Ending Six - Year Marriage

On our sixth wedding anniversary, I rented an entire theater to support Nadia's new film. Little did I know, I'd witness her shedding her carefully crafted innocent image on the big screen, entangled with the male lead in scenes that left nothing to the imagination. My eyes burned as I called her, only to hear her voiceover at a publicity event, saying, "This was a bold step, a sacrifice for art's sake. I hope to have more opportunities to dedicate myself to art like this in the future."

It then became clear—the male lead was the man she'd been infatuated with for years.

Without hesitation, I called my family and pulled our investment from her film.

The movie kept replaying its provocative scenes. In it, Nadia professed her love to the male lead repeatedly, her voice echoing with such sincerity and warmth that it was almost unbearable. My phone buzzed with the sound of her live-stream, recreating these scenes with Zayn Griffin, using his real name. Her eyes, full of longing and tenderness, were brimming with love.

Watching fans flood the live stream with comments encouraging them to get together, my heart sank to its lowest depths, and I found myself laughing in despair. In our six years of marriage, "I love you" were words Nadia had never said to me.

As I left the cinema, posters of Nadia and Zayn kissing covered every wall. Her smile was so gentle, a stark contrast to the icy demeanor she reserved for me. I stumbled home in a daze, staring at our wedding photo hanging in the bedroom—Nadia’s distant, indifferent expression as she maintained a clear foot of space between us in the picture.

In a fit of rage, I tore it down, smashing it to pieces, my screams echoing off the walls. When I finally calmed down, silence filled the void.

Our home, now missing the wedding photo, felt even emptier. I searched for any remnants of happy memories with Nadia, anything to prove that I once held a place in her heart. I found nothing.

Nadia returned home close to midnight, finding me sitting amidst the shattered remains of our wedding photo. She glanced at the mess with distaste, her disapproval evident as she snapped, "What's wrong with you, making such a mess in the house?"

She didn't care about the broken photo, just the mess in the house.

I watched her in silence, noticing a flicker of disgust cross her face. She kicked aside the broken frame and sat on the sofa, her voice dripping with impatience as she said, "Clean this up and make me some pasta—I'm starving."

Then she was absorbed in her phone, her tone commanding, as if ordering me to do something I should already be doing.

"I don't want to," I said, standing up. I was surprisingly calm, a feeling I hadn't experienced in six long years.

Nadia barely lifted her gaze, irritation drawing her brows together as she snapped, "Who made you so upset that you’re giving me this attitude? I've been busy all day promoting the film—do you think I'm not tired? Stop looking for trouble."

Her anger spurred an involuntary, bitter laugh from me. Calmly, I told her, "I've seen your new film."

Nadia frowned, visibly irritated, clicking her tongue in annoyance, "So what? Should I give you a medal for watching it?"

I remained stoic, my eyes fixed on her, as her confidence began to falter. Her eyes darted nervously, and she asked tentatively, "You saw that scene?"

I said nothing, turning my face away. Ever since her debut, Nadia had maintained an untouchable image of purity. I once believed her aloofness was just part of her personality. But seeing her in that film, wrapped around another man, made me realize she only preserved that image for those who didn’t matter to her.

Studying my expression, Nadia soon sneered, "Oh, so that's why you're sulking? It was all the director's idea; what could I do about it?"

I laughed again, a hollow sound in the silence. There wasn't a hint of guilt or regret in her eyes. For the past two years, Nadia had reached a level where she could choose her roles. If she didn't want to act in a certain way, no director could force her. Her weak excuse was just proof that she didn't regard me as anything significant.

"Is that so," I replied, sitting back down, my voice steady and detached.

Nadia erupted in anger, "What do you mean by that? Are you saying I willingly filmed those scenes? Dilan! I thought you'd understand my work. I can't believe you're so inflexible that you can't even accept this!"

"Fine, I'm too tired to argue. With someone as dull as you, it's no wonder you can't appreciate or grasp the art of cinema!" With those words, she stormed out, the door slamming shut behind her with a deafening thud that echoed throughout the house.

I let out a bitter chuckle—I'm the one who doesn't understand romance. But from now on, she won't have to compromise by staying with someone so clueless.