As I stood at the entrance of the stadium, clutching the two coveted tickets for the farewell concert of the legendary male pop star, anticipation mixed with a tinge of sadness. The concert was supposed to be a special occasion, a final tribute to something I had always cherished. The moments ticked by slowly until finally, my husband, Jeremiah, showed up. But he wasn’t alone—his frail old lover, Monica, accompanied him.

“Joanna, Monica really wanted to see the concert, but she didn’t get a ticket. She’s sick and I need to be with her to grant her last wish. You don’t have to watch it today; there will be other times,” Jeremiah said, his voice carrying a hint of guilt but also a firm resolve.

The words cut through me like a knife. I slapped him hard, the sting of my hand barely registered as I held up the tickets and ripped one to shreds. I didn’t care about the tickets or the concert anymore; it was more about the principle and the pain of the moment.

Jeremiah, I have a terminal illness too! This concert is my final goodbye to you. We’re going to be separated! I thought to myself, overwhelmed by disappointment and frustration. The concert, once a beacon of joy, now felt like a cruel joke.

As the music swelled and the crowd cheered inside the stadium, my tears flowed freely. It wasn’t just the final performance of a legendary artist that moved me; it was the end of a ten-year emotional entanglement with Jeremiah. I felt an overwhelming sense of closure and finality.

Stepping outside, the storm greeted me with a ferocity that mirrored my inner turmoil—gusty winds, flashing lightning and hailstones the size of lychees pounded down relentlessly. I bitterly smiled, wondering if fate was playing a cruel joke on me.

To make matters worse, the online taxi I had booked in advance canceled suddenly. Struggling to shield myself from the downpour with my bag, I dashed to the nearest subway station, only to be pelted with hailstones. Arriving breathless and drenched, I discovered the last subway train had already departed, leaving me stranded in the desolate station.

With a sinking heart, I checked my phone. Jeremiah had neither answered my calls nor replied to my messages. I hesitated before calling him again. “Come and pick me up,” I said, my voice tinged with exhaustion and frustration.

On the other end of the line, a long silence was followed by Jeremiah’s voice, filled with anger. “You actually have the nerve to ask me to pick you up? How shameless!” Then the call disconnected abruptly, leaving me stunned and hurt. My husband had the audacity to come to me asking for tickets for his old lover, yet I couldn’t even ask him to pick me up?

As the hail continued to fall, I remembered that my best friend Jacqueline lived nearby. Determined not to let the storm get the best of me, I braved the elements and ran to her place. Jacqueline’s eyes widened in shock when she saw the bump on my forehead.

“Joanna, what happened? Didn’t you go to the concert with Jeremiah?” she asked, concern evident in her voice.

I shook my head, not in the mood for explanations and Jacqueline, understanding my silence, didn’t press further. After a quick shower, she handed me an ice pack and gently pressed it against my forehead to ease the swelling.

Lying in her bed, restless and unable to sleep, I checked my phone once more. Monica’s story was the last thing I needed to see. [Though I didn’t make it to the concert, I’m still the happiest woman with the man I love most by my side!] The photo showed Monica snuggled up in Jeremiah’s arms, intensifying my feelings of betrayal and sorrow.

I turned off my phone, trying to push away the painful images, but my mind raced through the ten years Jeremiah and I had spent together. How did we end up here? The realization was overwhelming and distressing.

The following day, dark circles under my eyes, I showed up at work. My colleagues, seeing my disheveled appearance, joked about how my excitement for the concert had turned into disappointment. They didn’t know it wasn’t just about the concert—it was about the end of a significant chapter in my life.

After a grueling day, I returned home, physically and emotionally drained. I didn’t bother turning on the lights or changing out of my wet clothes; I went straight to the bedroom. Jeremiah’s voice startled me as he said, “Joanna, you’re back now? I thought you’d forgotten our address.” I turned around to find him sitting on the sofa, his expression cold and accusatory.

“Why can’t I come back? Isn’t this my home?” I shot back, meeting his glare with my own, feeling a surge of defiance.

Jeremiah’s face turned red with anger. He stood up and marched toward me, his frustration evident. “Seriously? What happened last night isn’t finished yet. How dare you act cold toward me?”

I laughed bitterly. “Cold? Do you think I should have clung to the concert tickets, knelt before you and your mistress and begged you to take them? Or maybe I should have come running to congratulate you while you were cozy with her? I’m your legal wife and you’re with her almost every day. I didn’t come home for one night and suddenly I’m the cold one?”

