Thanks for Stepping Aside

A while after Rolf left, he seemed to have grown a conscience and sent me a message full of apology.

[Miranda's sick. I'll take her to the hospital, and then I'll come find you. She's unwell, so I hope you'll understand. You're the only one I love.]

I'd heard that line so many times my ears were numb. She was sick, so I was supposed to give in to her.

But I didn't owe her anything. Whether she was sick or just pretending, I still didn't owe her a thing.

I had asked a lot of friends about Miranda's condition.

She was born with a heart defect, but she'd been well cared for and had surgery on time. In theory, she shouldn't be having a flare up every single day.

The funniest part? Her attacks always came at perfect timing—either on my birthday, our anniversary, or the day we went to get our marriage certificate.

I'd never heard of someone getting sick that precisely. Or maybe she could control it.

I stopped checking my phone and took pictures of the restaurant's scenery instead. It really was beautiful—there were pavilions and courtyards, with birds and fish. Most of all, it was a place filled with love, with stories of people's love written all over it.

I posted the photos to my social feed with one line. [Maybe other people's happiness is still happiness.]

Then, almost immediately, Miranda fired back with a photo set of her own.

[You're always around when I'm not feeling well.]

The pictures were so intimate—she was leaning on Rolf's shoulder, her hands gripping his tightly. That was how normal couples looked.

I clenched my phone tightly and sat back down.

Since Miranda was already at the hospital, Rolf should be back soon. I wanted to end things properly and leave some good memories behind.

But I had overestimated my place in his life. He didn't show up until closing time. I sent messages asking where he was, but he didn't reply.

The night was cool, and the sky seemed to mock me by letting a light rain fall.

I didn't run or hide. Step by step, I walked home. Just like the past eight years, every step felt so hard.

Half an hour later, I got home, my forehead burning, my throat sore.

Rolf wasn't back, but I was used to it. I just collapsed and fell asleep.

When he finally thought of me again, dawn had already broken.

He came back, full of apology on his face.

"Miranda's condition got worse, and I couldn't leave. I brought you breakfast. Come eat."

I turned away and grabbed my files, ready to leave.

My body felt weak from the rain and a slight fever. I didn't want to argue, but Rolf wouldn't let go. He grabbed my hand stubbornly, refusing to let me leave.

"You're burning up—"

Before he finished, I yanked my hand free, trying to keep some dignity.

But I pulled too hard, and the files slipped from my hands to the floor.

Rolf rushed to pick them up, his pupils suddenly wide with shock.

"These are all for projects overseas. What's this?"

Seeing the hurt in his eyes, I felt a rush of cold satisfaction and snapped, "As you can see, I'm being sent abroad. Let's break up. You're free now. No one will stand in the way of you and Miranda anymore!"