We're Over, and You Want Me to Be Jealous?

Everyone said I was too possessive when it came to my girlfriend, Amanda Crane.

When Amanda first started taking photos of her childhood friend, Ian Lewis, I ripped apart all the rolls of film.

When she helped him fix his computer, I called her 100 times in an hour.

And when he called her from the airport, asking her to pick him up because the rain made it impossible to get a cab, I held a knife to my throat. I told her I'd take my own life if she went to him.

Fed up, Amanda shipped me off to a psychiatric hospital that same night.

When I got out, I vanished. Amanda was certain I was hiding somewhere, spying on her and Ian, but I never showed up—until the celebration party for a business project three years later.

Ian put his arm around Amanda and swirled the wine glass he was holding. He shot me a taunting look, remarking, "You used to get so jealous, Steven. I'm sure you no longer mind if Mandy and I drink from the same glass now, right?"

He waited for me to go berserk the way I used to three years ago, but I simply moved the bottle of wine closer to them.

"I don't mind at all, of course. Have as many glasses as you want. It's great to see that your relationship has been progressing so well."

Amanda paused. Her eyes started to redden. She stared fixedly at me and questioned, "Why don't you feel jealous anymore, Steven?"

"You must be joking, Ms. Crane," I said. "As long as the project goes smoothly, who cares if you two drink from the same glass? Even if you set off on your honeymoon right here, right now, I'd be the first to applaud. In fact, I wish you two a lifetime of happiness. May you have lots of children."

The moment I finished speaking, the taunting look on Ian Lewis' face froze. The wine glass he was holding hovered awkwardly midair, and he didn't know whether to withdraw it.

"Don't be ridiculous, Steven," Ian said to me. "Mandy and I are just friends. This was just a joke—"

"Either way, it doesn't matter to me." I smiled and nodded at them. "I sincerely wish you two the best."

The other colleagues around the table exchanged uneasy glances, their cutlery suspended midair as well. It was as if they didn't know what to do with themselves.

"So… Mr. Walsh, are you and Ms. Crane acquainted? It feels like there's some tension in the air."

Amanda Crane had just opened her mouth to speak, but I cut in first with a polite yet distant smile. "Yes. We used to be schoolmates. But now we're simply a client and a service provider—nothing more."

The wineglass slammed hard against the table, making me flinch. Dark red liquid splashed out, staining Amanda's sleeve.

She reached out to grab my wrist. "I'm just your client, huh? Do you get a kick out of acting like we're strangers, Steven?"

That familiar perfume scent made my stomach churn.

"Get away from me!" I snapped.

With an icy look on my face, I pulled back, putting some distance between us. My tone was curt as I declared, "My wife is waiting for me at home. Please show some respect, Ms. Crane."

"W-What did you say? Who's waiting for you at home?" Amanda stammered in shock.

Her gaze swept over me again and again, as if searching for a tell to reveal that I'd been lying just now. "Your wife?"

She practically had to hiss out the last two words between her clenched jaws.

"That's none of your concern, Ms. Crane," I replied. "Either way, I don't have time to watch you throw a fit, so I'll be excusing myself from the party now."

"Who's your wife? Steven Walsh! Explain yourself!"

Ignoring Amanda's furious shrieks, I picked up my briefcase and strode swiftly to the parking lot.

Only after locking myself inside the car did I finally slump heavily against the driver's seat. I lit a cigarette, my fingers trembling as I held it.

Every time I got close to Amanda, the memories of the darkest period of my life would come flooding back.

I hadn't been like this from the start. It was the red-eyed Amanda who buried her head against the crook of my neck and begged me to be controlling and possessive toward her.

"Steven, my dad brought his mistress and their son home. Even when I was little, he ignored me and neglected me. That's not my home. Everyone else will abandon me. I'm begging you. Please show me you care. Please be strict with me and watch my every move obsessively. Please?"

Her voice trembled, and she looked like an abandoned puppy.

My heart softened, so I gave in to her request.

To give her a sense of security, I forced myself to become a control freak. I checked on her constantly, deleted every man from her contacts, and called her relentlessly whenever she came home late.

But when I finally did act like I had a truly possessive streak—when I tried to stop her from going to pick up Ian—she shoved me away without hesitation.

"You disgust me, Steven. If you're sick in the head, you should go where you belong."

She personally had me institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital.

I was locked up in a windowless room, surrounded by white walls and metal bars.

I tried to explain that I didn't have a mental disorder, but the attendants pinned me down and forced the medication down my throat. When I vomited it out, they stuffed it back in, choking me until it felt like my lungs would burst.

I begged Amanda to take me home. But when I called her, she was busy peeling shrimp for Ian, and she told me not to ruin her appetite.

When they performed shock therapy on me and locked me up in isolation afterward, the only thing I saw from the tiny window was the fireworks show that Amanda organized to celebrate Ian's birthday.

It hadn't been easy for me to escape that hell I was in and move on from over a thousand days of torment—to put the broken pieces of me back together into a normal person again.

So why was Amanda refusing to leave me alone?

Out of nowhere, someone started pounding on the car window. My whole body tensed as I jerked my head up.

Amanda's stormy face was pressed against the glass. She stared at me intently as she screamed, "Steven! Open the door!"