**Sick Love**
Do you really think that free spirit will stay married for long? Eleanor tried to talk some sense into me.
Well see, I smiled dreamily, not yet knowing those words would become the mottoand curseof my entire life.
I remember that evening like it was yesterday. A stifling banquet, the cloying scent of expensive perfume, mindless chatter about money, fake smiles. I stood with a glass in hand, thinking how sick I was of it all. I was about to slip away when I heard a womans infectious laugh behind me. I turned as if yanked 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 hazel eyes that my carefully ordered, safe world shattered instantly.
Whos that? I asked Eleanor, an old acquaintance.
My friend Katie, she sighed. Fair warningshes a natural disaster in a skirt. Being with her is like flyingthrilling, but you might crash.
I didnt hear the warning. I was already entranced. For a man whose professor parents lectured over breakfast, Katie was life itself. It was love at first sightor, more accurately, an incurable diagnosis.
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 agreed. Shell strangle you dry.
But all I saw was sunlight. A hurricane was exactly what my rigid, scheduled life had been missing.
The first months were madness. Katie would wake me at 3 a.m., whispering, Oliver, look at the moon! Lets drive to the river! And we would. Shed strike up conversations with homeless men by the door, and within minutes, theyd pour their life stories into her lap. She was chaos. And II inhaled it like a prisoner breathing free air for the first time.
Then came the first thunderclap.
The crisis hit without warning. The market crashed. My businessmy lifes workwavered, then collapsed in months. I fought to salvage what I could, but it was useless. One evening, I came home hollow-eyed, defeated. The ground was 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.
I choked.
Katie, ImIm trying
Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship, she cut in. I dont drown, Oliver. 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 closed.
Katie, waitplease My voice cracked. Ill fix this. *We* can fix this
She paused, tucked her bright red passport into her purse, and finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just icy irritation.
Oliver, stop embarrassing yourself. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye!
The door slammed. The sound echoed in my chest like a physical blow. I collapsed in the hallway, crying like a child, smearing tears across my face. The world lost its color. Food turned to ash. The air grew thick, suffocating.
Katie came back six months later.
I opened the doorand there she stood. Thinner, tanned, smelling of someone elses cologne. My legs nearly gave out.
Well, she said, brushing past me, kicking off her heels. That broker was unbearable. Even his car playlist was classical.
She said it like shed returned from the shops, not another mans bed.
And instead of throwing her things down the stairs, instead of shoutingI felt a wild, all-consuming joy. Shed chosen *me*.
Im sorry I was weak I failed you
She froze. Not remorse in her eyes*satisfaction*. Shed been right. She was always right.
There were more departures.
First, a 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, gazing at him the way she once had at me. The thoughts made me sick.
Then came the real manmuscled, grinning. I saw them in the park. He whispered in her ear. She threw her head back, laughing *that* laughthe one that had once pierced my heart. My vision darkened.
And each time, she returned. Each time, I was there to open the door.
Eleanor grabbed my shoulders after one such return, nearly shouting, Oliver, wake up! Shes using you! She *brags* about your apologies! 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 she returned from yet another stallion, I broke. 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, stretched, and flashed *that* smilethe one that had once demolished every barrier.
Because youre my home, Ollie, 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 me, pressed her cheek to my chestevery shred of pain, pride, willdissolved.
I hated myself in those moments. But I couldnt let her go. Even knowing the door might slam again. Even knowing Id wait. Because those stolen moments when she was here were the only air I could breathe. Without herjust endless, silent gray.
Katie left again the day I nearly lost the last remnant of my true self.
This time, with a gallerista sensitive soul, she sneered, eyeing my corporate ties. I was alone once more in our sterile flat.
Then the phone rang. My father had had a stroke.
Rushing to the hospital, his warnings echoed in my head. *Shell break you, son.* Id thought he meant my career, my money. But he meant *me*. My soul.
In the hospital room, my motheralways composedsat weeping silently. My father, pale and slack-jawed, stared at the ceiling. A shadow of the formidable man whod taught me lifes lessons.
Something inside me *clicked*. I saw myself in himjust as broken, just as paralyzed. Only his ruin was illness. Mine was love.
I took my mothers trembling hand, rested my head on her shoulder.
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 clothes. Nearly tossed them. But instead, I shut the wardrobe door and taped a sign on it: *Waiting room closed.*
The hardest part was ignoring her text two weeks later: *Miss our coffee. He drinks some pretentious rubbish.* My fingers itched to reply *Come home.* But I remembered my fathers face. And for the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt understand. The messages grew frantic, then furious, then mocking: *Ollie, on a diet? Wasting away without me?* I said nothing. Silence became my fortress.
Then she showed up. Dropped her bag in the hall. Oliver, fetch my suitcase from the car!
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 ill?
Yes, Katie. I was very ill. But Im healing now. And it hurts. You were my sickness.
The withdrawal was agony. But I had my fathers slow recovery. My mothers quiet strength. And my own willno longer spent waiting, but *living*.
The first months of freedom felt like detox. My body ached for the poison. I caught myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But each day, it happened less.
Six months later, Katie sent a postcard from some tropical island: *No one ever waited for me like you did.*
I moved her things to storage. Not anger. Not finality. Just hygiene. Making space for my own life.
Eleanor invited me to a gallery opening. Dont worry, she joked. Your storm wont be here.
I wasnt afraid. I sipped wine, studied the art, and met a womans gazenot dazzling like Katies, but steady, kind. We talked about books, paintings. No pretense. No forced enthusiasm.
Walking her out, I realizedI wasnt anxious. Not afraid of saying the wrong thing. Just calm.
Turns out, you can just *be*. No grand plans. No fantasies.
Whatever comes nextitll be *my* life. *My* choice.
No more waiting in an empty room.
