In the fifth year of my marriage with Lionel Kruger, I suddenly develop an ability to see everyone's ranking system.

To my mom, I'm ranked first. To my best friend, I'm ranked second after her daughter.

Even the owner of the breakfast cart in the neighborhood views me as his sixth favorite person in his life.

Delighted, I rush off to see Lionel's ranking system.

His mom ranks first, whereas Natalie Cooper is ranked second.

That's me! I'm ranked second!

That piece of news makes me smile throughout the day.

That is, until I see an unfamiliar name taking up the sixth spot—Lindsay Sloan.

I tell myself that it's fine. I'm ranked second, while she's ranked sixth.

But the next few days, I witness Lindsey's name climbing slowly up the ranks to the point she's almost reaching my rank.

That evening, Lionel comes home and hugs me as usual. "I missed you."

As I stare at the ranking system above his head, I notice that Lindsay, who's now ranked third, is slowly climbing upward as he speaks.

"Lionel, who's Lindsey Sloan?"

At that moment, Lionel freezes up while hugging me.

That instant was too brief, so much so that it almost felt like my imagination.

Lionel Kruger quickly looked down at me, his expression perfectly natural.

"Oh, Lindsay's the new designer on the project team. She'll be working on a case with me soon, so I'm showing her the ropes."

As he said this, he ruffled my hair just like he always did.

"What's wrong? Don't tell me you're even jealous of my colleagues?"

I looked up at him. Above his head, Lindsay's name sat steadily in third place, not wavering in the slightest.

If she were just an ordinary colleague and I had asked him about her like that, there should have been at least some ripple of emotion in Lionel's heart.

Yet, there was none.

I simply hummed softly in response and lowered my head to drink some water. But the rim of the glass rested against my lips for a long time without me taking a sip.

The next morning, Lionel left the house 20 minutes earlier than usual. He said the morning rush hour was especially bad.

As usual, the table was set with warm milk and a fried egg. He had even cut the crusts off my toast for me.

He had done this every single day for the past five years.

I stood at the entryway with a smile, waving and telling him to drive safely.

After his taillights disappeared around the corner, I found myself opening the location-sharing app as if possessed.

His car didn't head to the office. Instead, it stopped in an unfamiliar residential complex for over ten minutes before starting up again.

As I stared at that red dot, I felt my heart sink.

The third day, same time, same route. By the fourth day, I no longer stood at the window to wave goodbye. Instead, I just watched as he left and kept an eye on the red dot on the location-sharing app as it came to a stop in that same residential complex.

Every morning after he walked out the door, Lindsay Sloan's name would creep forward just a little. Even so, it was enough to leave me restless and on edge the entire day.

The evenings were no different. Twice Lionel said he was working late, but the location-sharing app showed him stopped in another unfamiliar residential complex instead of the office.

I stared at that row of building numbers until my eyes burned.

That evening, I sat at the dining table watching him in the kitchen. He was fiddling with the gooseneck kettle with his head bowed.

The sweet scent of vanilla slowly unfurled, seeping into every crevice of our marital home. It was a scent that didn't belong to me—or to us.

Lionel carried the cup over and placed it beside my hand. There was a trace of barely perceptible nervousness in his eyes.

"Here, give it a try."

I took a sip. It was sweet, mellow, and just a tad creamy—nothing like the long black we usually drank.

I looked up at him and asked, "Since when do you like vanilla?"

He paused for a beat before replying with a smile, "I just thought I'd switch it up for once."

That hesitation needled its way into my eyes.

That night, he went to take a shower and left his phone on the couch, the Notes app still open on the screen.

I took a glance and saw "Vanilla syrup to milk ratio 3:7—she said it was a little too sweet."

She. Not a name. Just a designated "she".

My fingers hovered over the screen for a long time without moving.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom, and I put the phone back exactly where it had been, as if nothing had happened.

We spent that evening cozied up on the couch, watching a show. I leaned against his shoulder. The people on the screen were laughing, but I couldn't take in a single word.

Lionel's phone buzzed once.

He picked it up and glanced at the screen. The corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smile. Then, he bowed his head to type out a reply.

The whole thing took no more than five seconds. But it was in those exact five seconds that Lindsay's name suddenly jumped forward, nearly brushing up against my spot at number two.

