**Sick Love**
«Do you really think that free-spirited bird will stay married for long?» Lena tried to talk sense into me.
«Time will tell,» I replied with a blissful smile, not yet knowing those words would become the mottoand curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening as if it happened yesterday. A stifling banquet, the scent of expensive perfume, hollow chatter about money, fake smiles. I stood there with a glass in hand, thinking how exhausted I was by it all. I was about to slip away when I heard a womans infectious laughter behind me. I turned as if tugged by a string.
And there she was. Katie. Gesturing animatedly, 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 shattered in an instant.
«Whos that?» I asked Lena, an old acquaintance.
«My friend Katie,» she sighed. «Fair warningshes a force of nature in a skirt. Being with her is like flyingthrilling, but you might crash.»
I barely heard the warning. I was under a spell. To me, the son of professors who lectured even over breakfast, Katie was life itself. It was love at first sight. Or, more accurately, an incurable diagnosis.
We married six months later, despite my parents protests. «Shell break you, son,» my father said, peering over his glasses. «That girl isnt made for marriage.»
«Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine,» my mother echoed. «Shell strangle you until theres nothing left.»
But all I saw was sunshine. A hurricane was exactly what my meticulously scheduled life had been missing.
The first months were madness. Katie would wake me at 3 a.m., exclaiming, «James, look at the 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 the first storm hit.
The financial crisis struck without warning. My businessmy lifes workwavered, then collapsed within months. I fought to salvage what I could, but it was futile. One evening, I came home hollow-eyed, defeated. The ground was crumbling beneath me.
Katie met me at the door. Not with an embrace. She stood there, arms crossed, staring at me with icy detachment.
«Well, genius? Lost the fight?» Her voice was sharp, merciless.
I could barely breathe.
«Katie, IIm trying»
«Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship,» she cut in. «And I wont drown with you. I dont do poverty. I need stability. You cant give that to me anymore. Sorry.»
She packed her suitcases right in front of me. My throat tightened.
«Katie, wait please» My voice cracked. «Ill fix this! Well fix it»
She paused, tucked her bright red passport into her bag, and finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just cold irritation.
«James, stop humiliating yourself. Its pathetic. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye.»
The door slammed. The sound echoed like a physical blow. I crumpled to the floor in the hallway and sobbed like a boy, smearing tears across my face. The world lost its color. Food turned flavorless. The air grew thick and heavy.
Katie came back six months later.
I opened the doorand there she was. Thinner, tanned, smelling of unfamiliar perfume. My legs nearly gave out. She stood on the threshold, sun-kissed, with a new haircut and an expensive coat I hadnt bought her.
«Well,» she said, stepping past me and kicking off her heels. «That broker turned out to be insufferable. Even his car stereo played classical.»
She said it as if shed just popped out for groceries, not spent months in another mans bed.
And instead of throwing her things down the stairs, instead of shouting, Ifelt a wild, all-consuming joy. She came back! She chose me!
«Im sorry Im so sorry, Katie I was weak I failed you Im sorry I couldnt be what you needed.»
She froze, surprised. When I met her eyes, I didnt see remorsejust satisfaction. Shed been right. She was always right. And II never was.
There were other departures.
First, the «guru» who whisked her off to the mountains to «find enlightenment.» I didnt leave the house for two weeks. I lay on the living room rug where wed once danced, staring blankly. I imagined her laughing with him, looking at him with the same awe shed once reserved for me. The thought made me sick.
Then came the «real man»muscled, with a cocky grin. I spotted them by chance in the park. He held her waist, whispered in her ear. She threw her head back and laughedthat same laugh that had once pierced my heart. My vision darkened.
Every time, she returned. And every time, I was there to open the door. Lena, whod introduced us, grabbed my shoulders after one such return and nearly shouted:
«James, wake up! Shes using you! She bragged that you apologized againfor what? What on earth did you even do wrong?»
«For not being interesting enough. For not holding her attention. I bore her. Its my fault, Lena. Always mine.»
I wasnt a man. I was a doormat. A waiting room for Katie. And the worst part? I accepted it. Because life without her seemed worse than any pain she caused.
One night, after she returned from another «stallion,» I broke. I stepped into the bedroom. She lay sprawled across my side of the bed, serene and breathtaking. I sat beside her and whispered past the lump in my throat:
«Tell me why do you keep coming back? Why me?»
She stirred, stretched, and flashed that same disarming smile from years ago.
«Because youre my home, Jamie,» she murmured sleepily. «My safe harbor. You always wait.»
There was no love in those words. Only convenience. And that hurt worse than all her betrayals combined. But when she wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her warm cheek to my chest, all my pain, pride, and will dissolved.
I hated myself in those moments. But I couldnt let her goeven knowing the door might slam again. Because those stolen moments when she stayed were my only breath of air. Without her, there was only silence.
Katie left again the day I nearly lost the last shred of my true self.
This time, it was a galleristsome «sensitive artist type,» shed sneered, eyeing my corporate ties. I was alone again in our sterile flat when the call came. My father had had a stroke.
Racing across town, his warnings replayed in my mindthe ones Id so stubbornly ignored. «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 weeping silently by the bed, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
My father lay pale, his face twisted, staring at the ceiling. A shadow of the formidable man whod taught me lifes lessons. Something inside me snapped. The click was almost audible. With icy clarity, I saw myself in himjust as broken, just as paralyzed. Only, his ruin came from illness. Mine came from love.
I sat beside my mother, took her trembling hand, and rested my head on her shoulder.
«Forgive me. I didnt listen.»
«We always hoped youd wake up,» she whispered.
That night, back in the empty flat, I did the first thing that came to mind. I packed Katies belongings. Considered tossing them, then hesitated. Instead, I shut the wardrobe door and taped a sign: **»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 escalatedconfused, then furious, then mocking: *»Jamie, on a diet? Wasting away without me?»* I said nothing. Silence became my fortress.
Then she showed up unannounced. Dropped her bag in the hall and yelled:
«James, fetch my suitcase from the car!»
«Youve misunderstood,» I said softly, each word deliberate. «This isnt your home anymore.»
She stared at me, and for the first time in years, fear flickered in her eyes. Shed lost control.
«Whats wrong with you? Are you ill?»
«Yes, Katie. Very ill. But Im healing now. And it hurts. Youyou were my sickness.»
The withdrawal was agony. Like detoxing from a drug. But my fathers slow recovery steadied me. My mothers quiet strength. And my own willfinally turned inward, not wasted on waiting.
The first months of freedom felt like convalescence. My body and soul ached, purging the poison. I caught myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But with each day, it happened less.
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 in angerjust hygiene. Clearing space for my own life.
Once, Lena invited me to a small art exhibit.
«Dont worry, your ‘storm’ wont be there,» she joked.
But I wasnt afraid anymore. I studied the paintings, sipped wine, and met the gaze of a womannot dazzling like Katie, but steady-eyed. We talked about art, books. And for once, I didnt have to pretend.
Walking her out, I realized with surprise: I felt no anxiety. No fear of saying the wrong thing. Just calm. Turns out, you can just be yourself. No grand plans. No fantasies.
Whatever comes next, itll be my life. My choice. My pathno more waiting in an empty room.
