When the Obsessiveness Leaves Me

After the car accident, my memory reset to ten years ago—to the afternoon I confessed my feelings to Caleb Blackwood at my NYU graduation art exhibition.

I scoured every app on my phone, desperately trying to find proof that Caleb was my husband, but next to his name in my contacts was just an impersonal "Lawyer" tag. Our chat history was completely blank.

In desperation, I called my best friend, Maya Chen, to ask if my confession that day had been successful. She exploded at me like a lit powder keg. "Willow Hayes, have you lost your mind? Successful? You're about to divorce him!"

After hanging up, the first thought that flashed through my mind was, Wow, I'm amazing. I actually managed to land the formidable Caleb Blackwood.

My second thought was sheer confusion as I stared at the divorce papers and a one-way ticket to Florence on the nightstand.

"Who wants a divorce? Me? Have I lost my mind?"

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1

The day Caleb Blackwood came to the hospital to pick me up—with another woman by his side—I shoved the divorce papers and plane ticket deep into my purse.

Although I’d lost ten years of my memory, I recognized my own signature on that document. The date at the bottom was for yesterday.

"Willow Hayes, can you go one day without pulling some stunt for attention?" Caleb leaned against the hospital corridor wall, his voice as sharp and cold as a shard of ice. "If there's a next time, I'm not coming to get you. Period."

Ten years had carved a mature edge onto his face, but the one thing that hadn't changed was the cold indifference in his eyes.

The woman beside him was elegant, and there was something unsettlingly familiar about her.

"Caleb, don't talk to her like that," she said softly. "She just had an accident and lost her memory. She needs to rest."

Caleb let out a harsh, cold laugh, a flash of scorn in his eyes. "Lost her memory? Just another one of her ploys. All these years, and still so childish."

He pressed the elevator button. "Don't just stand there. Let's go."

Those harsh words would have sent anyone else storming off, if only to salvage their pride. But I just smiled, squeezed into the elevator, and deliberately wedged myself against his side. "Hey, what's the rush? I'm sticking with you."

Caleb's brow furrowed, his face a mask of impatience. He opened his mouth to say something, but I grabbed his cuff and shook it playfully.

"If you don't let me lean on you, I'll start bawling right here. It’ll be embarrassing for both of us, but way more for you."

This was how I used to pester him ten years ago.

When he told me to stay away, I would first take his hand, then link my arm through his.

When he told me not to follow him, I would always "coincidentally" appear wherever he went.

I always did the opposite of what he wanted.

I chased him for so long. And in the end, didn't I win? Ten years later, Caleb was my husband.

I stole a glance at the sliver of a leather watch strap peeking out from his wrist, a warm, satisfying feeling blooming in my chest.

Capricorns are stubborn and slow to warm up. I've done my research.

Sure enough, Caleb’s expression shifted. A war of emotions seemed to rage across his face before he finally averted his gaze, looking toward the woman beside him.

"Sorry, Camilla. Looks like I'll have to take her home first."

A flicker of hurt crossed her face, but she still managed an elegant smile. "It's alright."

And just like that, it was settled. I buckled my seatbelt and rubbed my stomach. "Caleb, let's go get something to eat. The hospital food was disgusting. I'm starving."

He rattled off a string of excuses, but in the end, my persistence won out. He drove us in his black Bentley to a cafe near NYU.

The owner, Marco Rossi, lit up when he saw us. I used to drag Caleb here all the time during college. "Willow? Caleb? My God, has it been ten years? Look at you two, all grown up and successful."

I ignored the "ten years" part, slipped past Camilla, linked my arm through Caleb's, and gave a triumphant smile.

"We're not just all grown up, Marco. I'm Mrs. Blackwood."

I smiled and placed our order, just like I used to. "The usual. Two cinnamon lattes, no foam." I knew Caleb's preferences by heart, right down to how he took his coffee.

However, just as Marco was about to nod, Caleb cut in, "No. I only drink black coffee now. Unsweetened."

He turned his gaze to me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes before they went cold again. "Willow, my tastes changed a long time ago."

My smile froze, but I quickly reassured myself. It's fine. I've lost ten years of memories. A person's taste can change a lot in a decade.

I brushed it off and passed him the last croissant. "All the more reason to try new things together."

But Caleb didn't take it. Instead, he passed the croissant to the woman who had been sitting quietly.

"Cam. This is for you."

Cam.

The nickname stopped me in my tracks. In that instant, I understood why she looked so familiar.

Camilla De Vere, Caleb's legendary childhood sweetheart, the one his social circle considered the "real deal."

So some tastes, even after ten years, never changed.

Was this why? After a decade, did I decide to divorce the man I'd loved for so long, just because I saw her again?

A wave of bitterness rose in my chest. My fingers grazed the zipper of my purse. Inside were the divorce papers and an encrypted blog.

A voice whispered that if I opened that blog, I would find the reason I wanted to leave Caleb. But I only tightened my grip on the strap, refusing to look.