I leaned against Lionel and could feel his heartbeat quicken. Yet, it wasn't because of me.

After he put down the phone, he subconsciously tightened his arm and pulled me a little closer. It was as if he were making up for something or suppressing something.

Late that night, I couldn't sleep.

A sliver of streetlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, falling across Lionel's profile. He slept soundly, his brows relaxed. In fact, there was even a faint smile on his lips.

I used to love watching him sleep more than anything.

But that night, my gaze slowly drifted upward.

The ranking hovered silently above his head. First place was still Mom, but Lindsay and I were now tied for second.

I stared at those two names sitting side by side, and it hit me like a fist to the chest. I'd been married to him for five years, yet some woman he'd known for who knew how long already weighed just as much in his heart.

I gently moved his hand from my waist. Then, I turned toward the wall and lay with my eyes open until dawn.

The next day, I was doing laundry when I found a crumpled receipt in his jacket pocket.

The cafe's name was one I didn't recognize, and the timestamp read 7:48 am. It was exactly within that 20-minute window Lionel had started leaving early.

I slowly smoothed the receipt open. He had bought two vanilla lattes, but he and I only ever drank long blacks.

It turned out he hadn't been experimenting with a new flavor at home, but rather with another woman.

Sunlight fell beside the laundry basket. I clutched that thin slip of paper, my fingertips growing colder and colder.

A long while later, I folded the receipt and put it back in his pocket. Then, I sat on the balcony hugging my knees for what felt like forever.

The ranking wouldn't lie, and neither would a receipt.

Therefore, the only one lying to me was Lionel.

I looked up the cafe.

Following the location tags, I found my way to Lindsay's profile.

She shot on film and posted pictures of cats, skies, the river at night, and pour-over coffee. She had a quiet and clean presence, like a blank page.

I kept scrolling down until my finger froze on a photo of a night scene.

I knew that riverside all too well. During college, Lionel and I had walked there countless times. I could recognize the railing, the streetlamp, and the shadow of the bridge in the distance with my eyes closed.

The caption simply read, "Someone took me to see the most beautiful night view in this city."

My breath hitched.

That was my place—our place. But Lionel had already walked it all over again with someone else.

I scrolled further down to a photo of a desk. Tucked into the corner was a fountain pen with a black barrel and a silver clip.

It was the Montblanc I had given Lionel.

Back when he got accepted into his graduate program, I used the money I'd been saving for a long time to buy it for him.

Holding my hand, he had kissed it and said, "I'll think of you every time I use it."

Later, he told me the pen had gone missing at the office. I even turned the house upside down looking for it.

It turned out it wasn't lost. He had given it away.

I brushed my fingers over my hand and found the skin there cold to the touch.

In another post, Lindsay had checked in to a documentary—the exact same one Lionel had suddenly started watching recently.

I had asked him to watch so many movies with me, but he always said they were boring, pointless, and that he'd rather just sleep.

In five years, I hadn't managed to change a single habit of his. Yet, in the three months since Lindsay appeared, he'd changed his preferences and even his hobbies.

I slowly lifted my gaze toward the wardrobe in the bedroom. Lionel had added a lot of new shirts lately, with sharper cuts and colors that weren't so dull anymore.

I had once pulled him in front of a department store mirror and picked out a light gray coat for him, only for him to say, "Us men aren't that fussy when it comes to clothes."

I had signed us up for a couple's gym membership, but he never went even once. I had bought a whole box of hand cream, but he found it too much trouble, so it sat there untouched.

But lately, he'd started working out, wearing cologne, and keeping his hands clean and smooth.

Five years of marriage couldn't change him. Lindsay showed up, and he turned himself into a whole new person overnight.

It turned out he was capable of changing for the better after all—just not for me.

That afternoon, I dug out our wedding video.

In it, Lionel was wearing a black suit, his eyes terribly red. He stood under the lights, holding my hand.

He said, "You'll always be number one in my heart. If that day ever comes when you're not, it will only be because I'm not around anymore."

Back then, I couldn't stop crying. He lifted his hand to wipe my tears, and all the guests were clapping.

I closed the video and laid the screen face down on the desk.

When I looked up again, Lindsay's name was already pressed right up against mine.

That night, Lionel came home very late.

There was a faint hickey on the side of his neck.

