inside lay a deep navy silk tie. Next to it was a small, handwritten card. “Happy Anniversary, Chris! — Chelsea x” My fingers began to tremble. Chris snatched the tie from my hands, folding it gently and placing it in his closet with utmost care. “Chelsea was worried you wouldn’t have time to get me anything, so she picked out an anniversary gift on your behalf,” he said easily. “Her taste has always been better than yours anyway. This tie really suits me.” I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump in my throat. I didn’t want to fight on our anniversary. I reached into my bag and pulled out the mechanical watch I had spent over six months saving up for. He picked it up, glanced at it, and let out a soft scoff. “You’re so old-fashioned. Everyone has a smartphone now. Who actually wears a watch?” “It’s just a waste of money. I’ll ask Chelsea if she knows anyone who wants to buy it off me.” A heavy, suffocating pressure lodged itself in my chest. He didn’t notice—or didn’t care. He turned around, already dialing Chelsea’s number to check on her cat. “How’s he doing? Remember to mix the meds into his wet food, or he won’t touch it.” “Yeah, dissolve it with warm water first.” The doorbell rang. It was delivery. Chris poked his head out of the kitchen. “Let’s just grab a quick lunch. Chelsea booked that nice place for tonight.” I looked at the table spread—spicy Szechuan fish and chili-garlic crawfish. A bitter laugh threatened to escape me. He remembered to tell Chelsea to mix her cat’s medication with wet food because of his sensitive stomach. But he completely forgot that I had just been discharged for severe gastroenteritis and couldn’t touch anything spicy. Love and indifference are never subtle. They are glaringly obvious. I didn’t touch the food. I poured myself a glass of warm water and went into the bedroom. I had planned to catch up on some work I’d missed while sick, but I noticed Chris’s laptop was open on the desk, and his messaging app was flashing incessantly. I clicked on it without thinking. Chelsea had sent him photos of herself in bridal gowns. In one photo, she was wearing a gorgeous, trailing mermaid-style wedding dress. Chris was standing right next to her in a sleek tux, looking incredibly handsome. They looked like a perfect couple. “Chris, our bridal photos came back! Help me choose the best ones.” Chris had replied to every single message. From the lighting to the composition, even down to a tiny mole on Chelsea’s cheek, he had analyzed and complimented every detail. My heart tightened until it physically ached. When we got married, we never had a wedding. Chris had said it was too much of a hassle, that just signing the papers at the courthouse was enough. And I had agreed. Back then, I was full of romantic notions, believing that as long as we loved each other, the formalities didn’t matter. My parents had taken a five-hour bus ride from their small town just to stand outside the courthouse and take a single photo of us. That was our wedding. Now I realized he didn’t find weddings a hassle. He just didn’t think I was worth the trouble. I opened the PDF file my lawyer had sent me earlier that week: the divorce agreement. I read through the terms, line by line. After this anniversary dinner, I would end it. Before we left, I chose a deep emerald green dress. For years, Chris had told me that light pastel colors made me look “soft” and “agreeable.” He also hated the sound of heels clicking on the floor, so I had stopped wearing them altogether. I had spent five years morphing into the compliant, quiet wife he wanted. And in the end, I had lost to a cat. The restaurant Chelsea booked was undeniably beautiful. It sat right on the riverfront, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a sea of glittering city lights. Most importantly, Chelsea wasn’t there. It felt like a quiet, clean space for me to say my final goodbye. Chris and I sat across from each other. I had just opened the menu when his phone rang. “What? Mochi is throwing up again?” “Don’t panic, Chelsea. Stay calm. I’m on my way.” He stood up immediately, grabbing his coat before the call even ended. “Chelsea has an emergency. The cat is sick again, I have to go.” “Go ahead and order. I’ll check on them and come right back to join you.” He didn’t even wait for me to answer. He sprinted out of the restaurant, his footsteps fading into the ambient jazz music. I sat there alone, staring at his empty wine glass. A strange sense of relief washed over me. Maybe this was exactly how it was supposed to end. The server approached me cautiously. “Are you ready to order, ma’am?” “Yes,” I said, looking up with a small smile. “I am.” I had a quiet, peaceful dinner by myself. Appetizer, main course, dessert. The food was objectively delicious, but to me, it tasted like cardboard. On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband had abandoned me to comfort another woman’s cat. At the table next to mine, an elderly couple with silver hair was sharing a plate. The woman offered a piece of salmon to her husband, and he took it with a smile. He whispered something in her ear, and they both laughed, their eyes crinkling at the corners. A