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."

I listened to his voice drifting from the other room, then closed my eyes, sinking into the sofa, exhaustion washing over me.

A laugh escaped my lips—dry, bitter. What did he just say?

He said even if she were fat, she’d still be his little princess.

And me?

What am I?

I couldn’t help but think back to when we first got together. I’d dressed up beautifully that day, full of excitement, eagerly looking forward to seeing Deacon. I imagined his eyes lighting up when he saw me, his face full of admiration.

But when I finally stood before him, shy and hopeful, I was met with his frown.

"How dare you dress like this? You’re so fat. Lose some weight."

The words hit me like a punch. I nearly cried right there. After that, I stopped eating full meals, terrified of gaining another pound, terrified of seeing that disgust in his eyes again.

Yet here he was, telling Daphne that even if she were fat, she’d still be his little princess.

A sharp, hollow laugh escaped me.

What am I?

I’m nothing but a joke.

I glanced at my reflection in the faint light from the TV screen. My hair, disheveled and tangled, framed a face hollowed by exhaustion. Dark circles hung beneath my eyes like bruises, and my once-full cheeks had grown gaunt, sharp enough to resemble a ghostly figure.

I almost laughed at the thought—children would probably burst into tears if they saw me now. My clothes were wrinkled, lifeless, much like the woman wearing them.

I stared at myself, dazed, fingertips brushing my hollow cheeks. How long has it been since I cared about my appearance? Since I took time to feel like me?

I thought back to that day, the day I stormed out of my parents' home, full of righteous anger and certainty. I had vowed to them—confident and proud—that love could overcome anything. I believed in Deacon, in his character, in us.

We would build a life together, a happy one. I could see it so clearly back then.

He held my hand, hugged me tightly, and promised with sincerity that I felt unbreakable, "I will treat you well for a lifetime. We'll have a beautiful, happy family."

But the truth is staring at me in the face now, clearer than ever.

I was wrong.

Love can withstand difficulties, but only when it's real—when both hearts are in it. Deacon doesn’t love me.

I feel a strange calm as the realization sinks in. If they’re the couple in love, then so be it. I’ll give him back to Daphne.

Deacon, this is where our story ends.

All these mistakes, all this hurt—it ends here.

I stared at the half-eaten mutton on the table, the oily spots reflecting the dim light. Daphne's voice floated from the e-sports room, sweet and pampered, while my mind replayed the images of the condoms and lace underwear I’d found in Deacon's car.

I couldn't take it anymore.

With trembling hands, I dialed a number I hadn't called in a long time. The moment the call connected, I heard my parents’ familiar voices. It hit me like a wave, and all the hurt, the anger, the humiliation I had bottled up for months came rushing out. My throat tightened, and I could barely speak past the lump.

Tears streamed down my face as I listened to their worried voices.

"Mom... Dad... I was wrong," I finally choked out. "I think... studying abroad and enjoying life sounds good."