Chapter 3

"Ethan, do you think she's actually okay?"

Chloe's voice suddenly got quiet.

"What could possibly happen to her?"

Ethan turned on the kitchen faucet.

The rushing water drowned out his words.

"She’s been like this since we got married. She plays dead over every little thing."

He paused.

"Remember when you put superglue on her chair? She stayed home for days acting like she was traumatized. She was perfectly fine in the end, wasn't she?"

My soul drifted back to the living room.

Chloe's phone lit up.

It was a text from her best friend.

"Chloe, did you leave yet? How's the wife doing?"

Chloe typed back.

"She's fine. She's just dramatic. Throws a fit over every little thing."

"Did Ethan yell at you?"

"Why would he? Ethan knows exactly what she's like."

"Lmao good. Next time, let's try something else."

"For sure. I've got a plan for next time."

"Hahaha you're savage."

I stared at the messages on the screen.

I felt something shatter inside my chest.

It wasn't anger.

It was something much colder than anger.

It was despair.

The absolute despair of realizing that, in their eyes, I wasn't even a human being.

To Chloe and her friends, I was just a toy.

A toy they could mess with whenever they wanted, without any consequences.

After all, Ethan would never get mad. He would always take her side.

I turned around and floated away from the living room.

I didn't want to hear their laughter anymore.

I didn't want to know how they mocked me.

I was dead.

None of this had anything to do with me anymore.

But why did it still hurt?

Later that night, Ethan came to the door again.

This time, he knocked.

"Hazel, come out."

No response.

"If you don't say anything, I'm coming in."

Still no response.

Ethan pushed the door open.

The room was pitch black.

He reached for the switch on the wall.

The light flicked on.

My body was still lying on the bed.

In the exact same position as this afternoon.

My face was even more swollen now.

My lips had turned a dark purple.

My fingers were curled up tightly, stiff and pale.

Ethan stood at the doorway. He looked at me and frowned.

"Are you still pulling this stunt?"

He didn't walk in.

He stood by the door, crossing his arms.

He was less than three feet away from me.

Three feet.

His wife was dead.

Lying right there, three feet away from him.

He looked at me for three seconds.

Then he turned around and walked away.

"Hazel, I'm telling you, if you don't get up, I'm freezing your credit cards tomorrow."

His voice boomed from the living room.

He didn't look back.

He didn't hesitate.

He just left.

I floated above the head of the bed.

Looking at my own corpse.

Swollen beyond recognition.

Even I could barely recognize myself.

Ethan.

You didn't recognize me.

Because you never actually looked at me.

Whenever you looked at me, it was always with impatience.

You always thought I was playing victim, being dramatic, pretending.

You never once thought.

That one day, I would actually die.

I was dead, and you still didn't believe it.

The game ended, and the rain outside gradually stopped.

Chloe glanced at the closed bedroom door and sighed.

"Ethan, she still won't come out. She clearly doesn't want me here. Forget it, I should just go home."

"She's always like this, don't take it to heart... I'll drive you." Ethan grabbed his jacket.

"No, it's fine. You should stay and be with her. She's still mad."

"It's pouring. I'm not letting you drive alone." Ethan was already putting his jacket on. "Let's go."

The two of them walked out.

The lock clicked shut.

The entire house fell into complete silence.

Only I was left.

Lying in the dark room.

My phone lay on the floor.

One corner of the screen was cracked.

Notifications kept popping up.

From Ethan.

From my manager, Sarah.

From coworkers asking about work.

None of them knew.

The owner of this phone.

Would never reply again.

Ethan didn't get back until almost eleven.

He came in, took off his shoes, and changed his clothes.

As he passed the bedroom door, he paused.

"Hazel, seriously..."

He cracked the door open and looked inside. The light was still on.

I was still lying there, unchanged.

He stood at the door and sighed.

"You are so frustrating."

Then he reached in, turned off the light, and went to sleep in the guest room.

*Click.*

The room fell into darkness.

My soul stood in the dark.

Looking at my own corpse.

I suddenly remembered a post I had scrolled past a few days ago.

It asked: *If you died alone in your apartment, how long would it take for someone to find you?*