I worked three jobs to pay off my boyfriend Deacon Foster's debts after his failed investment. One day, while rushing to deliver food, dusty and exhausted, I spotted him in the car, laughing with his friend, Daphne Collins. They were far too close. He caught sight of me, his face twisting in disgust.

"Look at her," he sneered, his hand gripping Daphne's waist, "She reeks of sweat every day, then asks if I love her. It's pathetic. I'm sick of it."

When I got home later that day, I found lace underwear and unused condoms tossed carelessly in the car.

But I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I quietly packed my things, my heart numb, and called my parents.

"Mom, Dad," I said softly, "I was wrong. I think it's time to study abroad and start living for myself."

——

When I came up from the garage, Deacon had just finished his meal and was getting up from the table. His eyes were glued to his phone, a faint, affectionate smile occasionally playing on his lips. He didn’t even glance my way as he walked past, but he stopped mid-step, his voice casual and dismissive.

"I’m done eating. Make sure to clean up. You’re out all day, and the house is a mess. How can I even think about marrying you if this is how you are?"

In the past, I would’ve mumbled an apology, hurried to clean up, desperate to avoid conflict. But this time, I stood still. I didn’t speak, didn’t rush to obey.

He finally looked up, startled, a flicker of surprise crossing his face as he realized I wasn’t moving to his tune anymore.

He glanced down and noticed the scars on my hands, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where have you been? Clean yourself up. You look terrible."

It was always like this—nothing I did was ever good enough for him. In his eyes, I was useless.

I stared at him, at the man I had once loved. His fingers never stopped swiping across his phone screen, completely engrossed. From where I stood, I could see the chat logs filled with lively conversations—flirtatious, easy, and full of life.

My gaze shifted to my own hands, the fingers scarred and worn from working endlessly for him. Then I thought about our conversations—if they could even be called that. Most were just me talking to myself, sending messages that went ignored.

Except when I transferred money or handed over my paycheck. Those were the only times he bothered to reply, indulging me with short, transactional words like a reward for my effort.

I felt a bitter smile tug at my lips.

Doesn't he know where I’ve been? Every day, I work three jobs just to pay off his debts. When I get home at night, I’m so exhausted I can barely stand, but I still clean, cook, and keep the house in order. My body aches, my heart hurts, but my face remains calm.

"Yes," I answered quietly, my voice steady.

Deacon sneered, as if my compliance was expected. He strolled past me, still absorbed in his phone, knowing all too well that no matter how far he pushed, I wouldn’t leave him. He had no reason to believe otherwise.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he stopped. "By the way, you've worked hard lately," he said casually. "I was out today and bought you your favorite mutton. It’s on the table. You can heat it up later."

I looked at him, a deep ache settling in my chest. "Deacon," I said quietly, "I don’t like mutton. I’m allergic to it."

The words seemed to echo in the sudden silence that followed. He froze mid-type, his expression faltering, embarrassment flickering across his face. His mouth opened, but he seemed unsure of what to say.

I raised my eyes to meet his, my voice soft, trembling slightly with weakness. "I’m allergic to mutton. So... who loves mutton?"

It felt like I was asking him, but in truth, I was asking myself. The sour ache in my chest tightened, and tears threatened to spill. I stared at him, my gaze fixed, hoping—desperately—for an answer that would make sense of it all.

Deacon paused for a moment, then shrugged with cold indifference. "If you’re allergic, just throw it away."

I looked at the mutton on the table. The oil had solidified into an unappetizing white mass, and just the sight of it made my stomach churn. I knew, deep down, this wasn’t bought for me.

It was the leftovers from Deacon’s lunch with his friend, Daphne. I had seen them together earlier today when I was rushing between deliveries, running into the restaurant to pick up an order.

There he was, peeling shrimp for her—meticulously, tenderly—placing them one by one on her plate. Daphne's eyes sparkled with laughter, her smile wide and carefree.

Later, I saw the same image again, but this time through her social media. The caption cut deeper than I expected: "The happiest girls never have to peel their own shrimp!"

