Three Seconds to Speak

1 Henry claimed it was treatment for my avoidant personality. His rule was simple. Whenever he asked a question, I had three seconds to answer. Silence after two seconds meant rejection. If I could not speak up, he said, my grievances deserved to rot inside me. Once, I lost my keys in a downpour. Anxiety froze me when he picked up. Henry hung up instantly. Three seconds are up, he said. Do not bother calling if you cannot talk. When I was framed for plagiarism, panic left me mute before the accusers. Henry let go of my hand and walked away. Three seconds are up, he said. Your silence proves your guilt. But when Wendy ruined his month-long project, she wept incoherently for ten minutes. Henry never counted down. He knelt beside her, eyes red. It is fine, he whispered. Take your time. I will wait forever. Watching him shield her as they left, my throat tightened. So he did have patience. After seven years of his brutal therapy, I was broken. From now on, I would never need his two seconds again. Wendy said she wanted to cook a meal herself to make it up to Henry. She asked if she could borrow him for just one evening. I watched as he took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped into the kitchen. He showed her the difference between light and dark soy sauce with a level of patience he had never shown me. I didn’t walk away. Because he had always told me: avoidance is a disease, and it must be cured. “The food is too salty tonight,” he said, putting down his chopsticks. His calm voice cut through the quiet room. Wendy’s eyes instantly welled with tears, her fingers twisting nervously. He turned to her, his tone softening into a gentle, coaxing murmur. “I wasn’t blaming you. The heat was just a bit off.” Then he looked back at me, his gaze turning distant and cold. “Mrs. Gu, do you know how to salvage a dish when there’s too much salt?” Another test. He knew that whenever he caught me off guard, my throat would physically lock up. I wanted to speak, desperate to force the words out, but nothing came out but a faint wheeze. One second. Two seconds. “Three seconds are up.” He reached over, picked up my untouched bowl of rice, and dumped it into the trash can. “You don’t even know basic kitchen common sense. You clearly haven’t been paying attention to your daily life exercises.” Wendy tugged gently on his sleeve, her voice soft and timid. “Henry, don’t be so harsh on Isla.” He let out a cold scoff. “Harsh? She’s twenty-eight years old, Wendy. She’s not a little girl whose feelings I need to coddle every second.” His words felt like a dull blade sawing back and forth over an old wound. Not long ago, the rough draft of my latest design had vanished. Three days later, I saw a nearly identical finished piece posted on Wendy’s social media, proudly tagged as her original work. The company launched an investigation. The security footage showed that I was the last person to leave the studio that night. Worse, I couldn’t explain why my computer’s search history was filled with queries referencing her unique style. I was cornered in the conference room, surrounded by colleagues demanding to know why I had stolen my friend’s inspiration. I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms, but not a single word would come out. I knew it was a setup, but every time I tried to speak, the memory of those counted-down seconds pierced me like thorns. The more panicked I became, the tighter my throat clenched. “Mrs. Gu.” Henry pushed the door open, holding a printed copy of a chat log. It showed a conversation between me and an anonymous account, discussing paying a high price to purchase Wendy’s drafts. It was fake. Every single word of it was a lie. But my world shattered. Wendy sat opposite him, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe, handing him a cracked flash drive. “Henry… it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have recorded the evidence of her trying to buy my work. I didn’t want to hurt Isla…” He stared down at the transcripts of the carefully edited audio files, his throat tightening. Then, he did something I never expected. He walked over to me. There was no countdown. Leaning in, he whispered in a voice meant only for us, “You don’t have to explain yourself. But this time, your silence has hurt her.” I watched as he drew Wendy into his arms, gently patting her back. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. No one is going to bully you.” For seven years, my avoidant nature had been treated as a disease that needed to be violently beaten out of me. The fluorescent lights of the conference room made my eyes sting. “I didn’t plagiarize anything,” I said. The words were quiet, raspy, squeezed out only after being crushed repeatedly. Everyone froze, including him. He turned to look at me, as if seeing me for the very first time. But my gaze swept past him, locking onto Wendy’s eyes, which widened in sudden terror. “The rough draft of that design was saved in my private email. The timestamp shows it was sent a full week before her post went live.” “As for those chat logs,” I let out a soft, painful laugh, “the IP address was forged. During that exact period, my laptop was at the repair shop. I have the service receipt right here.” I looked Henry dead in the eye, delivering every word with absolute clarity. “You taught me that if I don’t speak up in three seconds, I deserve whatever comes my way. Well, I just spent three whole minutes explaining the truth. Does that mean the person who deserves what’s coming is finally her?” The conference room fell into a deathly silence. His brow furrowed tightly, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, his throat bobbed and he