My Boyfriend Faked Paralysis While I Worked Three Jobs

The cold floor kept me awake.

Staring at the ceiling in the dark, an old memory drifted into my head.

It was three years ago, around two in the morning. I was driving for a rideshare app, trying to hit a weekend bonus. A tall man in a dark hoodie got into the back seat. He smelled like sour whiskey. The whole ride, he didn't look at his phone. He just stared at the back of my neck through the rearview mirror.

When I finally dropped him off, he didn't walk away. He stood on the sidewalk and watched me turn the corner. Two blocks later, I saw his headlights behind me. He was following my car.

Panic hit my throat. I couldn't go back to the studio because I didn't want him to know where Soren and I lived. So I pulled over in front of a bright twenty-four-hour bodega, rushed inside, and ducked behind a row of chip bags.

I hid there for forty minutes. My knees trembled so hard I had to sit on the dusty tile. I was terrified to call the police because I didn't want my car impounded or my app account suspended. I couldn't afford to miss the rest of my shift.

With shaking fingers, I dialed Soren.

"What?" he muttered, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Soren," I whispered, holding the phone tight to my ear. "A guy followed my car. I'm hiding in a bodega on Nostrand. I'm scared."

He let out a long, irritated sigh. "Kei, you're overreacting. People drive around Brooklyn all night. Nobody is following you."

"He chased me for six blocks—"

"Just get home safe," he cut in, yawning. "And don't wake me up when you come in. My hip hurts."

The line went dead.

I sat there on the floor of that bodega. Instead of getting angry, I swallowed the fear. I texted him a red heart emoji. Then I wiped my face, walked back out to my car, and drove until dawn.

Back then, I thought that was devotion. I thought loving someone meant taking the hit so they could sleep peacefully.

Now, lying on the kitchen floor, the memory felt different. It wasn't love. It was theft. He hadn't just stolen seven years of my wages. He had stolen my youth, my peace of mind, and my dignity.

Then another memory surfaced.

Two years ago, Soren told me his doctor prescribed a new nerve medication. It cost eight hundred dollars out of pocket. We were three hundred short on rent that week.

I walked down to a plasma donation center on Flatbush Avenue. I sat in a plastic chair with a thick needle in my arm twice in six days. The skin at the crook of my elbow turned purple and yellow.

Right after the second donation, I went straight to the diner for a lunch shift. I was carrying a tray of four heavy ceramic mugs when the room suddenly tilted. My vision went black.

I fainted right behind the counter. The mugs shattered on the tile. Hot coffee soaked through my apron.

My manager, Lou, caught me by the shoulders and called a yellow cab to take me to urgent care. But I refused to get in. I couldn't lose the shift pay. Lou felt bad for me, so he gave me a glass of orange juice and let me sit on an overturned milk crate near the back alley for fifteen minutes.

Once my hands stopped shaking, I tied my hair back and went back out to the tables.

I texted Soren from the break room: *Passed out at work, but I got the medicine money. Be home at five.*

He replied four hours later with three words: *Hope you're okay.*

He never asked why I passed out. He never noticed the dark bruises on my arms. When I brought the pills home, he just tossed the bottle onto his nightstand and asked if I remembered to pick up dinner.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my little black notebook.

Under the dim blue glow of the mini-fridge, I clicked my pen. I wrote down the rideshare shift. I wrote down the plasma clinic. I wrote down the dates and every single dollar.

A ledger of seven wasted years.

***

On Thursday afternoon, I walked back from another double shift at the diner. My feet throbbed in my thin sneakers. The damp wind cut through my thrift-store jacket, but my mind was completely clear.

I climbed the three flights of stairs. The old wooden steps creaked under my weight.

I slipped my key into the lock and pushed the door open.

The studio was warm and smelled like buttered popcorn. Soft music drifted from the corner.

Soren and Demi were on the queen mattress. They were propped up against a stack of pillows, sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching a movie. They were using Soren's silver laptop—the exact same laptop where the video folder was saved.

Demi was wearing my cream cashmere sweater again. Her bare legs were tangled with his under the thick wool blanket. She leaned her head comfortably on his shoulder. Soren had his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, feeding her a kernel with his fingers.

They looked easy together. They looked like two people who had shared a bed for years.

When the door clicked shut, Demi didn't move. She just glanced at me over her shoulder and chewed.

"Wipe your shoes, Keilani," she said, her voice smooth and bored. "You're tracking dirt in."

Soren didn't even pause the movie. "Grab me a seltzer from the fridge, will you? And keep the noise down. We're in the middle of a scene."

I stood in the doorway.

I didn't yell. I didn't cry. The burning in my chest went out, replaced by something cold and solid. It felt like bedrock.

I dropped my work bag onto the floor with a dull thud. I didn't take off my shoes.

I walked straight across the room.

Demi frowned, sensing the shift in the air. "What are you doing?"

I didn't answer. I reached the edge of the mattress, looked down at Soren, and grabbed the corner of the faded wool blanket.

In one slow, deliberate motion, I yanked it off his legs.