**Sick Love**
«Do you think that free-spirited bird will stay married for long?» Emma tried to talk some sense into me.
«Well see,» I replied with a blissful smile, unaware that those words would become the mottoand the curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening as if it were yesterday. A stifling banquet, the scent of expensive perfume, idle chatter about money, and fake smiles. Holding a glass, I thought about how tired I was of it all. I was ready to slip away when, suddenly, I heard an infectious laugh behind me. I turned as if pulled by a string.
And there she was. Katie. She was 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 Emma, an old friend.
«Thats my friend Katie,» she sighed. «A warningshes a walking disaster in a skirt. Being with her is like flyingthrilling, but you might crash.»
I barely heard the warning. I was spellbound. For me, a man whose professor parents lectured even over breakfast, Katie was life itself. It was love at first sightor, more accurately, a diagnosis with no cure.
We married six months later, against my parents pleas. «Shell break you, son,» my father said, peering over his glasses. «That girl wasnt made for marriage.»
«Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine,» my mother added. «Shell strangle you and drain you dry.»
But all I saw was sunlight. I thought, *A hurricane is exactly what my rigidly scheduled life needs.*
The first months of marriage were madness. Katie would wake me at three in the morning with a cry: «Thomas, look at that moon! Lets drive to the river!» And we would. Shed strike up conversations with vagrants by the door, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaos, and I inhaled it deeply, like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time.
Then came the first storm.
The financial crisis hit unexpectedly. My business, my lifes work, wobbled and collapsed within months. I fought to salvage what I could, but it was futile. One evening, I came home defeated, my eyes hollow. The ground was crumbling beneath me.
Katie met me at the doornot with an embrace, but with crossed arms and a cold, unfamiliar stare.
«Well, genius? Lost the fight?» Her voice was sharp, ruthless.
My breath caught. «Katie, Im trying»
«Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship,» she interrupted. «I dont want to drown, and I dont do poverty. 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,» I whispered, my voice breaking. «Ill fix this. *Well* fix it.»
She paused, tucked her bright red passport into her purse, and finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just icy irritation.
«Thomas, stop embarrassing yourself. Its pathetic. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye!»
The door slammed. The sound echoed in my chest like physical pain. I collapsed in the hallway and sobbed like a child, tears streaking my face. The world lost its color. Food turned tasteless, the air thick and heavy.
Katie returned six months later.
I opened the door, and there she stoodthinner, tanned, smelling of someone elses cologne. My knees nearly buckled.
«That broker turned out unbearable,» she said, breezing past me, kicking off her heels. «Even his car playlist was classical.»
She said it as if shed popped out for groceries, not spent months in another mans bed.
Instead of throwing her things down the stairs, instead of shouting, I felt a wild, overwhelming joy. *She came back. She chose me.*
«Im sorry I was weak. I failed you. Im sorry I couldnt be who you needed.»
She froze, surprised. When I looked up, I didnt see remorsejust satisfaction. Shed been right. Always right. And I? Wrong.
There were other departures.
First, a «guru» who whisked her off to the mountains to «find enlightenment.» I stayed indoors for two weeks, lying on the living room rug where wed once danced, staring blankly. I imagined her laughing with him, gazing at him the way she once had at me. The thoughts made me sick.
Then came the «real man»muscled, with a cocky smirk. I saw them in the park by chance. He whispered in her ear; she threw her head back and laughed *that* laughthe one that had once pierced my heart. My vision darkened.
Each time, she returned. Each time, I opened the door. Emma, whod introduced us, grabbed my shoulders after one reunion and nearly shouted:
«Thomas, wake up! Shes using you! She bragged that you apologized again! For *what*? Tell me, for Gods sake, *what*?»
«Because Im not enough. Because I cant hold her attention. Shes bored with me. Its my fault, Em. 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 was scarier than any pain she caused.
One night, after she returned from the «stallion,» I broke. I entered the bedroom. She slept sprawled across my side of the bed, serene, breathtaking. Sitting beside her, voice thick, I asked:
«Tell me why do you always come back to *me*?»
She stirred, stretched, and flashed *that* smilethe one that once swept me away.
«Because youre my home, Tommy,» she murmured sleepily. «My safe harbor. You always wait.»
There was no love in those words. Just convenience. And *that* hurt worse than all her betrayals combined. Yet when she wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her warm cheek to my chest, my pain, my pride, my willall dissolved.
I hated myself in those moments, but I couldnt let go, even knowing the door might slam again. And Id wait. Because those stolen moments when she was near were my only breath of air. Without her? Just endless, silent gray.
Katie left again the day I nearly lost the last real part of myself.
This time, with a gallery ownera «sensitive artist,» shed sneered, eyeing my corporate ties. Alone in our sterile flat, the phone rang. My father had had a stroke.
Rushing through London, his warnings replayed in my headthe ones Id once dismissed. *Shell break you, son.* Id thought he meant my career, my money. But he meant *me*. My soul.
In the hospital, my motheralways composedsat weeping by his bed. My father, pale and frail, stared at the ceiling. The mighty man whod taught me life was now a shadow. Staring at his limp hand, something inside me *clicked*. With chilling clarity, I saw myself in himbroken, paralyzed. Only, his ruin was illness. Mine? Love.
I took my mothers trembling hand. «Im sorry. 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 things. Almost threw them out, then stopped. Just shut the wardrobe door and taped a sign: *Waiting Room Closed.*
The hardest part? Not replying when she texted 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. Messages piled upsurprised, then angry, then mocking: *»Tommy, 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 yelled: *»Thomas, fetch my suitcase!»*
«You misunderstood,» I said softly, each word deliberate. «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. Very sick. But Im healing. And it hurts. You were my disease.»
It was agonylike withdrawal. But my fathers slow recovery steadied me. My mothers quiet strength. And my own will, finally directed at saving *myself*, not waiting for her.
The first months of freedom felt like recovery. My body and soul ached, detoxing from her poison. Id catch myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But the urges faded.
A postcard arrived six months later, from some tropical island: *»No one ever waited for me like you.»*
I moved her things to storage. Not anger. Not finality. Just hygiene. Making space for my life.
Months later, Emma invited me to a gallery opening.
«Dont worry, your hurricane isnt here,» she joked.
But I wasnt afraid. I studied the art, sipped wine, and met a womans gazenot dazzling like Katies, but calm, attentive. We talked about books, about paintings. No pretending. No forced enthusiasm.
Walking her out, I realized: I wasnt anxious. No fear of saying the wrong thing. Just peace.
For the first time, I could just *be*. No grand plans, no fantasies.
Whatever came next would be *mine*. My choice. My pathno more waiting in an empty room.