My anger boiled over and I felt my face go pale as my chest heaved with each breath. Jeremiah stared at me in stunned disbelief. My sudden boldness was clearly a shock to him, breaking the pattern of our relationship.

After a moment of stunned silence, Jeremiah pointed a trembling finger at me. “When did you get so sharp-tongued? And don’t let me hear you call Monica a mistress again, or else—”

I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. “Do whatever you want. If you want to divorce me and make her your wife, go ahead. I’ll help you.” With that, I slammed the bedroom door behind me, leaving him staring after me, dumbfounded and speechless.

I slumped against the door, tears streaming silently as I sank to the floor, feeling utterly defeated. The acrid smell of smoke from the living room seeped through the door crack, making me cough uncontrollably. I had always been highly sensitive to cigarette smoke and had begged Jeremiah countless times not to smoke indoors, but he never listened. He’d always brush me off with, “I’ve smoked for years and my lungs are fine. You’re just too sensitive.”

He didn’t realize that while his lungs might be fine, I was suffering from the effects of secondhand smoke. Just a month ago, I was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer, but I kept it from him to avoid causing him worry. Every time I coughed in his presence, he dismissed it as me being overly dramatic. Tonight, I reached my breaking point. I flung open the door and yelled at him, “Smoking, smoking, smoking—why don’t you just smoke yourself to death? If you want to smoke, go outside!”

I grabbed the table lamp from the bedside and threw it at him before slamming the bedroom door shut. As I collapsed onto the bed, I heard him cursing and slamming the door before storming out. Tears continued to fall, mingling with the harsh coughing fits. I pulled out a tissue to cover my mouth and, with shaking hands, turned on the light. When I looked at the tissue, it was stained with blood.

The doctor had told me I had only a few months left and advised me to make the most of my remaining time. I had initially thought I could just ignore Monica and stick it out with Jeremiah until the end, but now it seemed impossible. It wasn’t that I couldn’t wait, but rather that they couldn’t. Looking back at how Jeremiah and I met and fell in love, there wasn’t any grand, heroic story—no earth-shattering drama. He simply needed someone to comfort him after a breakup and I, who had secretly been in love with him for years, took advantage of that chance.

I was the one who pursued him and treated him like a king for years before he finally agreed to marry me. Monica was his childhood sweetheart and the dream girl he could never have because his parents disapproved of her; she was a socialite in college. They, however, were very fond of me, a girl with an ordinary but respectable background.

Throughout our years together, despite any gratitude or flaws in his character, Jeremiah was generally good to me. He would buy me whatever I wanted with just a word and even gave me a black card to use as I pleased. For ten years, we lived a relatively peaceful life. The house was filled with laughter, the kind that had once come easily and life felt predictable in its simplicity. But predictability can be a double-edged sword.

About three years ago, when Monica returned from studying abroad, everything changed. She reached out to Jeremiah and their relationship quickly reignited. At first, their meetings were discreet and I made a fuss a few times when I caught wind of it. But as they began seeing each other more frequently, I felt physically and emotionally drained. I had hoped that Jeremiah would eventually lose interest and come back to me, as men often do with new relationships, but I was mistaken.

I was no longer the center of his world and it hurt more than I wanted to admit. The day I realized I was becoming obsolete, I took a sick day from work, hoping rest would ease my persistent cough. I spent the day lying in bed, struggling with the constant discomfort and dread of what was to come. My mind replayed Jeremiah’s increasingly frequent absences, each one a silent reminder of how I was being pushed to the periphery.

The next day, I reluctantly went to the hospital for a prescription of strong cough medicine. I had been coughing persistently at night, which was affecting my sleep. The hospital visit felt like a mundane routine in the midst of my chaotic life. When I left the hospital, it was already dark. Just as I was about to take a taxi home, my phone buzzed. It was Jeremiah.

After hesitating, I answered. His voice on the other end was odd. “Joanna, what are you trying to do? You’re avoiding me over something minor and secretly sleeping with another man!” The accusation hit me like a thunderclap.

I was shocked. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, sleeping with another man?”

The accusations were absurd. “Jeremiah, are you serious? You’re accusing me of cheating when you’ve been spending all your time with Monica? I’m not seeing anyone else. I’ve been sick and all I’ve done is try to keep myself together.”

"Oh, stop pretending. I’m at your office right now and someone sent a huge bouquet of roses to your desk. The card says, ‘My queen, you are the most beautiful rose in my heart,’ signed, ‘Jackie, the boss.’ You act so serious every day, but you’re secretly seeing another man behind my back!” he shot back.

