He Doesn’t Love Me

Never again would I wait on him and hope that he would come back to me.

After prescribing some nerve-repair medication, the doctor thanked me, “Ms. Hazel, the sleep balm formula you provided us has passed clinical testing. It’s now being promoted across other hospitals in the city. I thank you again on the hospital’s behalf.”

The results did not surprise me.

Charles’s insomnia had baffled many medical institutions, and this sleep balm was the only thing that helped him sleep.

The formula worked because I had spent years fine-tuning it.

As soon as I stepped out of the rehabilitation ward, I ran into Sharon.

Her stilettos clicked sharply against the floor until she stopped before me. Her eyes were full of scorn and condescension.

“Hazel, you really haunt us like a phantom. Why are you everywhere we go?”

‘Everywhere we go?’

Of course, wherever Sharon was, Charles was never far behind.

Since her return from abroad, the two of them had been inseparable.

I had no desire to see Charles, much less their sickening displays of affection. They were like animals in heat.

Charles appeared just as I turned to leave, and his voice was heavy with displeasure. “Are you following me?”

It was not entirely unreasonable for him to think so. I had followed him for seven years through high school and university.

I would think the same too if I were him.

“Charles, narcissism is an illness. You should have it treated.”

I shoved my medical report into my bag and tried to leave.

However, as I walked past him, his hand shot out. He gripped my wrist so tightly that it felt like he was going to crush it.

My face twisted in pain.

“Let go,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

For seven years, I had been nothing but gentle with him. No matter how angry I got, I would remain meek.

When he saw how pale my face was, he loosened his grip. Concern and suspicion flickered in his eyes.

“Why are you at the hospital? Are you sick? I’ll be back in a few days. You don’t have to follow me around.

“Just stop pretending to be ill. You look so fake when playing the victim.”

Apparently, he saw every encounter we had as some kind of ploy on my side.

Every vulnerability was a performance.

Even illness was an act.

Whenever disappointment ran deep enough, it would kill any urge to argue.

So, I looked at him emotionlessly and spoke in a flat tone. “Sure. Think whatever you want. Sign the divorce papers quickly so that I can clear out for the both of you.”

He snapped and yelled at me, “Hazel! This is your last chance! Keep pushing, and you’ll waste it!”

I met his glare coldly.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Then, I walked away without hesitation. The sting in my wrist kept me utterly sober before the man I had loved for seven years.

He tried to come after me, but Sharon grabbed his arm. “Charles, I just used my connections to get you a prescription for insomnia here.”

She clung on to his arm affectionately. “You haven’t been sleeping well lately, so we should try it.”

As people bustled through the hospital corridor, Charles lowered his gaze.

He stared at the all-too-familiar prescription in her hand and stood frozen for a long time.

…

I had built my own network of contacts while helping Charles grow his business. Many of them kept in touch with me.

Since painting was no longer possible, I shifted my focus to business.

After handing in my resignation, I set out on a research trip to Zureland.

Charles called me repeatedly during my trip.

I wondered how he found the time to waste on all these meaningless calls. This was the same man who never had time to reply to a single one of my messages.