Chapter 2

"Babe, I'm heading out!"

7:28 AM. Just like every other morning, he walked out of the bedroom, his hair still slightly damp.

He bent down by the shoe rack to put on his shoes.

On the entryway table, his car keys pressed down on the folded sticky note.

I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching him.

His hand reached for the keys. His fingertips brushed the edge of the paper.

He paused for maybe a fraction of a second.

Then, he gripped the keys. The folded paper slid off the table and fluttered to the tiled floor.

He didn't look down.

As he took a step forward, his left shoe left a dusty print right on it.

The door clicked shut.

The elevator chimed down the hall, and then there was only silence.

I walked to the door, knelt, and picked up the paper.

The gray footprint ran right over the words "Hazel's Allergies", completely covering my name.

I stared at it for ten seconds.

The creases were already fraying. I tossed it into the trash can.

Time to go.

Packing didn't take long. In four years of marriage, the things that actually belonged to me were laughably few—a few seasonal clothes, an eyeshadow palette, my passport, and my driver's license.

There was one more thing in the study's safe. It was the "Observation Journal" I had drawn for Ethan. I started it the year he went through severe depression, recording every single day.

All my original sketches were tucked inside.

The password was my birthday. I opened it, pulled the journal out, and stuffed it into the lining of my suitcase.

The moment I zipped it shut, my phone buzzed.

It wasn't Ethan.

It was Valerie, his secretary. She sent me an Instagram screenshot.

It was posted to a custom group—but she had accidentally left Valerie in. Or maybe Valerie wanted me to see.

The picture showed a mango Frappuccino sitting on an office desk. In the background, you could see a sliver of a dark gray suit sleeve.

The caption read: "It feels so good when someone remembers your little preferences~"

The poster: Chloe.

In the bottom right corner was a location tag: Ethan's office building.

Valerie attached a message: "This new intern has been crossing the line lately. I thought you should know."

I saved the screenshot.

I booked a business hotel, called an Uber, and walked out with my suitcase.

The elevator mirror reflected my face. I wasn't crying. My eyes weren't even red.

My lips, however, were dry and peeling. I couldn't remember the last time I drank water.

The hotel receptionist smiled. "How many nights will you be staying?"

"I'm not sure."

I slid the keycard in. The curtains opened automatically, revealing a wide, empty view from the twenty-third floor.

My phone buzzed again.

2:17 PM. Ethan.

I didn't answer.

Second call, 2:19 PM.

Third call, 2:21 PM.

On the fourth call, I picked up.

"What is your problem today?" His voice was accompanied by the sound of rapid typing. He was clearly busy. "The house is a mess, and you're not even there. Where did you go?"

"I took the sticky note down," I said. "You didn't notice."

"What sticky note?"

Two seconds of silence.

He really didn't remember.

"The one on the fridge," my voice was steady. "The one that had been there for four years. I put it under your car keys. You stepped right on it."

The typing on the other end stopped.

After a moment, he let out a frustrated laugh. "All this over a pizza? Hazel, have you gotten more and more dramatic these past two years?"

"It's not about the shrimp."

"Then what is it about?"

"Figure it out yourself."

"I don't have time for riddles," he lowered his voice, likely because someone was passing by his office. "Just come home. Stop acting up."

I said, "Ethan, you can't even remember what I'm allergic to. We need some space."

He let out a cold scoff through the receiver.

"Space? How long do you need? We have the quarterly presentation tomorrow and a client dinner the day after. You choose "now" of all times to throw a tantrum?"

"Get back to work."

I hung up.

Outside, the city lights were flickering on. I lay on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the smoke detector on the ceiling.

Its little red light blinked silently, like an unblinking eye.

My screen lit up again at 11:03 PM.

Ethan: "Hazel, where the hell are you? Come back so we can talk."

I didn't reply.

Second text: "You really have to be like this, don't you?"

Third text, forty minutes later: "Fine. Throw your tantrum. See if I care."

I flipped the phone over, face down on the nightstand.

The screenshot of the mango Frappuccino flashed in my mind. "It feels so good when someone remembers your little preferences."

Good.

Must be nice.