My wife suffered from violent mania—whenever she saw the color red, she would lose control.
Since our marriage, I had only wore red twice.
The first time, she flew into a frenzy and smashed my head open. I needed thirteen stitches.
The second time, she attacked me again, but this time she was three months pregnant. In the struggle, she miscarried.
From then on, I never touched red again. Afraid of triggering her, I wore nothing but plain white, from head to toe.
On the day she was discharged from the hospital after the miscarriage, I clutched my stomach and passed the restaurant—only to see her there, dining with her male assistant when she was supposed to be working overtime.
Her eyes sparkled with admiration, love overflowing from them.
The two leaned into each other, arms entwining, bodies swaying as if the world belonged to them alone.
Just then, my phone rang. It was the doctor, his voice brimming with excitement.
"Mr. Flores, regarding Ms. Lopez's condition—we've finally developed a treatment..."
But as I stared at the man’s blazing red shirt reflected in the glass, I felt a bitter smile curve my lips.
"No need." I whispered. "The problem has already been solved."
——
"How is that possible? We've studied her case for so long, and never able to identify the root cause! It took a team of experts to finally propose a viable solution—" the doctor rambled, exhilarated.
But I slowly raised my eyes.
Upstairs, the man was clumsily waltzing, stepping on Rosalia's toes.
For the first time, I laughed—laughing until tears burned my eyes.
Maybe the problem was never the color red. Maybe the problem was simply that Rosalia had fallen in love with someone else.
I didn't wait for their dance to end. I turned and went home.
Opening the closet, I stared at the row of red suits that had gathered dust.
Before marriage, red had been my favorite color. But because Rosalia claimed she couldn't bear to see me in it, I locked it all away.
But this time—I was done playing her game.
When she returned home, the first thing she saw was me sitting calmly on the sofa, dressed head to toe in a crimson suit, sipping coffee.
She lunged forward, her fingers clamping down on my throat.
"Didn't I tell you? You're not allowed to wear this color!"
Her fist trembled, about to strike. But she stopped mid-air, her expression twisting in pain.
I remembered her once telling me she loved me—that she was doing her best to suppress her instincts, to keep from hurting me.
My lips curved in a faint smile as I looked straight at her.
"Rosalia," I said softly.
"You said you loved me. Then show me—prove you can restrain yourself, for my sake."
Her hand shook, veins bulging across her knuckles.
At last, instead of hitting me, she smashed a wine bottle, slicing open her own palm before storming out.
I watched her back disappear into the night, my eyes turning cold.
"You see? You can control yourself."
The memory of that second miscarriage came flooding back.
I had accidentally worn red that day, and she had attacked me without warning. In the struggle, she lost the baby.
I sat beside her hospital bed afterward, guilt gnawing at me, watching her pale face twisted in pain.
"I told you already," she rasped, "just wear white. Never wear red again. You know it sets me off!"
"Sorry..." I muttered. "I just wanted to celebrate..."
Tears streaked down my face. She saw my remorse and pulled me into her arms.
"Don't cry," she whispered. "This is my psychological disorder, it's not your fault. As long as you avoid red, we'll be fine."
So I swallowed my pride, my resentment, my doubt—and agreed.
But then Miles appeared.
And I realized what a fool I had been all along.
It wasn't that she couldn't stand red.
She just couldn't stand red when it was on me.