He didn't even wait for me to ask before explaining with a smile, "The new shirt collar's a bit scratchy."

With that, he went straight into the bathroom and washed off every trace. After he changed into his pajamas and got into bed, he wrapped his arms around me from behind.

"How was your day, honey?"

He lowered his head and kissed me behind the ear. His breath was warm, his movements practiced and familiar—just like every night for the past five years.

But after he fell asleep, I looked up above his head. In second place was Lindsay. And me? I was in third place.

On the very night he held me, called me "honey", and kissed me, I was finally pushed down to third place by Lindsay.

I lay there with my eyes open. Though not a single tear fell, I felt a chill slowly spread from the depths of my eyes through my entire body.

The next morning, I opened Lindsay's riverside night photo again.

The railing and the streetlamp in the picture looked more and more familiar the longer I stared.

It was only much later that I remembered that just around the bend of that river was the little restaurant near the college we used to go to most often.

So, it wasn't just the fountain pen and the coffee preference. Even the places Lionel and I had walked through countless times, he had already revisited with someone else.

I stared at that photo for a very long time, feeling neither anger nor resentment.

Only one thought remained—I had to go see for myself, to find out just how much sincerity could possibly be left in those old places that once belonged only to me, now that he was using them to sweet-talk someone else.

On Saturday, I suggested we go back to that little restaurant near the college.

"It's been so long, so I've been craving it."

Lionel agreed right away.

The owner, Jerry Smith, still remembered us. The moment he saw us, he grinned and said, "You two lovebirds finally decided to come back!"

Lionel smiled too, pulling out a chair for me with practiced ease. He ordered all my favorite food—buffalo wings, mushroom salad, and cheesy fries. He even remembered that I didn't like onions.

He chatted with Jerry about the old days, recalling how I always used to love sitting by the window or how I'd get so nervous before exams that I could down two bowls of soup in one go.

Lionel said all this with a perfectly natural expression, as if nothing had really changed.

The whole time, I watched the ranking above his head. Lindsay stayed perfectly still in second place.

I laughed, kept the conversation going, and did everything I could to salvage the old days, piece by piece. But after an entire meal, I couldn't even manage to nudge myself back up in the ranking.

Halfway through the meal, Lionel's phone rang. He glanced at it and said, "I'm going to take this call."

Beyond the glass door, he stood with his back to me. One hand was tucked in his pocket, and his shoulders hung slack and relaxed.

At one point in the conversation, he looked down and smiled.

I knew that smile all too well. It was unguarded and carried a tenderness he only ever wore for someone close to his heart.

I looked down at the food on the table. They were all my favorites, but the steam was fading. And even though Lionel was just right outside the door, his heart had wandered much further away.

On the ranking, Lindsay was slowly closing in on first place.

When Lionel came back, he saw right away that my mood had shifted, so he immediately started making up for it. He put food on my plate, apologized in a low voice, and said something had come up with a client at the last minute.

Then, he looked at me and, as if afraid I wouldn't believe him, quickly added, "I've taken three days off for our anniversary next month. I'll take you to that island you've always wanted to visit."

The moment he said it, I instinctively checked the ranking.

My name had indeed floated up ever so slightly. Suddenly, it dawned on me that he was being good to me not because his love had returned, but out of guilt.

Three days off bought him a clear conscience. It was like an exquisite receipt that settled the bill for his betrayal.

I smiled and replied, "Okay."

Even I found my own smile unfamiliar.

Walking out of the restaurant, we passed a very young couple by the roadside. The young man was holding the young woman's hand, his smile bright. Above his head, the young woman beside him was in first place—clean and simple. In fact, there was no other name in sight.

The elderly couple at our residential complex gate were the same. The old man took his time helping his wife across the street; her name sat steadily in first place above his head, unchanged decade after decade.

I stood frozen for a moment, suddenly dazed.

So, this was what it felt like to be placed first.

I turned my head to look at Lionel.

He had his head down, replying to a message.

Mom was in first place, Lindsay in second, and I was in third.

I had never once been first in his heart.

After we got home, he went into the study, saying he still had work to deal with.

I sat alone in the living room with the lights off.

In the darkness, I finally made up my mind.

I was done waiting. I refused to be the person slipping further and further down his list.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through the company event photos Lindsay had posted, confirming the place she often went to at lunchtime.

It was that same cafe.