Sarah hadn’t deleted my burner account.
Whether it was intentional or not, I didn’t know.
<
10:02
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She’d posted a new picture. Mark, wearing a
pink teddy bear apron, carefully tending to a pot on the stove. The caption: “Mark’s the
best! Knows I’m scared of thunderstorms, so he
came over to keep me company. A man who
cooks is super hot!”
Mark’s an amazing cook. He won me over with
a shrimp and vermicelli stir–fry when we first
started dating. Thinking back, I hadn’t had a
home–cooked meal from him in years. Every
time I asked, he’d say he was too tired. Turns
out, I was just asking the wrong person.
Three days in the hospital, no Mark, no word. I
called him. His phone was off. I thought about.
the little condo down south. I had a sudden
urge to see it. Bundling up, I snuck out of the.
hospital and grabbed a cab. I hoped they
weren’t there.
The condo wasn’t big, a pre–wedding gift from
Mark, in my name. We’d decorated it together.
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He’d sourced every piece of furniture and
material I wanted, no questions asked. He
proposed there, after we finished decorating.
“Marry me. Claire. I want this place to be your
security. You’re not adrift. Let me be your
anchor.” My parents died young, leaving me
with nothing. Mark told his family I’d always.
have a home of my own. So please, anywhere.
but there.
As I reached the door, laughter drifted out,
shattering my hopes. “Mark, this rug stains so
easily. Can we replace it?” That rug was a
piece by Mark’s favorite Italian designer, some
elusive artist whose work only popped up in
small galleries. Mark had always wanted one. I’d
pulled strings, paid a fortune to get it for him.
Mark’s voice, indulgent: “Whatever you want.
sweetheart.”
The last flicker of hope died.
They left, arm in arm. I waited for the elevator
<
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to descend before sneaking out through the fire
escape. Sneaking into my own home. I couldn’t
even bring myself to confront them. I tried the
door code. The cold, electronic beep mocked
- me. Incorrect Password. I took a deep breath
and tried my fingerprint. Thankfully, he hadn’t
deleted that yet.
The condo felt alien. The minimalist, cream-
colored décor was gone, replaced with warm,
girly touches. My bedroom… the mattress was
the same. Even the sheets were the ones I’d
bought. But my picture on the nightstand was
turned face down. My closet was overflowing
with Sarah’s clothes. The price tag was still on
my new pajamas. A strange perfume hung in
the air. Sarah’s underwear lay sprawled across.
the bed.
Back in the living room, the clashing décor
my cool tones against Sarah’s warm ones
made me nauseous. She was slowly,
methodically taking over my life. My carefully
<
curated home felt violated. I reached for a pink
teacup and hurled it against the wall. The
shattering sound was strangely satisfying, like a
release valve. I stood there, amidst the shards,
feeling a strange sense of calm settle over me.
I went back to the hospital, hired a nurse,
ignored work, and focused on healing. A few
days later, Mark called. His voice was hesitant.
“Claire, did you go back to the condo recently?”
“No,” I said, sipping chicken broth.
“Mark, I’m still in the hospital. Remember?”
He stammered. “Sorry, things have been crazy
at work, I’ve been so busy…”
“I understand,” I cut him off. “I’m being
discharged tomorrow. Will you be there?”
“Mark, I can’t find my teddy bear slippers! They’re my favorite!” Sarah’s whine cut through
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the phone. Mark quickly mumbled something about trying his best and hung up. Teddy bear slippers? Did I cut them up? Throw them away? I couldn’t remember.
