Sick Love
Do you really think that free-spirited bird will stay married for long? Eliza tried to talk some sense into me.
Time will tell, I smiled dreamily, unaware those words would become the mottoand curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening like it was yesterday. The stifling banquet hall, the cloying scent of expensive perfume, the chatter about money, the plastic smiles. I stood with a glass in hand, thinking how tired I was of it all. I was about to slip away when a womans infectious laughter rang out behind me. I turned as if yanked by a string.
And there she was. Katie. Animated, gesturing as she told some story to a circle of men. Slender, in a simple dress, but with such fire in her hazel eyes that my carefully constructed, safe world shattered on the spot.
Whos that? I asked Eliza, an old friend.
Thats Katiemy best friend, she sighed. Fair warning, shes a hurricane in heels. Being with her is like riding a rollercoasterthrilling, but you might walk away broken.
I didnt hear the warning. I was already lost. For someone raised by professors who lectured over breakfast, Katie was life itself. It was love at first sightor, more accurately, an illness with no cure.
We married six months later, against my parents pleas. *Shell destroy you, son,* my father said, peering over his glasses. *That girl isnt meant for marriage.*
*Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine,* my mother added. *Shell strangle you dry.*
But I only saw sunshine. A storm was exactly what my meticulously scheduled life had been missing.
The early days were madness. Katie would wake me at 3 AM, whispering, *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 chaosand I breathed it in like a prisoner tasting freedom.
Then, the first crack of thunder.
The financial crash hit without warning. My business, my lifes work, wobbled and collapsed within months. I tried salvaging what I could, but it was hopeless. One evening, I came home hollow-eyed, defeated. The ground was slipping away.
Katie met me at the doornot with an embrace, but with crossed arms and a cold, foreign stare.
*Well, genius? Lost the game?* Her voice was sharp, merciless.
I choked. *Katie, Im trying*
*Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship,* she cut in. *And I wont drown with you. I need stability. You cant give that anymore. Sorry.*
She packed her bags right in front of me. My throat closed. *Wait please,* I whispered. *Ill fix this. Well fix it together.*
She paused, tucked her crimson passport into her purse, and finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just icy irritation.
*James, stop groveling. Its pathetic. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye.*
The door slammed. The sound struck my chest like a physical blow. I collapsed in the hallway, weeping like a child, smearing tears across my face. The world drained of color. Food turned to ash. The air thickened.
Six months later, she returned.
I opened the doorand there she stood. Thinner, tanned, smelling of unfamiliar perfume. My legs nearly gave way. Katie leaned against the frame, sun-kissed, hair freshly cut, wearing a designer coat I hadnt bought.
*Well,* she said, slipping past me, kicking off her heels. *That broker turned out to be unbearable. Even his car playlist was classical.*
She said it lightly, as if returning from the shopsnot another mans bed.
And instead of throwing her things down the stairs, instead of screamingI felt wild, dizzying relief. She came back! She chose me!
*Im sorry I failed you,* I stammered. *I wasnt enough.*
She froze. When I looked up, her expression wasnt remorseit was satisfaction. Shed been right. Always right. And I? Always wrong.
There were more departures.
First, a guru who whisked her away 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, gazing at him the way she once had at me. The thoughts made me sick.
Then, the real manmuscled, smug. I spotted them in Hyde Park. He whispered in her ear; she threw her head back and laughed *that* laughthe one that had once pierced my heart. My vision darkened.
Yet each time, she returned. And each time, I was there to open the door.
Eliza finally grabbed my shoulders after one such homecoming, near shouting:
*James, wake up! Shes using you! She bragged that you *apologized* again! For *what*?*
*For not being enough. For boring her. Its my fault, Eliza. Always mine.*
I wasnt a man. I was a doormat. A waiting room for Katies convenience. And the worst part? I *chose* it. Because life without her seemed worse than any pain she inflicted.
One night, after she returned from yet another staying with friends, I snapped. I stood over her as she slept, sprawled across my side of the bed, breathtakingly beautiful.
*Why?* I whispered, voice thick. *Why do you always come back to *me*?*
She stirred, stretching, flashing *that* smilethe one that once disarmed me.
*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 more than all her betrayals combined. Yet when she wrapped her arms around me, pressed her warm cheek to my chest, my resolve melted.
I hated myselfbut I couldnt let go. Even knowing the door might slam again. Id wait. Because those stolen moments when she stayed were all I had. Without her? Only endless, silent gray.
The final time she left was the day I nearly lost the last remnant of my real self.
This time, it was a gallerista sensitive soul, she sneered, eyeing my corporate ties. I was alone again in our sterile flat when the phone rang.
My father had a stroke.
Rushing through London, his warnings echoed in my head*Shell break you, son*words Id once laughed off. Id thought he meant my career. My money. But he meant *me*. My soul.
In the hospital, my motheralways composedsat weeping, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. My father lay pale, face slack, staring at the ceiling. A shadow of the stern man whod raised me.
Something in me *clicked*. A physical snap. In his helplessness, I saw my ownparalyzed, not by illness, but by love.
*Im sorry,* I whispered, gripping my mothers trembling hand. *I didnt listen.*
*We always hoped youd wake up,* she murmured.
That night, back in the empty flat, I did the first thing that came to mind. I packed Katies clothes. Not to discard themjust shut the wardrobe and taped a sign: *Waiting room closed.*
The hardest part was ignoring her text after two weeks: *Miss our coffee. He drinks some pretentious dust here.* My fingers itched to reply *Come home.* But I remembered my fathers face.
For the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt understand. Messages turned angry, then mocking: *Jamie, on a hunger strike? Pining without me?* Still, I said nothing. Silence became my fortress.
Then she showed up unannounced, tossing her bag in the hall. *James! Fetch my suitcase from the car!*
*You dont get it,* I said, soft but clear. *This isnt your home anymore.*
Fear flickered in her eyes*for the first time ever*. Shed lost control.
*Are you ill?*
*Yes, Katie. Very. But Im healing. And it hurts. You were my sickness.*
The withdrawal was agony. Like detoxing from a drug. But my fathers quiet recovery, my mothers steady presencethey held me up. Slowly, the craving faded. The compulsive phone checks, the listening for footstepsless and less.
Six months later, Katie sent a postcard from some tropical island: *No one ever waited like you.*
I moved her things to storage. Not out of angerjust hygiene. Making space for my own life.
Months after, Eliza invited me to a gallery opening. *Dont worryyour hurricane isnt here,* she joked.
And I wasnt afraid. I sipped wine, admired the art, and met a womans gazenot dazzling like Katies, but warm, steady. We talked about books, paintings. For once, I didnt have to pretend.
Walking her out, I realizedI wasnt anxious. No fear of saying the wrong thing. No desperate need to impress. Just calm.
Turns out, you can just *be*. No guessing, no waiting, no borrowed life.
Whatever comes next? Itll be mine. My choice. My pathno more waiting in empty rooms.
