I dragged myself home through the rain after a full day of work, body aching down to the bone.
My fever had hit 102 and I didn't have the strength to cook.
Cliff Harding, who'd said he had a business dinner, came rushing back to the apartment.
He dug through the cabinets for our fever medicine, never once looking up at me：“Alexandra Cannon got caught in the rain today and she's coming down with something. Make her some congee, something easy on the stomach. I'll bring it over with the meds later.
Right then, a question blew up online and landed on my screen.
*What was the moment you realized they didn't love you?*
I looked at him once, then left a comment.
“Right now. But funny enough, I don't love him anymore either.”
——
The second I posted it,
replies poured in.
All of them asking *why*.
Cliff hadn't noticed me lying on the couch, my face flushed an alarming shade of red.
He went into the bedroom and grabbed a change of clothes.
Kept talking like I wasn't even there：“She can't take care of herself. I'm not coming home tonight.”
“Once you're done with the congee, lock up and get some rest.”
My fever-soaked brain felt like an old computer grinding to a halt—everything lagging, nothing connecting.
It took me a long moment to process what he'd just said.
“I'm not feeling well. If you want something, make it yourself.”
Every breath I took came out scalding. My whole body was burning up.
But I still forced my eyes open, trying to sit up so I could take some medicine, wash up, and sleep.
Cliff heard what I said and turned to look at me with an expression I couldn't read.
“Alexandra's not feeling well. You're not feeling well.”
“Tracey Henson, you'll really say anything to get my attention, won't you.”
That morning I'd had an important meeting to get to.
No time to clean up the kitchen, so I'd instinctively asked him to handle it.
He'd been sitting at the table. Glanced at me. Said, cool as anything：“You know I don't like going in the kitchen. What, we've got nothing left to talk about so you're saying stuff like this to get my attention?”
I froze for two seconds, then left without arguing. There wasn't time.
I'd figured that no matter how annoyed he was, he'd at least take care of something that small.
But when I walked in just now,
every single dirty dish was still sitting in the sink, soaking.
The laundry hamper was overflowing. Untouched.
Even the trash bag I'd forgotten to take with me
was still sitting quietly in the corner by the door.
Normally I would've fought with him over it.
But right now,
I didn't have the energy to argue.
Didn't have the heart to care.
“Tracey, what are you standing there brooding for? You come home and can't even be bothered to clean up?”
“Go look around. Find me one other girlfriend as lazy as you. Asking you to cook one meal and you act like I'm asking for your life.”
Every irritated word out of his mouth drove into me like a knife, buried somewhere so deep I could barely breathe around it.
“Cliff, I told you, I'm not feeling……”
I didn't even finish.
His phone rang.
He didn't look at me again. Turned his back and picked up.
Alexandra's bright, breezy voice came through from the other end.
“Mr. Harding, I've picked out the car I want. The salesperson said if I'm serious, I can go pick it up tomorrow……cough cough cough”
“Got it. Stop talking. You're sick, don't worry about all that. Tell my assistant which one you like and I'll have him take care of it.”
He didn't even glance at what was in the medicine box. Just picked the whole thing up and headed for the door.
“Cliff……”
My throat was raw and burning.
Every word felt like a blade dragging across it, and the pain brought tears I couldn't stop“Leave me some……medicine.”
He heard me. His steps paused for half a second.
