“Why are you here?” I asked softly, my voice nearly carried away by the evening breeze.

“Today’s our wedding anniversary,” he said, opening the car door for me, his tone calm—as if nothing had ever happened.

“Is it?” I gave a faint smile. “Sorry, I forgot.”

“Mabel, you never forget.” He frowned slightly, as though it was the first time he’d realized I had truly changed.

Once, I would spend days preparing for our anniversaries—

setting the table by hand, choosing scented candles, planning surprises.

He used to smile then.

Later, he started calling me “too dramatic,” “too much.”

I still remembered the time he pulled me aside in front of his colleagues, lowering his voice to scold me:

“Mabel, do you have to make such a scene? It’s embarrassing.”

My smile froze that day.

And now, he acted as if none of it had ever happened.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s get dinner.”

The car ride was silent—so quiet I could hear our breathing.

Streetlights slid past the window one by one, and my mind went blank.

He glanced at me a few times before finally breaking the silence.

“Are you still mad?”

“No,” I said flatly.

“No? Then what’s that look supposed to mean?”

His voice sharpened, tinged with impatience.

“I rushed back just to spend time with you, and this is the attitude I get?”

I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

He sighed, as though offering a reluctant compromise.

“Fine. I know you’re upset about Pearl. I won’t talk to her anymore, alright?”

I looked at him, a faint chill of irony rising in my chest.

Did he really think a few careless words could erase the lies, the betrayal, the distance?

“Happy now?” he asked again.

I still didn’t answer.

The car pulled into a luxury restaurant parking lot.

He had already made a reservation—flowers, gifts, the whole setup.

A perfect little scene, rehearsed for a perfect reconciliation.

Just as I reached for the gift box, his phone rang.

The ringtone sliced through the air, shrill and unforgiving.

“Fever?... How high?... Okay, I’ll come right away.”

His words spilled out fast, full of urgency.

When he hung up, he hesitated before meeting my eyes.

“It’s Pearl. Her kid’s sick—high fever. I have to go.”

I smiled faintly, my voice even and hollow.

“It’s fine. Go ahead. The child’s more important.”

He looked at me, as if wanting to explain more, but finally only said,

“I’ll come back for you soon,” and hurried out.

I sat alone at that carefully decorated table, staring at the half-eaten cake.

Outside, the rain fell harder,

raindrops drumming against the glass like a restless heartbeat.

I quietly finished the last bite, then stood and left.

By the time I got home, the rain had soaked me through.

I took off my coat and showered in hot water, but no warmth could drive away the cold.

As I was drying my hair, my phone lit up.

A new post from Pearl.

In the photo, she leaned against a sofa with her child in her arms.

John crouched beside them, taking the boy’s temperature.

The lighting in the room was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside my window.

At dawn, the door lock clicked.

John was back.

He barely crossed the threshold before explaining in a rush,

“Jack’s fever was bad last night—it wouldn’t go down. I had to stay.”

Jack—

Pearl’s child.

That name meant nothing to me—

so foreign it might as well have belonged to another language.

“So, how is he now? The child—feeling any better?”

My voice was calm, even tinged with what could almost be mistaken for concern.

“Why didn’t you stay longer? Taking care of a sick kid alone must be hard.”

He froze mid-movement, then looked up, irritation flickering in his eyes.

“Are you mocking me again?”

He rubbed his temples, sighing, exhaustion and a hint of innocence threading through his tone.

“I didn’t sleep all night, Mabel. I was just taking care of the kid, nothing else.”

“Then you should rest,” I said evenly, reaching for my bag. “I need to get to work.”

“Mabel.”

He stopped me at the door.

I turned back. “What is it?”

“Let’s make up for our anniversary another day, okay?”

His voice was careful—almost pleading.

I smiled, a light, hollow curve of the lips. “That’s not necessary. I’m not angry.”

He froze for a beat, then stepped forward and pulled me into a hug.

It was so light, it felt like a polite formality.

“There’s a company retreat this weekend,” he murmured near my ear.

“Come with me. Everyone’s been wanting to meet you.”

I didn’t answer right away.

From the day I married him, I knew I was an outsider.

He had roots here—family, connections, a circle.

I was just the doctor from another city who stayed behind after graduation.

His colleagues smiled at me politely, but I could feel the distance.

They’d come to me for prescriptions and check-ups,

but never once for friendship.

And John—

He had never introduced me, not once, as his wife.

“I might have to work overtime next week,” I said quietly.

He clenched his jaw, the effort of restraint visible in the muscle by his temple.

“Suit yourself.”

I didn’t go.

But that weekend, my work phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

When I finally looked, I realized someone had added me to their group chat for the retreat.

Photos flooded in—

sunlight, lawn picnics, bonfires, champagne, laughter.

One image after another, bright and careless.

And there, in the middle of it all—

John, holding Pearl as they walked across the grass.

Her arms around his neck, her cheek resting against his chest,

a smile blooming like spring.

All she had to do was lift her chin, and she could kiss his jaw.

The comments beneath were a chorus of praise:

“Perfect match!”

“Such chemistry!”

“They should make it official already!”

Each word felt like a needle, sharp and deliberate.

I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

After a few seconds, I finally typed two words:

Perfect couple.

And added a clapping emoji.

I watched the message send successfully,

then quietly pressed Leave Group Chat.

The screen went black again.

The office lights cast a pale glow across my hands.

I lowered my head and continued writing patient notes—

line after line, calm and precise.

By the time I put my pen down, the sky outside was completely dark.

Only then did I notice my phone—

the screen filled with missed calls.

John.

Dozens of them.

And beneath them, his messages on WhatsApp—

one after another, flooding in.

I didn’t open a single one.

I just sat there, watching those notifications blink,

like signals from a stranger still pretending to play the role of husband.