I quickly realized what was happening. 'Jackie' was Jacqueline’s online name and she probably sent the flowers to cheer me up after hearing about my problems with Jeremiah. It wasn’t unusual for best friends to send flowers to support each other and Jacqueline had a playful side, often jokingly calling herself the 'boss' and referring to me as her ‘spoiled little baby.’ I rolled my eyes, not feeling up to explaining.

"If that’s what you think, then so be it."

Jeremiah was silent for a moment before asking coldly, "Where are you? I’ll come pick you up." I was tempted to refuse but agreed when I thought about discussing the divorce with him.

"Out in front of Central Hospital."

Given the traffic, it would only take him a little over ten minutes to get there from his office.

I waited for half an hour, pacing nervously and checking my watch. Finally, Jeremiah's BMW appeared, cutting through the honking cars. To my surprise, Monica was sitting in the passenger seat—the one that used to be mine. Jeremiah got out and unlocked the rear door. When he saw me standing there unmoving, his face hardened into a scowl. He rolled down the window and said impatiently, "What are you doing standing there? Get in the car!"

I glanced coldly at Monica, who was sitting in the front with a self-satisfied smirk. Jeremiah's irritation was palpable. "I just dropped Monica off. She’s not feeling well, so I let her sit in the front. Does that bother you?"

Monica, with exaggerated politeness, reached for her seatbelt but didn’t actually unfasten it. "Oh, sorry Joanna, I forgot this is your seat. I’ll move to the back," she said, her tone dripping with insincerity. I sneered at her pretense and opened the back door.

"No need. If you want to stay in the front, go ahead. And if you like Jeremiah, I can step aside for you."

Jeremiah’s frustration was evident as he scolded from the front. "Joanna, are you out of your mind? I went out of my way to pick you up and this is how you act? It’s disgusting!"

"Oh, disgusting? You bring your mistress along to pick me up and I’m the one being called disgusting?" I retorted, my voice sharp.

Jeremiah, likely trying to avoid upsetting Monica, reined in his anger and slammed the accelerator. The engine roared to life and I could feel the tension radiating from him. Watching his frustration gave me a strange sense of satisfaction.

Despite being married for ten years, he rarely picked me up from work—no more than five times. Yet, that didn’t mean the passenger seat was open to other women. I glanced at his angry reflection in the rearview mirror and asked coldly, "What’s with the sudden interest in picking me up today?"

Jeremiah took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. His hand reached for his cigarette box, but his fingers hesitated when he remembered Monica was in the car. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. My heart was filled with a bitter self-mockery—he used to smoke without a second thought when he was with me, but now he seemed so self-conscious.

It wasn’t that he lacked restraint; he just didn’t care about me. Glancing at me through the rearview mirror, Jeremiah said, "We’ve had some misunderstandings lately. I’ve booked a table at your favorite restaurant. Let’s talk things over."

"Well, that works out because I have something I need to talk to you about, too," I said.

The car soon stopped at Monica’s apartment and Jeremiah parked it smoothly. He hurriedly unbuckled his seat belt, seeming eager to open the door for Monica—a courtesy I’d never received. He rushed to her side, helping her out of the car with an overly tender touch, as if every movement had been rehearsed. Monica’s face displayed a dramatic mix of discomfort and relief, clearly enjoying the attention.

Jeremiah helped Monica downstairs and I watched from the car, feeling a mix of anger and disgust. Monica suddenly squatted down with a pained look and Jeremiah helped her to a bench with exaggerated care. His actions felt like a cruel reminder of how far we had fallen.

When he returned to the car, his face was a mask of irritation. He frowned as he opened my door, saying, "Monica’s not feeling well. I need to stay with her, so I’ve canceled our reservation. We’ll talk another time. Also, I might need the car later, so you should take a taxi home."

Without waiting for me to respond, Jeremiah unbuckled my seat belt and glared at me, clearly expecting me to get out immediately. I figured he might just drag me out if I didn’t move, so I got out of the car with a smirk and said, "Have a great night with Monica. If it doesn’t go as planned, don’t forget to take your medicine."

Jeremiah’s face flushed red, his expression a mixture of anger and humiliation. "Joanna, when did you become so rude? Monica has stage three heart disease, you know!"

I pulled out the printed divorce agreement from my bag and threw it at him, the document fluttering in the air before landing at his feet. "Sign it now!" I demanded, my voice trembling with the weight of unresolved pain and betrayal.

Jeremiah stared at the agreement in disbelief, his eyes darting between the document and my defiant expression. The silence between us was thick with unresolved emotions and shattered trust.