Forgotten 100 Times: How I Became Someone Else's Forever

The single flame flickered on the strawberry cake, casting long shadows across the kitchen island. I stared at the melting wax, swiped the screen on my phone, and tapped Anson’s contact name.

The line rang three times.

"What?" Anson whispered sharply.

"Anson," I started, keeping my tone even. "Are you almost done? I made—"

"Don't call unless it's an emergency." His voice cut through the quiet room, harsh and hurried. "Are you trying to wake her up?"

I tightened my grip on the edge of the marble counter. "Wake who up?"

"Bella. You know she has severe insomnia. A ringing phone ruins her entire night."

"It's eight o'clock in the evening."

"That doesn't matter. Her nerves are shot. If you have something to say, wait until I get home."

"I just wanted to know if you were coming back for dinner. It’s a special—"

"I told you I'd be late," he interrupted. "She needs me right now. Stop being so selfish."

"Selfish?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue. "I'm asking my husband to come home."

"And I'm telling you I'm busy taking care of someone who actually needs help. Don't text me either. The vibration scares her."

*Click.*

He hung up.

I lowered the phone. Five years of marriage. If I bothered to keep a tally, tonight marked exactly the hundredth time Anson had dropped everything for his childhood best friend. Whenever Bella called, Anson ran. A broken nail, a bad dream, a flat tire—she always came first.

I reached out and plucked the candle from the frosting. I didn't bother making a wish. I grabbed a fork, carved out a large piece of the sponge cake, and forced a bite down my throat. It tasted like nothing.

My phone buzzed against the counter. A notification flashed across the locked screen.

Instagram. Bella had just posted a new story.

I tapped the glowing circle.

A video started playing. The camera panned across a massive flat-screen TV showing a popular slapstick comedy. Then, the lens flipped around to show the couch. Bella leaned heavily against Anson's shoulder. He held a massive bowl of popcorn, throwing his head back in laughter at whatever was happening on the screen.

The caption appeared in bright pink letters: *Movie night with my favorite guy. Finally curing the insomnia!*

I paused the video. My thumb hovered directly over Anson's smiling face.

"Brainless plots make people stupid," he had told me just last month when I suggested watching a comedy on a Friday night. "I don't waste my time on that garbage. Put on a documentary."

Apparently, he made exceptions.

A dry laugh escaped my lips. I really was the stupid one. I sat alone in the dim kitchen, scraping the last bit of icing from the porcelain plate, watching the digital clock on the oven tick forward.

11:58.

11:59.

12:00.

My birthday was over.

The front door clicked open at exactly three in the morning.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Anson stepped into the living room, loosening his silk tie. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed me sitting on the sofa in the dark.

"Why are you awake?" he asked, his brow furrowing in irritation.

"I couldn't sleep."

He sniffed his own sleeve—a quick, nervous gesture. "I'm taking a shower."

He didn't wait for my response. He walked briskly down the hall, avoiding my gaze. A minute later, the water turned on.

I remained on the couch, staring at the blank television screen. In the past, I would have followed him. I would have yelled. I would have demanded to know why he smelled like vanilla perfume, why he lied about her sleeping, why he chose her over me on today of all days.

Tonight, my chest felt entirely hollow.

The bathroom door opened. Anson walked out, rubbing a towel vigorously through his damp hair. He picked up his phone from the coffee table, tapping the screen to check his messages.

He froze.

His eyes darted from the illuminated date on the screen to my face. The color drained completely from his cheeks.

"Ivy," he began, his voice dropping a full octave.

"Yes?"

"It was your birthday."

"It was."

He tossed the towel onto a nearby armchair and took a hesitant step toward me. "Why didn't you tell me on the phone? I wouldn't have stayed at Bella's if I knew."

"I tried to tell you."

"You should have pushed harder. You know how chaotic things get when her anxiety flares up. I lose track of time."

"Right."

He knelt in front of the sofa, reaching out to grab my hands. I pulled them back smoothly, folding my arms across my chest.

"I'm sorry," Anson said, running a hand over his face. "I completely forgot. Let me make it up to you tomorrow. We can go to that French place downtown. The one you like."

I looked down at him. The man I had loved for half a decade. He looked exhausted, guilty, and entirely full of excuses.

"Don't worry about it," I said flatly.

"I am worrying about it. You're mad."

"I'm not mad, Anson."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you don't care."

"Because I don't."

He scoffed, standing up and towering over me. "Don't do this, Ivy. Don't play the martyr. I made a mistake, okay? I'm apologizing."

"I accepted your apology."

"No, you didn't. You're giving me the cold shoulder."

"I'm going to bed."

"We aren't done talking about this," he insisted, stepping into my path.

"There is nothing left to talk about." I met his gaze directly. "You spent my birthday watching a comedy with Bella. I ate cake alone. The day is over."

Anson blinked, caught off guard. "How did you know we watched a movie?"

"She posted it."

"You're blowing this out of proportion," Anson snapped, crossing his arms. "It was a mistake. I forgot a date on the calendar. Husbands forget birthdays all the time."

"Do husbands also rush to their childhood friends every time they have a bad day?"

"She was having a crisis!"

"She was eating popcorn and laughing at a screen!" I raised my voice, finally letting a fraction of my exhaustion bleed through. "I saw the video, Anson. She wasn't having a crisis. She was having a date."

"Don't call it that."

"What else should I call it?"

"She's sick, Ivy. You know she struggles with her mental health."

"And I struggle with my marriage."

Anson flinched. He stared at me as if I had slapped him. "That's unfair."

"Is it?" I asked, my voice dropping back to a quiet, steady rhythm. "Five years. I have spent five years watching you run out the door the second she snaps her fingers. I used to cry about it. I used to beg you to stay."

"I'm here now."

"Only because she went to sleep."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is." I turned away from him. "I used to care. I really did. But tonight, watching that clock hit midnight, I realized something."

"What?" he asked, his voice tight.

"I'm just tired."

I walked toward the guest bedroom.

"Ivy!" he called out, panic finally breaking through his defensive anger. "Where are you going? Our room is this way."

"I'm sleeping in the guest room."

"You can't just walk away from this conversation."

"I just did."