I Fled After a Call From Future Me

Emilia's POV

The day I was discharged from the hospital, Michele came to pick me up.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I spotted two pink suitcases on the back seat at a glance. They belonged to Gianna.

I turned to Michele and asked, "What's this about? Are you having her move in?"

Michele remained perfectly composed. "It's not a permanent move. Gianna's depression has relapsed. I didn't feel comfortable leaving her to live alone, so I'm having her stay with us temporarily. The guest bedroom in our house has always been empty anyway—it'll be perfect for her."

But that was supposed to be our marital home. I spent six months carefully picking out every single detail and getting everything just right.

I hadn't even officially moved in yet, whereas Gianna had already settled in as if she owned the place.

"I see."

I leaned back calmly against the seat and closed my eyes to rest.

The car pulled into the estate.

There was now a pair of bunny slippers sitting by the front door.

Gianna, wearing one of Michele's oversized shirts, was sitting bare-legged on the carpet, fiddling with some trinkets.

"Michele, you're back!"

Hearing the door open, she immediately jumped up and ran to Michele's side. Then, she looked at me and said, "Emilia, you're back too. I'm so sorry. It's because I'm in such a bad state that Michele insisted I come and stay for a while."

I changed into my own shoes. Then, without sparing her a single glance, I walked straight into the master bedroom and began packing up my things.

There wasn't really much to pack. Apart from a few changes of clothes and my important documents, I planned to throw everything else away.

Gianna made dinner.

Michele brought a bowl of thick seafood chowder over to me and said gently, "Gianna went to all this trouble making this. Have a little—think of it as accepting her apology."

The sight of the seafood in that bowl made me sick to my stomach.

I had a severe seafood allergy. Years ago, I accidentally ate seafood and nearly went into anaphylactic shock. At the time, Michele had carried me on his back, running two full blocks to get me to the emergency room.

With reddened eyes, he'd sworn he would never let me come into contact with seafood again.

But now, here he was, bringing me a bowl of seafood chowder, all to stick up for Gianna.

"I'm not hungry."

I picked up the porcelain bowl and threw it—soup and all—straight into the trash can.

After the dull crash, the living room fell deathly silent.

Michele stared at the bowl in the trash can, his displeasure now fully surfacing.

"Emilia, your temper is really getting out of hand. Gianna slaved away in the kitchen for two hours and even burned her hand, and this is how you trample on her thoughtfulness?"

As I watched him go on defending Gianna and blaming me, all I felt was numbness.

"Michele, I'm allergic to seafood. Eating it will send me into anaphylactic shock."

Michele stiffened. It finally came back to him, and panic flashed across his face. But he quickly masked his emotions, his tone turning irritable.

"It's just a bit of seafood. It's not as serious as you make it sound."

Instead of replying, I turned around and walked into the bedroom. Once inside, I locked the door.

From outside came Michele's stifled sigh.

"Gianna, don't cry. Emilia has always been like this, so don't take it personally."

I leaned against the door and closed my eyes. But the tears wouldn't even come, for I had already died inside.