remained silent. Wendy’s crying cut off mid-sob, hanging awkwardly in the air. I picked up my bag. As I passed him, I paused. “Don’t worry, I’m not running away. You were right: avoidance is a disease, and it needs to be cured. But once you’re cured, the very first thing you do is see clearly: what kind of man you actually married.” I pushed the door open. I didn’t look back. Because this time, the person holding the countdown was me. Wendy remained dead silent for three days in the face of my evidence. On the fourth day, she posted a photo on her private social media, visible only to close friends. It was a close-up of her pale wrist draped over a hospital bed, captioned: I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t exist. Henry saw the post first. He was sitting across from me at the breakfast table when his fork suddenly froze. “Why did you have to push her so hard?” He slid the phone across the table, his voice tight with suppressed anger. I looked down at the image. The wrist was perfectly clean, without a single mark or scratch on it. “This is photoshopped.” “Isla.” He used my full name, his gaze hitting me like a bucket of ice water. “She’s already on the verge of a breakdown. When you exposed her in front of everyone, did you stop to think about how humiliated she would feel?” My fingers clenched the piece of toast in my hand, turning white at the joints. Humiliation. For seven years, he had been blind to every ounce of humiliation he had forced me to swallow. “She forged evidence to frame me for plagiarism,” I said. “She was just scared,” he interrupted, his brows knitting into a tight knot. “She’s always been like that. When she gets scared, she makes stupid mistakes. You know what she’s like. Why did you have to embarrass her like that in front of everyone?” I looked up at him, suddenly finding the face in front of me terrifyingly unfamiliar. “So, because she was scared, she was allowed to destroy my career. And because I defended myself, I’m the one being heartless.” He fell silent for a long moment, his throat moving slightly. “You used to be different.” He averted his gaze, staring out the window. “You used to just stay quiet. You were never this… sharp.” Sharp. That was the word he chose for me. And yet, it had taken me seven years just to learn how to speak a full sentence in front of him. The doorbell rang. Wendy stood on the porch, wrapped in an oversized knit cardigan, her eyes red and puffy as if she had been crying all night. Her gaze flicked past me, her lower lip trembling before tears spilled over. “Henry… I really didn’t mean to…” Henry got up almost on instinct, crossing the room in three strides. I stepped aside, watching as he pulled Wendy inside. “Don’t cry,” he said gently, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Sit down first.” Wendy grabbed onto his sleeve, sobbing. I stood by the dining table, still holding the half-eaten piece of toast. “Isla…” Wendy finally turned to face me, her voice trembling. “Can you ever forgive me? I was just so scared. You’re so talented, and I was terrified that everyone would only ever look at you…” As she spoke, she slid off the sofa, her knees hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. “I’m begging you on my knees, okay? Please don’t blame Henry. He had no idea…” “Stand up,” Henry said, pulling at her arm. But his eyes remained locked on her tear-stained face. He looked up at me. “She’s begging you on her knees, and you’re just going to stand there?” I finally set the toast down and brushed the crumbs from my hands. “I didn’t ask her to kneel.” “But you didn’t stop her, either.” I watched as he carefully guided Wendy back onto the sofa, pulling out tissues to wipe her tears, whispering softly, “It’s okay, it’s okay now.” He gently patted her back, a steady, rhythmic motion. I knew that rhythm all too well. For seven years, every time panic locked my throat and stole my voice, I had desperately waited for him to comfort me like that. But all I ever got was a cold countdown, followed by an icy, “Time’s up.” So, he did know how to comfort someone. He had always known how. It was just that the person he wanted to comfort was never me. Dr. Finch scheduled my final follow-up appointment. He mentioned that after seven years of exposure therapy, it was time to officially close my case. “Bring Henry along,” the doctor added. “There are some things we need to discuss with family present.” I didn’t tell him that I was no longer sure if Henry counted as family. The clock in the office struck ten, and the door opened. Henry had come straight from his office. “Have you noticed any changes in your wife recently, Henry?” Dr. Finch asked. Henry paused, his gaze sweeping over my profile. “She speaks more,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But sometimes… she’s far too sharp.” Dr. Finch made a few notes, then turned to me. “And you, Isla? What are your thoughts?” I opened my mouth, but before a sound could escape, his phone screen lit up on the desk between them. He looked down, his brow furrowing slightly as his thumb slid across the glass. It was a voice note from Wendy. He played it on speaker, likely assuming it was urgent business. “Henry… I just accidentally spilled hot coffee on my hand… It hurts so bad…” her trembling voice echoed in the room. “Can you come take me to the hospital? I’m so scared by myself…” Dr. Finch looked up, glancing at his watch. “Henry, we still have twenty minutes left of our session…” Henry stood up. “I’ll be right back.” “She can get checked in at the urgent care clinic herself,” I said, my voice completely flat and devoid of emotion. “We booked this appointment three months ago.” He looked at me, a familiar flash of