I Flew Miles Away to Forget Him

Usually, Maxwell witnesses heavy snow under the bright southern sun, while I endure endless spring in the cold northern nights. We move in opposite directions, rarely crossing paths—a reality we both accept without saying much.

The next morning, I dreamed of a ski resort. I was wearing the pink ski jacket, its brightness defying the white expanse around me. Maxwell stood nearby, scolding me.

"Pink and tender—how old are you now?" he snapped, echoing a line straight out of Downton Abbey.

The absurdity jolted me awake. Opening my eyes, I saw Maxwell standing at the bedside, his expression as icy and unyielding as a glacier.

"What’s wrong with you?" he barked. "Didn’t you promise last night to heat the chicken soup this morning? Why are you still in bed? Get up!"

Before I could respond, he yanked the quilt off me, pulling me from the bed and onto the cold, unforgiving floor. The chill shot through my bare feet, making me shiver.

A nightgown landed over my head, thrown carelessly in my direction. Without so much as a glance, he turned and walked away.

I pulled the robe tightly around me, trying to fend off not just the cold, but the hollow ache spreading from deep inside.

In the kitchen, the chicken soup simmered on the stove while I prepared breakfast on the island.

Maxwell’s breakfast was always the same—iced Americano and a whole wheat bagel. Mine was hot mocha and taro-flavored European bread.

He only ate the low-fat, low-sugar meals I prepared to his exacting standards. To accommodate his picky palate, I had spent hours poring over online tutorials and had even taken an in-person baking class.

Yet despite my efforts, Maxwell never missed a chance to criticize me. My attempts, no matter how earnest, were always met with his disdain.

I spent countless hours practicing before I finally mastered his favorite breads—bagels, muffins, ciabatta, baguettes, and even alkaline bread. Each one a labor of patience, baked with the hope of meeting his impossible standards.

That morning, I carefully poured the heated chicken soup into a thermos. A few drops of the boiling liquid splashed onto the back of my hand. I winced at the sharp pain.

Hearing me, Maxwell sneered. "You’re becoming more and more dramatic. Blow on it twice, and the wound will magically heal," he mocked.

"Why are you so stingy? Emily is just a little girl. What’s wrong with giving her some chicken soup?"

He didn’t stop there. "Every day, as soon as you open your eyes, you start acting pitifully. Who are you performing this sad drama for?"

I didn’t respond. Silently, I pushed his breakfast toward him.

But when I added chocolate sauce to my hot mocha, it was like lighting a fuse.

"Grace, don’t you understand what I’ve told you?" Maxwell exploded. "You’re almost overweight, and you still dare to eat chocolate sauce? Are you trying to ruin yourself?"

His voice grew harsher. "You drink high-calorie mocha every day. Why can’t you just have iced Americano? Let’s see—will you die if you drink Americano instead?"

Before I could react, he grabbed my chin and forced the icy, bitter drink into my mouth. The cold burned as it flooded my throat, and I coughed violently, struggling to breathe. The pain was as sharp as his words, my lungs aching as though they might collapse.

Without another word, he grabbed his suitcase in one hand and the thermos of chicken soup in the other, leaving me trembling and gasping for air.

Just yesterday, I had suffered a miscarriage. This morning, I hadn’t eaten a single thing. And yet, here I was, forced to drink a full glass of iced Americano.

As soon as he left, the pain in my stomach worsened. My body began to convulse, every nerve screaming. Drenched in sweat, I staggered to the bathroom and swallowed an ibuprofen. Then I stood under a shower of 45°C water, hoping the heat would soothe the ache.

After half an hour and several hot packs, I finally crawled into bed. I lay there for two hours, clutching my stomach and staring at the ceiling.

I wanted to cry, but not a single tear came.

The next morning, I received an email from Air New Zealand confirming my official acceptance for the job.

Without hesitation, I went to my current airline and submitted my resignation. I handed the report to Miss Lara, the senior flight attendant.

"According to company policy," she began, "you need to give at least 30 days’ notice."