**Sick Love**
«Do you really think that free-spirited bird will stay married for long?» Emily tried to talk some sense into me.
«Time will tell,» I grinned blissfully, not yet knowing those words would become the mottoand the curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening as if it were yesterday. A stuffy banquet, the scent of expensive perfume, mindless chatter about money, fake smiles. I stood there with a glass in hand, thinking how utterly bored I was. I was about to slip away when I heard infectious laughter behind me. I turned as if pulled by a string.
And there she was. Katie. Gesturing wildly, telling some story to a group of men. Slender, in a simple dress, but with such fire in her brown eyes that my carefully constructed, safe world cracked and collapsed in an instant.
«Whos that?» I asked Emily, an old friend.
«Thats my friend Katie,» she sighed. «Fair warningshes a natural disaster in a skirt. Being with her is like flyingthrilling, but you might crash.»
I barely heard the warning, already hypnotised. For mea man whose professor parents lectured over breakfastKatie was life itself. It was love at first sight. Or, to be precise, an incurable diagnosis.
We married six months later, despite my parents’ pleas. «Shell break you, son,» my father said, peering over his glasses. «That girl isnt made for marriage.»
«Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine,» my mother added. «Shell strangle you dry.»
But all I saw was sunlight. My life ran on a strict schedulewhat I needed was a hurricane.
The first months of marriage were madness. Katie would wake me at 3 AM with, «James, look at that moon! Lets drive to the river!» And we would. Shed strike up conversations with homeless men outside our flat, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaos. And II breathed it in like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time.
Then came the first storm.
The financial crisis hit without warning. My businessmy lifes workwavered and collapsed within months. I tried salvaging what I could, but it was hopeless. One night, I came home hollow-eyed and defeated, the ground crumbling beneath me.
Katie met me at the door. Not with an embrace. Arms crossed, she stared at me with a cold, unfamiliar gaze.
«Well, genius? Lost everything?» Her voice was sharp, merciless.
My breath caught.
«Katie, Im trying»
«Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship,» she cut in. «And I wont drown with you. I cant live poor. I need stability. You cant give me that anymore. Sorry.»
She packed her bags right in front of me. My throat tightened.
«Katie, wait please,» my voice cracked. «Ill fix this. Well fix it»
She paused, tucked her passport into her bag, and finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just icy irritation.
«James, stop grovelling. Its pathetic. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye.»
The door slammed. The sound reverberated in my chest like physical pain. I collapsed in the hallway and sobbed like a child. The world turned grey. Food lost its taste. The air thickened.
Six months later, Katie returned.
I opened the doorand there she was. Thinner, tanned, smelling of someone elses cologne. My legs nearly gave way. She stood theresun-kissed, with a new haircut, wearing a coat I hadnt bought her.
«Well,» she said, stepping past me and kicking off her heels. «That stockbroker was unbearable. Even his car playlist was classical.»
She said it as if shed just popped out for milk, not left another mans bed.
And instead of throwing her things down the stairs, instead of shouting, I felt wild, dizzying relief. She came back! She chose me!
«Im sorry I was weak I failed you» I choked out.
I felt her pause. When I looked up, her expression wasnt remorseit was satisfaction. Shed been right. She was always right. And I was wrong.
There were more departures.
First, the «guru» who took her to the mountains to «find enlightenment.» I didnt leave the house for weeks. I lay on the living room rug where wed once danced, staring blankly, imagining her laughing with him. The thoughts made me physically ill.
Then came the «real man»muscled, with a cocky grin. I spotted them in the park. He whispered in her ear; she threw her head back and laughed that same laugh that had once pierced my heart. My vision darkened.
Yet each time, she returned. And each time, I was there to open the door.
Emily, whod introduced us, grabbed my shoulders after one reunion, nearly shouting, «James, wake up! Shes using you! She bragged that you apologised again! For what? What could you possibly be sorry for?»
«For being boring. For not holding her attention. Its my fault, Em. Always mine.»
I wasnt a man. I was a doormat. Her personal waiting room. And the worst part? I accepted it. Because life without her seemed worse than any pain she caused.
One night, after another «stallion,» I broke. I entered the bedroom. She was sprawled across my side of the bed, peaceful, breathtaking. Sitting beside her, I whispered, «Why? Why do you always come back to me?»
She stirred, stretched, and flashed that same dazzling smile.
«Because youre my home, Jamie,» she murmured sleepily. «My safe harbour. You always wait.»
There was no love in those wordsjust convenience. That hurt more than all her betrayals combined. Yet when she wrapped her arms around me, my pain dissolved.
I despised myself in those moments, but I couldnt let go. Even though I knew the door might slam again. And Id wait. Because those stolen moments with her were gulps of air. Without her, there was only grey, silent emptiness.
The last time Katie left was the day I nearly lost the last real part of me.
This time, it was with a gallerista «sensitive artist,» shed sneered, eyeing my corporate ties. Again, I was alone in our sterile flat.
Then the phone rang. My father had had a stroke.
Rushing across town, his warnings echoed in my headthe ones Id dismissed so fiercely. «Shell break you, son.» Id thought he meant my career, my money. But he meant me. My soul.
I burst into the hospital room. My mother, always composed, sat crying silently by his bed.
My fatherpale, face slackstared at the ceiling. A shadow of the formidable man whod taught me life. Something inside me snapped. With icy clarity, I saw myself in himjust as broken, just as paralysed. Only, his ruin was illness. Mine was love.
I sat beside my mother, took her trembling hand, and whispered, «Im sorry. I didnt listen.»
«We always hoped youd wake up,» she said softly.
That night, back in the empty flat, I did the first thing that came to mind. I packed Katies things. Thought about tossing them. Instead, I just shut the wardrobe door and taped a sign to it: «WAITING ROOM CLOSED.»
The hardest part was not replying when she texted two weeks later: «Miss our coffee. He drinks some pretentious dust here.» My fingers itched to type «Come home.» But I remembered my fathers face. And for the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt understand. The messages cameconfused, angry, then mocking: «Jamie, what, on a diet? Wasting away without me?» I said nothing. Silence became my fortress.
Once, she just showed up. Dropped her bag in the hall and barked, «James, fetch my suitcase from the car!»
«Youve misunderstood,» I said quietly. «This isnt your home anymore.»
For the first time, fear flickered in her eyes. Shed lost control.
«Whats wrong with you? Are you sick?»
«Yes, Katie. I was very sick. Now Im healing. And it hurts. You were my disease.»
It was agony. Like withdrawal. But my fathers slow recovery anchored me. My mothers quiet strength. And my own willfinally fighting for myself, not waiting for her.
The first months of freedom felt like convalescence. My body ached for the poison. Id catch myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But it faded, day by day.
Six months later, Katie sent a postcard from a tropical island: «No one ever waited for me like you did.»
I moved her things to storage. Not a grand gesturejust hygiene. Making space for my life.
Months later, Emily invited me to a small gallery opening.
«Dont worry, your hurricane wont be there,» she joked.
And I realisedI wasnt afraid. I sipped wine, studied the art, and met a womans gazenot dazzling like Katies, but steady, kind. We talked about books, paintings. For once, I didnt have to pretend.
Walking her out, I noticed something strange: I wasnt anxious. No fear of saying the wrong thing. Just calm. I could be myself. No fantasies about tomorrow.
Whatever came next, it would be my life. My choice. My pathno more waiting in an empty room.
