Faded love, I don't want it anymore

“My voice was calm. ‘I know.’”

“You read the authorization form, didn’t you?”

He turned to me, his gaze terrifyingly composed.

“Your condition was critical. The doctor said waiting any longer meant losing both lives.

I signed it to save you.”

I looked at him and smiled faintly.

“Then why was I conscious?”

He paused for a beat, lowering his voice. “I happened to be at the hospital that day—for a charity project—and…”

“You don’t have to explain.” I cut him off.

I picked up the document from the table and placed it gently in his palm.

“This,” I said softly, “is your rationality.

And I no longer need to be rational.”

He frowned. “Wendy, are you being emotional again?”

I met his eyes, my tone as calm as falling snow.

“No. I just understand now—what you call love has never been warmth.

It’s control. It’s choice. It’s a signature.”

For the first time, a crack appeared in his expression.

“Stop.”

“Okay,” I said quietly.

I turned toward the bedroom, each step steady, precise, like walking across ice.

The door closed softly behind me.

I leaned against it, eyes shut.

No tears fell.

But somewhere inside me, something caved in—silently.

That night, I understood completely.

Some people don’t need a divorce to end you.

All they have to do is sign their name—and you die once.

The rain fell all night.

As if fate itself had torn open a seam in the sky,

letting every drop of suppressed pain fall through it,

one by one.

I sat at my desk, the document spread before me.

Under the lamp, his signature gleamed faintly cold—

“Family Signature: Rory.”

And I finally understood why that surgical light had been so blinding.

It wasn’t to save me.

It was to make sure I saw clearly who destroyed my child.

A car pulled up outside.

Before I could hide the papers, the door opened.

He was back.

His black suit was wet from the rain.

Loosening his tie, he asked evenly, “Still awake?”

I looked up, my face serene. “Waiting for you.”

He stepped closer, his gaze brushing over the desk.

“What are you reading?”

“Files for the charity gala,” I said lightly.

“Sybil told me you haven’t been doing well lately,” he said, removing his coat and brushing off the raindrops.

“She asked me not to let you overwork. She’s taking over a new project for me—very capable.”

I smiled faintly.

“Yes. I know you well.”

He didn’t hear the edge beneath my words.

He only murmured an indifferent “Mm,” then, as always, sat across from me, opened his laptop, and began typing.

The house fell quiet—

the only sound the rhythm of his fingers on the keyboard.

That kind of silence… was the one I knew best.

And the most despairing of all.

“Rory,” I said suddenly.

He didn’t look up. “Hm?”

“That day… when you signed the paper at the hospital—did you hesitate?”

His fingers stopped.

After a pause, he replied evenly,

“The doctor advised it. Continuing would have led to only one outcome.”

“One outcome?”

“You dying.”

When he said those two words, his tone was as cold as a meeting summary.

I stared at him—and then, unexpectedly, laughed.

He frowned. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I just suddenly realized—when you say rational,

you sound more like a doctor than the doctor himself.”

He didn’t respond.

He simply stood, picked up the document, and said quietly,

“Go to bed early.”

“Alright.”

He turned away.

He didn’t see it—

the moment my eyes went completely cold.