Letting Go of Old Love

After treating his wounds and returning home, Jamison Perry did something unusual by suggesting Mae get some rest early.

"Okay, just make sure to clean up soon—I'll wait for you," she replied.

While Jamison showered, Mae took the chance to install a hidden tracking app on his phone.

His recent activity appeared spotless.

She searched through his messages with Celeste Taylor.

Not a single trace.

Mae should have seen this coming.

She returned the phone to its original spot.

Jamison then wrapped his arm around her waist and drifted off to sleep.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed when, in the darkness, his phone buzzed.

Within seconds, he silenced it.

"Mae," he whispered.

She feigned sleep.

Quietly, he slipped out of bed, and shortly after, she heard the front door close.

Mae pulled out her phone and tracked his phone's location.

The destination was familiar: the hospital she’d visited earlier that day.

It seemed he still couldn’t let go.

Mae went to the study and found the key to his safe.

Perhaps Jamison thought she was easy to fool and hadn’t built much of a defense against her in the study or with the key.

Mae searched through the contents one by one.

Inside, along with the sketch she’d seen before, were numerous artworks of Celeste in various sizes.

Sketches, watercolors, oil paintings, digital art…

It was as if Jamison wanted to capture her beauty with every stroke and medium available to him.

For a moment, Mae was transported back to over half a year ago.

Their third wedding anniversary.

After dinner, Jamison had retreated to the study.

Mae had followed him in, watching him fiddle with his brushes and playfully asked him to paint her.

A myriad of emotions had flashed in his eyes.

Mae couldn’t catch them all but recognized a sense of longing.

Back then, she had thought he was yearning for the days when he could freely pursue his dreams.

As the sole heir of the Perry family, Jamison’s father had vehemently opposed him pursuing art as a career.

Rumor had it that at the height of their argument, the father and son nearly came to blows.

For reasons unknown, Jamison eventually gave up on his dream.

He hadn’t picked up a brush since.

Seeing him that way, Mae had held him, feeling guilty for making such an unreasonable request.

But now she could see that the most recent date on one of those artworks was just two weeks ago.

She realized how naive she had been.

He hadn’t stopped painting; he simply didn’t want to paint for her.

There were numerous articles on Celeste’s accomplishments abroad, the awards she’d won.

Even their exchanges had been preserved and bound into books.

Mae felt she couldn’t hold herself upright any longer and slowly slid down against the bookshelf.

As she came to her senses, daylight had already broken.

Her phone rang, and Jamison’s voice, smooth and carefree, came through:

“Hey, love, are you awake? How's your wound feeling? Something came up at the office, and I need to go on a business trip…”

It was the same routine as always.

Jamison never needed to finish his sentence.

Mae would obligingly find a way to make it easier for him, reminding him to prioritize work and to take care of himself.

But this time, Mae felt sharp, determined to prove that their three years of marriage and four years of relationship were not just an illusion.

“My wound's feeling a bit worse. Could you come with me to the hospital once more?”