The Therapy of Letting Go

Peter left, feeling satisfied.

The door closed behind him.

In the dark, I lay alone on the couch.

The clock on the wall ticked softly.

That familiar loneliness from our first breakup crept back in again.

Only this time, it didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt like my withdrawal was finally easing.

The memories of our breakup came rushing back.

It all began one late night.

Julia sent Peter a message: [Peter, I’m getting a divorce.]

From that moment, something changed in him.

He removed our photo from his social media background.

He said it was a critical period for his promotion and he needed to appear professional.

I never doubted him.

I was busy with work, and so was he.

I never imagined he still had time to run errands for Julia.

We both came from ordinary families.

Peter’s situation was even worse.

His father had transferred all their money to another woman, and when his parents divorced, his mother was left with nothing.

Looking back, there had always been signs.

One afternoon, while Peter and I were having lunch, he suddenly said, “You should learn how to do your makeup too.”

Later, when I checked our chat history, I realized that same day, Julia had “accidentally” sent him a sultry, full-makeup selfie.

One night, when we were both drenched in sweat after making love, Peter, still not fully satisfied, looked me over and said, “It’d be perfect if your waist were a little slimmer.”

That day, Julia had ordered the smallest size of lingerie online and “accidentally” filled in Peter’s phone number.

One evening, a fire broke out in the building’s parking area.

The flames spread upward, thick smoke billowing into the sky.

At that moment, all I could think was thankfully, Peter had gone to take out the trash.

Thankfully, he was safe.

As the smoke filled my lungs and my vision blurred, I saw firefighters rushing in and Peter trying to charge into the flames.

But he was stopped by a woman in black lace nightwear.

I soon lost consciousness and didn’t think much about it afterward.

I assumed she was just a concerned neighbor.

During my hospital stay, Peter ran back and forth between work and the hospital to take care of me.

It was only a minor burn, so to avoid missing work, I was discharged quickly.

I kept living in the illusion of our loving relationship until one day when the landlord came to raise the rent.

I tried to argue, switching from pleading to threatening to move out.

I talked so much I was practically spitting, sounding like a desperate woman quarreling over a few dollars.

The landlord said coldly, “Then how come your boyfriend can afford a second apartment?”

It hit me like a blow to the head.

Even after the landlord left, jingling the keys, I was still in shock.

That night, when Peter went out to take out the trash, I followed him on impulse.

I watched him pick up a parcel, carefully disinfect the package outside Julia’s door, then step inside after neatly placing his own shoes in the cabinet and changing into those deep-blue house slippers.

Everything he did was so practiced, as if he were returning to his own home.

I stood at the door for a long time, frozen in place.

A chill spread from my chest, and my mind went blank.

Like a puppet on strings, I knocked on the door.

From inside came Peter’s voice.

He asked who it was.

“The delivery shouldn’t have arrived this fast…” he muttered as he opened the door.

That was when I finally understood why Peter suddenly insisted on taking out the trash every night, why he stopped ordering takeout at noon and began asking me to cook instead.

He wanted to save more money to spend on Julia.

I couldn’t remember much about what happened after that.

Only that Peter stood protectively in front of Julia.

“I just didn’t want you overthinking it. That’s why I didn’t tell you before. And sure enough, you’re overreacting again!”