Those who don't love me, I don't want them anymore

The living room fell silent.

Kendall slumped onto the sofa, her posture lazy, a mocking smile tugging

at the corners of her lips.

“How touching,” she said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “Five

years of marriage, and he still can’t stand to waste a single glance on

you.”

I didn’t answer.

I simply sat there, scrolling through the listings on my phone.

My calm seemed to infuriate her. She suddenly stood up, laughter

spilling from her lips as she swayed the coffee cup in her hand.

“Did you know?” she said sweetly, “Last night he told me his heartbeat

was even faster than it was after his surgery—because I was in his

arms.”

The cup tilted in my hand—

I dodged, but the scalding coffee still splashed across my clothes.

A few drops landed on my wrist. The pain was sharp, and I gasped,

falling to the floor in a half-cry that sounded almost theatrical.

“Lucas!” I screamed.

Footsteps thundered from the hallway.

He burst in, eyes flaring when he saw my reddened wrist.

“What the hell are you doing now?!”

Before I could speak, his palm came down hard.

The slap rang in my ears, and for a second, the world went white.

He gathered Kendall into his arms and rushed out, leaving me kneeling

among shattered porcelain and spilled coffee.

The heat soaked through my thin nightgown, burning my skin.

But the pain in my chest was worse—

a hollow, carved-out ache where something once lived.

I braced myself against the table and forced myself to stand, gasping

for air.

My gaze landed on the old medicine box by the window.

Inside were the leftover heart pills from his surgery—

carefully sorted, one by one, by my own hands.

Now they sat there quietly, as if mocking me.

So this is what I saved, they seemed to whisper.

Not a man. Just a heart without a soul.

I closed my eyes, my throat tightening.

It was time to leave.

For good.

I didn’t go back to the bedroom.

I just picked up the old suitcase beside the bed.

The zipper was rusted, and when I pulled it open, it screeched—

an ugly sound, yet strangely beautiful,

like a reminder that the escape route hadn’t been sealed completely.

Night wind slipped through the cracks of the window, lifting the

curtain’s corner.

Moonlight spread across the table where the divorce papers lay—

black ink on white paper, cold as a gravestone.

I reached for it, my fingertips icy.

Five years of marriage—

nothing but a few pages of paper.

And yet I had built those years with blood and bone.

I signed my name and smiled faintly.

There was no hatred left in that smile, no resentment—

only emptiness.

The next morning, I went to the hospital.

The burn on my leg had begun to fester.

The doctor frowned as he cleaned the wound, his tone half reproach, half

pity.

“How did you get burned like this? Where’s your family?”

“I don’t have family,” I said softly.

He didn’t ask again—only sighed.

Laughter drifted from the next examination room.

“That girl only burned her wrist a little,” a nurse said between

giggles,

“and her boyfriend rushed here in the middle of the night—dragged the

hospital director out of bed, demanding compensation.”

“Tch. Rich people,” the doctor muttered, shaking his head.

“But that girl’s lucky,” the nurse replied. “At least someone cares.”

I lowered my eyes, the corners of my lips barely moving.

Yes. Being cared for is a kind of luck.

Mine, though, had run out five years ago—

the night of that operation.

After the bandages were done, I sat alone on the bench.

Raindrops streaked down the glass, blurring the world outside.

Then, from the end of the hallway, I heard a voice—

low, familiar, and unmistakable.

“Me?”