But then, I saw the comment below Daphne's post:

"If possible, I’d peel shrimp for you for the rest of my life."

The words were simple but laced with affection, and in the picture, Deacon and Daphne were nestled close together, like the leads in a romantic Korean drama, surrounded by an invisible aura of pink, dreamy bubbles. Even the couple at the next table glanced over, eyes filled with envy, and the girlfriend playfully punched her boyfriend, as if wishing for the same attention.

I stood there, wearing my yellow delivery uniform, and turned away quickly before they could see me. My reflection caught my eye for a moment—skin roughened from long days in the sun and wind, hands worn from endless work.

Inside, it felt like a flood of grievances was building up, so thick and heavy that I didn’t even know how to let it out.

I grabbed the takeaway from the front desk and walked out the door. The moment I got on my bike, the tears I’d been holding back spilled over, running down my cheeks in heavy drops, blurring my vision. I didn’t care about the puzzled glances from the people around me—I just wanted to cry, to let it all out.

So he could peel shrimp for someone else.

The realization hit me hard. Every Saturday and Sunday, Deacon and I would go out to eat. I remembered once, I ordered shrimp and playfully asked him to peel them for me. I thought maybe it would be a small, tender moment between us.

But he just looked at me, his tone ice-cold. "Why? Don’t you have hands? I can't peel them. I'm allergic to shrimp. Eat it or don’t. If you don’t want to, leave it."

I had felt the sting of his words so deeply then—my eyes reddened with shame, my face flushed with embarrassment.

I only remember eating that entire meal through my tears. Every bite tasted overwhelmingly salty, mixed with the pain I couldn’t swallow. After that day, I never ordered shrimp again when I was with Deacon.

But now, he was offering to peel shrimp for someone else for a lifetime.

What about me? I wondered bitterly. What am I in your heart?

As I looked at Deacon’s face, doubt crept into my thoughts. Was I ever more than a convenience to him? Before I could sink deeper into my own questions, he spoke again, his tone casual but demanding.

"How much have you earned these days? The repayment deadline is coming up. Don’t forget to transfer the money on time. And if you have time, take on more orders. A few hours of rest a day is enough. I’ve spent a lot recently to treat the bosses."

His words sliced through me, stripping away the remnants of hope. I blinked away the emotions welling up in my eyes, forcing a bitter smile.

I wanted to respond, but the weight of my exhaustion, of everything I’d given up for him, was too heavy. The bitterness stuck in my throat, and for a moment, I was too broken to speak.

What does he mean he has no money to treat the bosses? The truth was painfully clear: he had spent it all on Daphne. I felt so foolish for believing his lies about going out to "network" every day. In Deacon's eyes, I must be a complete idiot.

I kept my expression neutral and continued to nod in agreement, even as my heart sank. His satisfaction was evident as he noticed my obedience, a smirk creeping across his face.

As he walked into the e-sports room, he began sending voice messages, his tone dripping with a sweetness that cut me deep. “Thank you for waiting for me. I’ll be there soon.” It was the same gentle inflection he used when he was smitten with someone.

I knew exactly who that someone was—his game character’s partner.

He hadn’t even been much of a gamer before. Back when we were still in a good place, I had begged him to download games so we could play together. He would frown and dismiss me, saying, “How can I waste my time on such a stupid game? If you like it, just play by yourself.”

But now, he had secretly downloaded that game and was playing it every day with someone else.

He often played late into the night, and sometimes I'd knock on the door, urging him to go to bed early. In response, he’d throw a pillow at me, his irritation palpable. “Why are you so nosy, like an old mother? I’m annoyed even if you’re not!”

I was momentarily taken aback, but I quickly retreated, hurt but silent.

After leaving his room, I opened my phone and logged into the game with a secondary account. My heart sank when I saw Deacon’s game status. His character’s lover was at level 99, and that person was definitely not me.

When I confronted him about it, his face lost its color for a brief moment before he regained his composure. “It’s just a stranger. I’ve never seen him before,” he said dismissively, trying to downplay the situation. “Don’t worry about it; I know my limits.”

