Love Was a Dream, Now It’s Dead

During dinner, Adrian's childhood sweetheart, Clara Bennett, sat with red-rimmed eyes, staring at a half-eaten rice bowl. Noticing her distress, Adrian, the perfectionist with OCD, gently reassured her, "Come on, Sniffles, haven't I always finished your leftovers?"

I handed him the sterilized chopsticks, as I always did, but he snapped at me this time. "Emily, did you even bother disinfecting your hands before touching the chopsticks? Stop grossing me out."

After the meal, he used the tie I had made for him to wipe Clara's mouth. Normally, I'd have caused a scene and made everyone uncomfortable. But this time, I couldn't bring myself to care. Eight years of marriage, and it all felt so utterly meaningless.

——

Earlier, I'd finished a call with my divorce lawyer. Moments later, Adrian found me in the restaurant bathroom. He threw me a small bottle of disinfectant, barely glancing in my direction.

"Don't bring your germs into my car." His voice was as cold as ever.

Adrian's OCD was severe. He never went anywhere without disinfectant wipes and alcohol. And more often than not, he used them on me. My hands, after years of scrubbing and constant exposure to alcohol, developed an allergy. They would itch, break out in rashes, and occasionally even peel.

My silence only made Adrian more annoyed.

His eyes narrowed when he saw my hands' fresh layer of peeled skin. "Emily, your hands are disgusting. Why don't you just wear gloves and cover them up?"

In the past, I would have argued with him, desperate to win his approval, to make him happy. But now, I couldn't even summon the energy to open my mouth. Without saying a word or looking back, I turned and walked away.

It was the first time I had ever walked away from Adrian like that, and it took him a second to process it.

"Crazy woman," he muttered under his breath as I left.

I didn't respond. I didn't even feel the need to explain. My heart, which was once shattered at every harsh word from him, now felt nothing at all.

And so, I left the restaurant, grabbed a taxi, and went straight home. Adrian didn't return until one in the morning. Even across the living room, I could smell the perfume clinging to him: Dior Hypnotic Poison, the one Clara always wore.

The familiar itch returned to my hands, and I stood up, heading for the bedroom to escape the scent. But Adrian blocked my way. "Emily, is this how you behave? All my high school friends were at dinner, and you just left without saying a word. Where's your sense of decency? How do you expect me to save face?"

Before, I would have bent backward for Adrian, always putting his reputation first. Even when, during a drinking game, he joked, "Emily never gets drunk. With her here, I'm guaranteed to win."

I'd drink until I was on the verge of throwing up so that he wouldn't lose.

But not tonight.

I didn't even bother to attend the post-dinner activities, much less make excuses to his friends when I left.

When Adrian confronted me, I casually brushed him off. "I wasn't feeling well."

Realizing I might be on my period, his face softened lightly as he put his things down.

"I'll make you some tea," he said before heading to the kitchen.

He put a clay pot on the stove and then went to the study room. By the time the water had boiled dry and the smell of burning filled the kitchen, he still hadn't returned.

I turned off the stove just as Adrian emerged from the study and started cursing at me. "Emily, are you insane? How do you even manage to burn water? Might as well burn that stupid brain while you're at it!"

He looked down at the scattered soot on the stove's surface, and his face twisted in disgust. "Clean it up. That kind of filth breeds bacteria! Fucking hell, it makes me sick!"

I didn't even flinch. I stopped midway, brushed past him, and half-heartedly responded, "We're out of supplies. Call the cleaning service."

For ten years, I scrubbed that stove spotless.

But this time?

I didn't even bother to lift a damn finger.