So long ago that I'd already forgotten about it.

After a full round of tests,

he told me my allergens hadn't changed.

Which meant the only explanation was emotional.

“Have you been experiencing insomnia or depression recently?”

I froze.

Then it hit me, understanding and bitterness tangled together.

No wonder I'd been getting worse these past six months.

Turned out I cared about him more than I thought.

On the drive back from the hospital,

Maura was still cursing Bertram out.

But I felt nothing anymore.

Maybe it was true what people said: when your body was falling apart,

you stopped caring about love.

My phone buzzed.

“You went to see Dr. Harmon?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I could've gone with you.”

“I didn't go on purpose. Just ran into him.”

“He said one of the results isn't back yet. I'll pick you up tonight. Let me take you in again tomorrow?”

I rubbed my thumb across the divorce papers in my hand

and typed back：“Okay.”

When I got home that evening,

the apartment looked brand new.

Someone had clearly cleaned up.

He stopped me at the guest room door：

“You're still mad?”

I shook my head.

“Then why won't you sleep in the bedroom?”

I thought about it, then gave him one word：“Filthy.”

I meant it.

But he reacted like I'd slapped him.

“She's just a kid.”

“Jemima, that's enough.”

I hadn't heard those words in a long time.

Long enough that they dragged up memories I'd buried.

Freshman year, military training week. I fell for him the moment I saw him.

But he was an iceberg. Nobody got within arm's reach.

After a few attempts that bounced right off him, I started asking around.

He was an orphan. Scholarships and odd jobs and a mentor's charity were the only reasons he'd made it this far.

So I told myself the coldness was armor.

All I had to do was get close enough, be warm enough, and it would melt.

I picked the meat out of my bowl and put it in his.

At his games, my voice alone drowned out the entire crowd.

On holidays when he had nowhere to go, I stayed behind with him.

And every time I pushed too hard, he'd give me the same two words：“That's enough.”

I pretended not to hear.

“Come home with me for Christmas. My mom's cooking is amazing!”

“Don't be sad. From now on, I'm your family!”

……

Then one day a ceiling fan above me came loose, its bolt snapping free, and the whole thing plummeted straight toward my head.

In the middle of everyone's screams, Bertram threw himself over me.

The muffled grunt when it hit him stayed with me for years.

And in all the silences that followed, that sound saved us more times than I could count.

Now I stared at his profile, harder and colder than ever.

There wasn't a trace left of the boy who'd once been terrified of losing me.

I pulled my arm free and walked straight to the master bedroom.

Threw back the comforter. Nothing.

Yanked open the nightstand drawer. Nothing.

Finally, I crouched down and dragged a piece of lace lingerie out from under the bed.

Not mine.

Bertram's lips pressed into a tight line.

I let out a short, hollow laugh and threw the lingerie in his face.

“Bertram, how about you quit while you're ahead.”

Then I turned and went back to the guest room.

The next morning, Bertram delayed going in to work and drove me to the hospital.

The second we reached the office door,

I saw Sybilla inside, there for a follow-up of her own.

So he'd been coming here today anyway.

I was just a stop along the way.

And last time he came to this hospital, it was to get his mentor to see Sybilla.

And I'd actually been foolish enough to think he still cared about me.

I didn't wait for Sybilla to come out. I pushed the door open and walked in.

Bertram followed behind me, carrying my bag.

The specialist glanced between the three of us but said nothing.

The assistant asked Sybilla：“Do you have any known allergens?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she turned and looked at Bertram.

He answered for her：“Mango, peanuts, shredded coconut.”

The assistant asked me the same question.

I turned and looked at Bertram too, just like Sybilla had.

I didn't miss the flicker of blankness in his eyes.

I let out a dry, mocking half-smile

and stared straight at his face, enunciating every word：

“Chili peppers. Oyster mushrooms. Spinach. Celery……”

With each one, his face lost another shade of color.

At the hospital entrance, he stood in front of me like a child who knew he'd done something wrong.

Sybilla tugged gently at the hem of his coat.

“Dr. Delgado, we need to clock in for the afternoon shift. We should head back to the hospital.”

“Go back yourself. I'm taking my wife home.”

“No need. I'll take a cab.”

His brow furrowed tight. He stared at me, hard, like he was afraid I'd vanish the second he blinked.

“You're going home, right?”

I nodded.

“I'll take the afternoon off and go with you.”

I was about to tell him not to bother,

but Sybilla beat me to it：“You have out-of-town patients coming in this afternoon. The appointments are already set.”

Bertram hesitated, then finally said to me：

“Then wait for me at home. I'll come back tonight and cook for you.”

But my flight was that afternoon.

There would be no more meals together.

He saw me hesitate and grew more desperate.

“I memorized all your allergens just now. I even took your medical file.”

He was practically begging.

“I won't get it wrong again. I promise.”

I nodded.

I looked at him one last time, quietly, then turned and walked away.

Back at the apartment, I stood there and took in every detail of the place where we'd lived for four years.

It had been sweet once, in its way.

He never smiled much, but in the middle of the night he would carefully pull the blanket back over me.

On mornings he had an early shift, there was always a glass of warm water on my nightstand.

And in the tender moments, he'd whispered against my ear：

“Jem, don't ever leave me. You're the only family I have.”

How did we end up here.

Sybilla's messages came flooding in again.

She'd grown more aggressive these past few days.

The content, more and more brazen.

“Bertram doesn't love you. Can't you see that?”

“He took me to get my allergy test done. He stayed with me overnight in the lab and told you he was working late.”

She'd sent me screenshots of her chats with Bertram. Piles of them.

They messaged each other almost every day.

What they ate, where they went, reported back to each other like clockwork.

Bertram didn't say much.

But he replied to every single one, thoughtfully.

He'd tell her a dish wasn't nutritionally balanced, that she should add more vegetables.

He'd say the weather really was nice, that she should go outside and get some sun.

Compared to what I got as his wife“Okay”“Got it”“Mm”,

those messages were alive.

But I felt nothing. Still water, no color left in it.

The only thing that sent a single ripple through me was a secretly recorded video.

Bertram was writing something on paper, his phone propped against the edge.

Sybilla：“Dr. Delgado, aren't you going to call your wife back? What if something's wrong?”

Bertram didn't even lift his head. His voice was flat and cold：“It's probably just an allergy. Would I get there faster than an ambulance?”

The date on the paper was the night I was being resuscitated.

So he'd guessed why I was calling him that night.

……

The rest of my things had already been shipped out days ago.

All that was left was one small carry-on bag.

I laid everything out on the table, all the things I'd printed beforehand：

the chat logs Sybilla had sent me,

the photos I'd taken outside room 502 that day,

and the signed divorce papers.

Before I boarded my flight, I sent him one last message.

“When my family moved overseas, you told me I was the only family you had. So I stayed.”

“But I don't want to be your family anymore.”

“Bertram, let's never see each other again.”