Ryan, a night owl, replied instantly: 【? This is sudden. Aren’t you getting married next month? What’s going on?】
I stared at the blinking cursor.
Typed three words:
【It’s not happening.】
After sending them, I closed the laptop.
The room was pitch black, moonlight faintly filtering through the window.
No tears, no hysteria.
Only a resolute sense of finality.
In the following days, Emily took root in this house.
Her intrusion was gradual, like a spreading fungus.
My gray slippers disappeared, probably kicked into a corner.
Her skincare products appeared on the bathroom sink—bottles and jars crowding my minimalist set to the edge.
Even the sparkling water in the fridge was replaced with her favorite fully-sweetened fruit juice.
Frederick ignored it all.
Or rather, he seemed pleased.
He started coming home early. Once claiming busy social engagements, now he was in the kitchen wearing an apron, making soup for Emily.
"Emily has a sensitive stomach; she can’t eat takeout. It’s too oily."
Coming home from work, I saw a sumptuous three-dish meal and soup on the table.
Yam and pork rib soup, steamed sea bass, and blanched bok choy.
All stomach-friendly dishes.
Only two sets of bowls and chopsticks.