Sick Love
How long dyou reckon this free-spirited bird will stay married? Emma tried to talk some sense into me.
Time will tell, I smiled blissfully, not yet knowing those words would become the mottoand curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening like it was yesterday. A stuffy banquet hall, the scent of expensive perfume, endless chatter about money, and fake smiles. I stood there with a glass in hand, thinking how tired I was of it all. I was about to slip out when I heard a womans infectious laugh behind me. I turned, as if pulled by a string.
And there she was. Katie. Gesturing animatedly, telling some story to a group of men. Slim, in a simple dress, but with such fire in her hazel eyes that my carefully constructed, safe world crumbled in an instant.
Whos that? I asked Emma, an old friend.
My mate Katie, she sighed. Fair warningshes a hurricane in heels. Thrilling, but you might end up broken.
I barely heard the warning. I was already spellbound. For me, the son of professors who lectured 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 destroy you, son, Dad said, peering over his glasses. That girl wasnt made for marriage.
Shes a poisonous vine, Mum agreed. Shell strangle you dry.
But all I saw was sunshine. A hurricane was exactly what my rigidly scheduled life needed.
The first months were madness. Katie would wake me at three in the morning: James, look at the moon! Lets drive to the river! And we would. Shed strike up conversations with rough sleepers outside our flat, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaos. And II breathed it in like a prisoner tasting freedom.
Then came the first storm.
The financial crisis hit out of nowhere. My businessmy lifes workstaggered and collapsed within months. I fought to salvage what I could, but it was hopeless. One evening, I came home hollow-eyed, 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 it all? Her voice was sharp, merciless.
I couldnt breathe.
Katie, Im trying
Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship, she cut in. I wont drown with you. I need stability. You cant give me that anymore. Sorry.
She packed her bags right in front of me. My throat closed up.
Katie, wait please, I whispered. Ill fix this. Well fix it
She paused, tucking her bright red passport into her handbag. When she finally looked at me, there was no love, no regretjust icy irritation.
James, stop embarrassing yourself. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye.
The door slammed. The sound punched through my chest. I crumpled to the floor and sobbed like a child, smearing tears across my face. The world lost its colour. Food turned to ash. The air thickened.
Six months later, she came back.
I opened the doorand there she was. Thinner, tanned, smelling of someone elses cologne. My knees buckled. Katie stood on the threshold, sun-kissed, with a new haircut, wearing a designer coat I hadnt bought.
Well, she said, brushing past me, kicking off her heels. That broker turned out to be insufferable. Even his car stereo played classical.
She said it like shed popped out for milk, not slept with another man.
Instead of throwing her things down the stairs, instead of shouting, I felt wild, overwhelming joy. Shed chosen me!
Im sorry I failed you, I choked out. I wasnt strong enough.
She froze. When I looked up, her expression wasnt remorseit was satisfaction. Shed been right. Always right.
There were more departures.
First, a 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, imagining her laughing with him, looking at him the way she once had at me. The thoughts made me sick.
Next, a real manmuscled, cocky. I saw them in the park by chance. He whispered in her ear, and she threw her head back with that same laugh 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, nearly shouting:
James, wake up! Shes using you! She bragged that you apologised again! For what?
Because Im not enough. Because I bore her. Its my fault.
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 worse than any pain she caused.
One night, after shed returned from another mans bed, I broke. I walked into the bedroom. She slept sprawled across my side, serene, breathtaking. Sitting on the edge, I whispered:
Why? Why always me?
She stirred, stretching, flashing that same disarming smile.
Because youre my home, Jamie, she murmured sleepily. Youre always waiting.
There was no love in those wordsjust convenience. That hurt more than all her betrayals. But when she wrapped her arms around me, pressing her warm cheek to my chest, every shred of pride dissolved.
I hated myself in those moments, but I couldnt let go. Even knowing the door might slam again. Id wait. Because those stolen moments with Katie were gulps of air. Without her, there was only grey, silent emptiness.
She left again the day I nearly lost the last real part of me.
This time, with a gallerista sensitive soul, she sneered, eyeing my corporate ties. I was alone in our sterile flat when the phone rang. Dad had had a stroke.
Racing across London, his warnings echoed in my head: Shell break you, son. Id thought he meant my career, my money. He meant me. My soul.
I burst into the hospital room. Mum, always composed, wept silently by his bed. Dad lay pale, face slack, staring at the ceilinga shadow of the stern man whod raised me.
Something inside me snapped. I saw myself in himbroken, paralysed. Only his destroyer was illness; mine was love.
I took Mums trembling hand. Im sorry. I shouldve listened.
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. Not to throw them outjust 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 rubbish. My fingers hovered over the phone. But I remembered Dads face. For the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt understand. The messages cameconfused, angry, mocking: Jamie, what, on a diet? Wasting away without me? I didnt respond. Silence became my fortress.
Then she showed up. Tossed her bag down. James, fetch my suitcase from the car!
Youve misunderstood, I said quietly. This isnt your home anymore.
Fear flickered in her eyesthe first time in years shed lost control.
Are you ill?
Yes, Katie. I was. Now Im healing. And youyou were the sickness.
It was agony. Like detoxing from a drug. But Dads slow recovery, Mums quiet strength, kept me going.
The first months of freedom felt like convalescence. My body ached for the poison. I caught myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But it happened less each day.
Six months later, a postcard arrived 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 life.
Months later, Emma invited me to a gallery opening. Dont worry, your storm isnt here, she joked.
I wasnt afraid. I sipped wine, admired the art, and met a womans gazenot dazzling like Katies, but steady, kind. We talked about books, paintings. For once, I didnt have to perform.
Walking her out, I realised I wasnt anxious. No fear of saying the wrong thing. Just calm.
Turns out, you can just be yourself. No grand plans, no fantasies.
Whatever comes nextitll be my life. My choice. My pathno more waiting in an empty room.