disappointment in his eyes. “You’re supposed to run cold water over a burn immediately. She’s in too much pain to think straight. Don’t you have even a shred of empathy?” “First aid is common sense,” I replied. “But she isn’t listening to common sense.” His expression flickered. He clearly hadn’t expected me to talk back so calmly. But he merely draped his suit jacket over his arm and turned to apologize to the doctor. “I’m sorry, Dr. Finch. My wife is… a bit unstable right now. We’ll have to reschedule.” The door clicked shut quietly behind him, leaving the air in the room heavy and suffocating. Dr. Finch took off his glasses and watched me for a long moment. “You’re shaking.” I looked down and realized my hands clutching my purse straps were trembling. My nails had dug deep into the leather, leaving faint white marks. I began to count in my head, one, two, three, forcing myself to speak. “Dr. Finch.” “Yes?” I fell silent for three seconds. In those three seconds, seven years of memories rolled through my mind like a reel of old film. Dr. Finch turned the file to the final page and pushed it over for my signature. As the tip of the pen touched the paper, I heard myself ask, “Once this therapy ends, will I really be cured?” He looked at me. “The therapy was meant to help you speak. But if the person you’re speaking to never planned on listening…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Isla, being cured isn’t the final destination. Choosing who you speak to is.” I went home and began to pack my things. After seven years of marriage, our only real point of connection was sharing the same bed. I tucked a draft of a divorce agreement into an old book and scheduled a meeting with a lawyer for the next morning. It took me only an afternoon to pack everything. Seven years of marriage, and what I was taking with me couldn’t even fill a single suitcase. I took one last look at the bedroom. On the nightstand sat our only photo together, taken the night he proposed. I had been standing in the rain, my wet hair plastered to my face, smiling with a mix of anxiety and quiet hope. I turned the photo frame face down. He came home in time for dinner, carrying the faint scent of hospital disinfectant. “Isla,” he called out, his voice softer than usual. I waited for the two seconds to pass. Then three. He didn’t start a countdown. “Lately… have I been ignoring you?” It wasn’t really a question. He spoke very slowly. My hand holding the chopsticks paused, but I didn’t say anything. After a brief silence, he spoke again, his voice dropping slightly. “Dr. Finch said you’ve changed a lot. I realized… I don’t think I’ve ever truly listened to you.” He paused, his throat bobbing. “I handled the appointment poorly today. As for Wendy… I’ll keep my distance in the future. Don’t take it to heart.” There was a clumsy, awkward stiffness in his voice when he mentioned “the future.” I looked down and sipped my soup. It was already cold. “The things you never wanted to tell me before,” his gaze drifted down to my eyelashes, “you can try telling me now. I’ll listen.” I looked up at him. Under the warm dining lights, his silhouette looked exactly like the man who had stood in the pouring rain seven years ago, asking me to marry him. But it had taken me seven long years to understand what he meant by “listening.” “I cleared my schedule for this weekend. Let’s get out of the city. Would you prefer the beach or the mountains?” He watched me, waiting for an answer. I opened my mouth. “The mountains,” I heard myself say. He seemed to let out a quiet breath, a faint trace of a smile touching his lips. “Okay. I’ll make the arrangements.” He lowered his head to finish his soup, completely missing the way my hands were clenched beneath the table, my nails digging into my palms. That weekend would never happen. He had forgotten to lock his phone when he got home, and it lay glowing on the nightstand. I had glanced over and seen the message from Wendy: Henry, the medicine is so bitter today. Can you come talk to me? It was marked as read. There was no reply text. But while he was in the shower, I had glanced at his call log. There was a forty-seven-minute call to her number. The call had taken place at the exact moment I was packing my suitcase in the study. Forty-seven minutes. He had told me he was going out to get some medicine from the pharmacy. I gently slid his phone a fraction of an inch further away. At three in the morning, I stood in the foyer with my suitcase. I suddenly realized that during all those years of his “waiting,” he had never once been waiting for the real me. He was only ever waiting for a correct, prompt answer. Meanwhile, Wendy never had to say a single word. The cab had been waiting downstairs for five minutes. I climbed into the back seat, pulling my suitcase close to my knees. The driver asked for my destination. “The airport,” I said. As the car glided past the gates of our neighborhood, I looked down at my phone. I went into my contacts, found the name I had saved seven years ago, and deleted it. I locked the screen and flipped the phone face down. “Actually, driver,” I spoke up, my throat tightening, “could we make a quick stop first? The post office in the old district.” Of course, the post office was closed at this hour. But I knew where the twenty-four-hour drop box was. I wanted to mail something. It was the very first letter I had written to him on the night he proposed, seven years ago, but had never dared to send. The letter contained only one line: If one day I lose my voice, would you be willing to wait for me, too? He had never received that letter. Tonight, it was finally time for it to arrive.

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