I loved him.

The twenty-year-old me, the one in control now, still loved Caleb with everything she had.

At the coffee table, Caleb and Camilla chatted away as if I weren't there, talking about ski resorts in Aspen and art auctions in Europe.

A bitter jealousy coiled in my stomach. I deliberately set my water glass down with a sharp clink, a desperate bid for his attention, but Caleb didn't even glance my way.

Perhaps the thirty-year-old me would have politely said, "Excuse me," and left with her dignity intact.

But the twenty-year-old me? I didn't know how to pretend to be magnanimous.

I shoved my chair back with a grating screech and snapped, "I am so pissed off, Caleb! And don't you dare try to talk your way out of this!"

I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the cafe.

Loving him didn't mean I would let him walk all over me.

I sat on a bench in Washington Square Park, waiting for him to chase after me, to apologize. But three hours passed, and he never showed up.

Lost in a world I no longer recognized, I forced myself to rally.

It's fine. I was used to Caleb's coldness. Otherwise, I never would have been able to marry him in the first place.

I crossed my legs and sent him a text: "Honey, where's our place? You know I've forgotten the way."

His reply came almost instantly: a location pin, followed by a caustic remark. "If your memory is really that fried, then stop wandering off and causing trouble."

I ignored the second half of the message and sent him a string of kissy-face emojis, adding playfully, "Thank you, darling!"

When I finally walked into the penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, the emptiness of the place hit me like a physical blow.

The home was a vast space with minimalist decor, quiet and barren. There was only one pair of slippers and one toothbrush. Even the king-sized bed had only one pillow.

It didn't feel like a home for two. It felt like a bachelor pad.

So I went to the storage room, found my dust-covered painting supplies and easel, and set them up again.

Then I stood before the huge white wall in the living room and started mixing my colors.

I couldn't wait to see the look on Caleb's face when he came home.

When he finally returned, he froze in the doorway, his brow furrowed instantly.

On the white wall of the living room, I had painted a massive sunrise—the first one we had watched together from the NYU rooftop, its golden-orange light spilling across the entire surface.

"Willow, I don't care if you've lost your memory or not. You're thirty years old. Can you stop acting like you're twenty? You've ruined the aesthetic!"

He didn't even step inside before pulling out his phone. "Maria? Get some workers to repaint the living room wall white tomorrow. What? Visual garbage? Yes, paint over all of it."

The mural I had spent all night painting, he called "visual garbage." Then he slammed the door and left.

My hand trembled, knocking a paint palette off the table. It shattered on the floor. I knelt, picking up the fragments, trying to piece them back together. The jagged cracks looked like poorly stitched scars.

I stroked its broken edges and whispered, "It's okay, you know how Caleb is. Don't cry, don't cry…"

Once again, I comforted myself.

In the days that followed, I tried every trick I could think of to "run into" him.

When it rained, I stood with an umbrella outside his Wall Street office building. Predictably, he drove off in his black Bentley with Camilla. As they passed, he didn't even glance my way, and the spray from his tires soaked me to the bone.

When I heard he was going to a private club in SoHo, I got there early, even wrangling a temporary membership just to get inside.

The moment he saw me, he had security escort me out without a second word, leaving me there, utterly humiliated.

Despite it all, I brushed it off and resolved to keep trying. But Caleb never once spared me a glance.

On the sixth day, he finally came home. I had spent the entire day in the kitchen, my hands blistered from preparing an elaborate French dinner.

He rubbed his temples, then had the maid clear the entire table of food. "Willow, can you stop with these self-indulgent charades? It's exhausting."

I hadn't meant to cry, but the weariness in his voice cut me deep. His eyes, full of disgust, stared at me as if everything I had done was worthless.

Tears welled and spilled, falling in silent, heavy drops onto the floor.

Caleb fell silent, then let out a sharp laugh. "Tears are the cheapest form of manipulation. You'd think you'd have learned that by now."

Hearing them from him wasn't self-deprecating; it was a verbal assault that stripped me of all dignity.

After he left, I sat there, staring at the cleared table, at this empty house filled with nothing but loneliness.

I thought, Did I truly not understand why my thirty-year-old self wanted a divorce? Or was I simply refusing to?

That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the encrypted blog and the unsigned divorce papers.

My best friend, Maya Chen, had once called me and asked, "What's so special about Caleb Blackwood? What made you love him for a whole decade?"

I could never quite explain it.

When we first met, I could list a hundred things I admired about him. But the more I loved him, the less I could put it into words.

Isn't that how crushes work? No rhyme or reason, just pouring all your love into one person until you're battered and broken, unable to turn back.

I closed the blog again.

Maybe my thirty-year-old self was too proud, too lost, and had left the choice to the girl who was still twenty in her mind—letting her decide on our behalf.

Even if it was for the last time.

I sent Caleb a text: "Caleb, I was wrong today. I'm sorry. Will you come home tomorrow? Please."