At that moment, I wanted to believe him, to trust that what he said was true.

It wasn't until I saw him with Daphne at the restaurant today that everything fell into place.

So, it was Daphne all along.

Had their relationship already reached this point?

I couldn't hold back any longer. "Are you planning to play games with Daphne now?"

Deacon froze, his back stiffening as he slowly turned to face me. His eyes were hard, cautious. "Are you spying on me?"

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself. "I saw you when I was delivering food today." My voice cracked as the words slipped out, my throat tightening. "You were peeling shrimp for her."

I forced the words out, my throat tight and heavy. As expected, Deacon's face twisted with anger the moment they hit him.

He stormed toward me, his expression a mix of shame and fury at being caught. The pot of leftover mutton on the table sat there like a cruel reminder, mocking him. His face flushed red, and his only way out was to lash at me.

"Madison, you followed me!" His voice trembled with rage. "I had dinner with Daphne because I needed her to introduce clients! I’ve been out there every day, bending over backward like a beggar—and you! You actually spied on me! You doubt me?"

He paused, the bitterness of betrayal sharp in his voice. "How did you become like this?"

I stood there, watching his anger flare, but inside, I felt only a deep, quiet disappointment.

Had I changed?

No, Deacon. It’s you who changed.

Just mentioning Daphne’s name made his anger flare. I lowered my gaze, trying to hide the emptiness creeping into my eyes.

Since I came back, he hadn't once asked about the wound on my hand, never asked if I was tired after spending all day running around.

My hands stayed buried in my pockets, fingers clenched around the unused condoms I hadn’t had the heart to throw away.

What if I told him I already knew everything? That I’d seen it all?

After delivering the takeaway earlier, something made me turn back. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find, but instead, I saw it—the car, rocking.

Deacon always treated that car like it was his most prized possession. I still remember the first time he drove it to pick me up, how proud he was.

I had pulled out a bag of potato chips from my bag, and before I even had the chance to open it, he snapped.

"Madison, this is a new car, and you're going to eat in it? Are you going to clean up the mess? Will you pay for the car wash?"

I panicked, stuffing the chips back into my bag, stammering out apologies.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t know. I won’t do it again." My voice was small, desperate to fix things.

But Deacon’s lips remained pressed into a hard line, his anger palpable. He stayed silent, eyes fixed on the road.

I hesitated before gently tugging on his sleeve. "Please don’t be mad. I won’t eat in your car again, I promise. I’m sorry. Just... don’t be angry, okay?"

Without a word, he suddenly jerked the car to the side of the road. The seatbelt snapped open as he roughly unbuckled it, yanking the door open.

"Get out."

I froze, staring at the blur of traffic speeding by, my mind struggling to catch up. "What?"

"Get out!" he barked, his voice cold and unfamiliar. "Don’t make me say it again."

I don’t remember much after that. Just the shock, the disbelief.

I walked for what felt like forever—through the sunlit afternoon into the dark, starry night. My feet ached, my heart even more so. Eventually, a kind stranger found me and called the police.

I remember breaking down, sobbing uncontrollably in the back of the police car.

All I did was open a bag of potato chips. And for that, he threw me out onto the highway.

But now, he can tolerate doing that with Daphne in the car.

It wasn’t about keeping the car clean. He just couldn’t stand me.

I looked up at him, swallowing the bitterness that lingered in my throat. "I'm sorry. I was wrong. I won’t make the same mistake again."

Yes, I won’t make it again.

Hearing those words, his expression softened, as if that was all he needed to hear.

"Good. I'm just exhausted," he sighed, his voice almost casual. "I didn’t mean to lose my temper with you."

With that, he turned and walked into the e-sports room. Moments later, I heard the familiar sounds of his game starting up. The door wasn’t fully closed, and through the small crack, his voice floated out—soft, affectionate.

"I'm sorry for making you wait so long. It’s just her being paranoid again. Can I get you a milk tea to make it up to you? You’re not fat, come on. Even if you were, you’d still be my little princess."

A pause, then a chuckle. "Fat people are just more lovable. You know I love you the most."