sudden, sharp sting hit my nose. I tilted my head back, blinking rapidly against the tears. I had spent too long on my makeup to let it ruin my face now. At 11:58 PM, Chris sent a text. “Mochi is fine now. He swallowed a hair tie and threw it up. Chelsea was terrified, so I’m going to stay with her for a bit.” I watched the clock on my phone tick over to midnight. A new day had begun. I typed out a reply: “Chris, I want a divorce.” My phone rang almost instantly. “Hannah, what is your problem now?” Chris’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with his usual patronizing annoyance. “Are you seriously throwing a tantrum and threatening divorce just because I had to help Chelsea with Mochi?” He let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve had an exhausting day. I don’t have the energy for these games right now.” “I’m not playing games.” “Right, because you didn’t do this exact same thing last year? And what happened? You ended up begging me to come back.” Last winter. We had planned for him to take me to my prenatal check-up. But just as we were leaving, Chelsea called, crying because Mochi was scheduled to be neutered. She claimed she was terrified the cat would hate her for it, so she begged Chris to take him instead. The clinic was only two miles away. It would have taken him five minutes to drop me off. But Chris couldn’t wait a single second. He pulled over, practically pushed me out of the passenger seat, and told me to take an Uber. I lost my footing on the icy curb. My stomach slammed hard against the concrete steps. We lost the baby. I had screamed, cried, and demanded a divorce. But right in the middle of our separation, my mother suffered a massive heart attack and had to undergo emergency bypass surgery. Before they wheeled her into the operating room, she held my hand and asked to see Chris. She wanted to know her daughter was taken care of. To give my mother peace of mind, I swallowed my pride, begged him to come back, and pretended we were fine. Since then, that moment had become his favorite weapon to wield against me whenever we argued. The next morning, Chris and Chelsea walked through our front door, holding Mochi in a carrier. I instinctively stepped back. When I was a child, I had been severely scratched by a stray cat, and I had been terrified of them ever since. Because of that, no matter how much Chris claimed to love animals, he had never brought one into our home during our marriage. But today, rules didn’t apply. “Chelsea’s neighbors are doing a massive renovation, and the noise is giving Mochi severe anxiety,” Chris said, setting the carrier down. “I told her they could stay here for a couple of weeks.” My mind drifted back to when my parents had traveled to the city to visit me. It had started pouring rain, and they had stayed the night on our couch. The moment they left the next morning, Chris had made me deep-clean the entire apartment. “It’s just weird having outsiders in our space,” he had complained. “Next time your parents come, let’s just book them a hotel. It’ll be easier for everyone.” Yet now, he was moving Chelsea and her cat into our home without even asking. “Outsiders,” it seemed, only applied to the people who loved me. “Whatever you want,” I said quietly. I reached into my bag, pulled out the signed divorce papers, and slid them across the counter. “Sign them when you have a minute.” Chelsea immediately took a step forward, her eyes wide with innocent panic. “Hannah, please don’t mistake this. If my staying here makes you uncomfortable, I can easily find a hotel. Please don’t fight because of me.” Chris scowled, his eyes hardening as he looked at me. “Hannah, who do you think you are, giving us this attitude?” “Chelsea literally booked our anniversary dinner yesterday. She’s gone out of her way to help us, and you can’t even let her crash here for a few days?” I looked at him, my expression entirely flat. “She can stay. I don’t care. But the divorce is real.” Chelsea’s eyes welled with tears. “I’ll just leave. Hannah, please don’t do this to Chris. He works so hard, he doesn’t need this stress.” Chris glared at me, reaching out to wrap an arm around Chelsea’s shoulders. “If you had even half of Chelsea’s maturity, my life wouldn’t be this exhausting,” he snapped. “Stop acting like a child. You’re embarrassing yourself.” During our standoff, Mochi suddenly let out a sharp hiss. Startled by something, the cat lunged out of Chelsea’s arms straight toward my face. The childhood terror crashed over me in a suffocating wave. A sharp, stinging pain sliced across my forearm. A deep gash opened up, and bright red blood began to pool on my skin. Panicking, I shielded my face with one hand and grabbed the nearest thing on the counter—a heavy hardcover book—and swung it wildly. The book hit Mochi, and the cat let out a loud yowl as he fell to the floor. Chelsea rushed forward, scooping up the whimpering cat, her tears falling freely. “Hannah! How could you? If you didn’t want us here, you could have just said so! Why would you hurt Mochi?” “He’s my family! Look at him, he’s shaking!” Chris rushed to her side, his hands hovering over the cat with deep concern. When he turned to look at me, his eyes were cold enough to draw blood. “Apologize.” He couldn’t see the blood dripping down my arm. He only saw that I had struck Chelsea’s pet. He wanted me to apologize to an animal. