I'm Second Place in My Own Marriage

In the fifth year of my marriage with Lionel Kruger, I suddenly develop an ability to see everyone's ranking system.

To my mom, I'm ranked first. To my best friend, I'm ranked second after her daughter.

Even the owner of the breakfast cart in the neighborhood views me as his sixth favorite person in his life.

Delighted, I rush off to see Lionel's ranking system.

His mom ranks first, whereas Natalie Cooper is ranked second.

That's me! I'm ranked second!

That piece of news makes me smile throughout the day.

That is, until I see an unfamiliar name taking up the sixth spot—Lindsay Sloan.

I tell myself that it's fine. I'm ranked second, while she's ranked sixth.

But the next few days, I witness Lindsey's name climbing slowly up the ranks to the point she's almost reaching my rank.

That evening, Lionel comes home and hugs me as usual. "I missed you."

As I stare at the ranking system above his head, I notice that Lindsay, who's now ranked third, is slowly climbing upward as he speaks.

"Lionel, who's Lindsey Sloan?"

At that moment, Lionel freezes up while hugging me.

That instant was too brief, so much so that it almost felt like my imagination.

Lionel Kruger quickly looked down at me, his expression perfectly natural.

"Oh, Lindsay's the new designer on the project team. She'll be working on a case with me soon, so I'm showing her the ropes."

As he said this, he ruffled my hair just like he always did.

"What's wrong? Don't tell me you're even jealous of my colleagues?"

I looked up at him. Above his head, Lindsay's name sat steadily in third place, not wavering in the slightest.

If she were just an ordinary colleague and I had asked him about her like that, there should have been at least some ripple of emotion in Lionel's heart.

Yet, there was none.

I simply hummed softly in response and lowered my head to drink some water. But the rim of the glass rested against my lips for a long time without me taking a sip.

The next morning, Lionel left the house 20 minutes earlier than usual. He said the morning rush hour was especially bad.

As usual, the table was set with warm milk and a fried egg. He had even cut the crusts off my toast for me.

He had done this every single day for the past five years.

I stood at the entryway with a smile, waving and telling him to drive safely.

After his taillights disappeared around the corner, I found myself opening the location-sharing app as if possessed.

His car didn't head to the office. Instead, it stopped in an unfamiliar residential complex for over ten minutes before starting up again.

As I stared at that red dot, I felt my heart sink.

The third day, same time, same route. By the fourth day, I no longer stood at the window to wave goodbye. Instead, I just watched as he left and kept an eye on the red dot on the location-sharing app as it came to a stop in that same residential complex.

Every morning after he walked out the door, Lindsay Sloan's name would creep forward just a little. Even so, it was enough to leave me restless and on edge the entire day.

The evenings were no different. Twice Lionel said he was working late, but the location-sharing app showed him stopped in another unfamiliar residential complex instead of the office.

I stared at that row of building numbers until my eyes burned.

That evening, I sat at the dining table watching him in the kitchen. He was fiddling with the gooseneck kettle with his head bowed.

The sweet scent of vanilla slowly unfurled, seeping into every crevice of our marital home. It was a scent that didn't belong to me—or to us.

Lionel carried the cup over and placed it beside my hand. There was a trace of barely perceptible nervousness in his eyes.

"Here, give it a try."

I took a sip. It was sweet, mellow, and just a tad creamy—nothing like the long black we usually drank.

I looked up at him and asked, "Since when do you like vanilla?"

He paused for a beat before replying with a smile, "I just thought I'd switch it up for once."

That hesitation needled its way into my eyes.

That night, he went to take a shower and left his phone on the couch, the Notes app still open on the screen.

I took a glance and saw "Vanilla syrup to milk ratio 3:7—she said it was a little too sweet."

She. Not a name. Just a designated "she".

My fingers hovered over the screen for a long time without moving.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom, and I put the phone back exactly where it had been, as if nothing had happened.

We spent that evening cozied up on the couch, watching a show. I leaned against his shoulder. The people on the screen were laughing, but I couldn't take in a single word.

Lionel's phone buzzed once.

He picked it up and glanced at the screen. The corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smile. Then, he bowed his head to type out a reply.

The whole thing took no more than five seconds. But it was in those exact five seconds that Lindsay's name suddenly jumped forward, nearly brushing up against my spot at number two.

I leaned against Lionel and could feel his heartbeat quicken. Yet, it wasn't because of me.

After he put down the phone, he subconsciously tightened his arm and pulled me a little closer. It was as if he were making up for something or suppressing something.

Late that night, I couldn't sleep.

A sliver of streetlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, falling across Lionel's profile. He slept soundly, his brows relaxed. In fact, there was even a faint smile on his lips.

I used to love watching him sleep more than anything.

But that night, my gaze slowly drifted upward.

The ranking hovered silently above his head. First place was still Mom, but Lindsay and I were now tied for second.

I stared at those two names sitting side by side, and it hit me like a fist to the chest. I'd been married to him for five years, yet some woman he'd known for who knew how long already weighed just as much in his heart.

I gently moved his hand from my waist. Then, I turned toward the wall and lay with my eyes open until dawn.

The next day, I was doing laundry when I found a crumpled receipt in his jacket pocket.

The cafe's name was one I didn't recognize, and the timestamp read 7:48 am. It was exactly within that 20-minute window Lionel had started leaving early.

I slowly smoothed the receipt open. He had bought two vanilla lattes, but he and I only ever drank long blacks.

It turned out he hadn't been experimenting with a new flavor at home, but rather with another woman.

Sunlight fell beside the laundry basket. I clutched that thin slip of paper, my fingertips growing colder and colder.

A long while later, I folded the receipt and put it back in his pocket. Then, I sat on the balcony hugging my knees for what felt like forever.

The ranking wouldn't lie, and neither would a receipt.

Therefore, the only one lying to me was Lionel.