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “The cat attacked me first.” Chris’s jaw tightened in disgust. “Hannah, are you seriously trying to pick a fight with a helpless animal?” “Go lock yourself in the room and calm down. When you’re ready to admit you’re wrong, we can talk about moving forward.” Without another word, he and Chelsea hurried out the door, cradling the cat as they rushed to the emergency vet. The autumn wind blew through the open window, chilling me to the bone. I drove myself to the urgent care clinic to get a tetanus shot and have the wound cleaned. While sitting in the waiting room, I opened Instagram. Chelsea had updated her feed. It was a short video. Chris, drenched in sweat, was carefully constructing an elaborate cat tree in our guest room. But it wasn’t the cat tree that made the breath catch in my throat. It was the soft, hand-knitted pastel blanket he had lined it with. It was the blanket I had spent months knitting last winter, waiting for a baby that would never arrive. A hot, blinding rage rushed to my head. I dialed Chris’s number. It rang out. I called again. And again. On my ninety-ninth call, he finally picked up, his voice heavy with sleepy irritation. “What? Ready to apologize?” The anger suddenly vanished, leaving behind a vast, hollow emptiness. I realized I didn’t even want to scream at him anymore. What was the point? I didn’t want him anymore. Why should I care about a blanket? I hung up without saying a word. When I got back to the apartment, I went straight into my bedroom, locked the door, and buried myself under the duvet. A few hours later, a thick, acrid smell woke me. I sat up abruptly. The room was dark, but a heavy gray smoke was pouring under the door frame. Outside, the crackle of flames echoed through the hallway. Panic seized me. I scrambled out of bed and rushed toward the door, but in the blinding smoke, my foot caught on the edge of the nightstand. I fell hard, my ankle twisting beneath me with a sickening crack. A white-hot pain shot up my leg. I tried to stand, but my ankle collapsed instantly, sending me crashing back to the hardwood floor. “Help! Chris! Help!” I choked out, coughing violently as the smoke filled my lungs. The guest room door flew open. Chris stumbled out, coughing and squinting through the haze. I reached my hand out toward him through the dark. “Chris… over here! Help me…” But he didn’t even look my way. He ran straight past me and kicked open the guest bedroom door. Chelsea was inside, crying hysterically. “Chris! I’m so scared! I thought I was going to die!” “I’ve got you,” Chris promised, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m getting you out of here.” He lifted Chelsea into his arms and ran out into the stairwell, never once looking back at where I lay on the floor. The smoke grew thicker, stinging my eyes and burning my throat. Just as despair began to pull me under, the front door rattled. Chris burst back into the apartment. A tiny, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. “Chris… I’m down here…” He paused, but instead of reaching for me, he began searching the floor frantically. “Mochi! Mochi, where are you?” I closed my eyes, a single, bitter tear cutting through the soot on my cheek. In a matter of life and death, my life was worth less to him than a cat. He dodged a falling light fixture and finally found Mochi hiding in the pantry. On his way back out, he looked down and saw me crawling toward the door. He bent down, grabbing my arm. But Chelsea’s screams echoed from the smoky hallway. “Chris! Did you find Mochi? Please tell me he’s okay!” “If anything happens to him, I don’t want to live! I’m coming back in!” Chris panicked. He let go of my hand, leaving me on the floor, and ran out with the cat. “Stay there, Chelsea! I have him! Don’t come in!” My heart went completely cold. I tried to breathe shallowly, but the toxic black smoke was invading my lungs from every corner. My vision began to blur. I dragged myself inch by inch toward the door. Suddenly, footsteps pounded on the floorboards again. Chris had come back. My throat was too raw to make a sound. I could only look up at him through tear-filled eyes. But he bypassed me a third time, rushing into the guest room. When he emerged, he was holding the cat’s bed and Mochi’s medication. “Just wait a second, Hannah,” he said, looking down at me with an irritated scowl. “Mochi just got used to this bed. If we get him a new one, his anxiety will trigger again.” “Do you really have to throw a tantrum and refuse to get up just to compete with a cat?” “Get up and walk out. The fire is getting worse.” He actually thought I was lying on the floor, breathing in toxic smoke, just to play a game for his attention. A cold, silent laugh shook my chest. As my consciousness began to slip away, a fleeting thought crossed my mind. If I actually die here… what kind of face will he make? But God, I am so unwilling to die like this.
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