Won't Get Fooled Again

I waited by the road for thirty minutes, before finally hailing a cab to leave.

Perhaps feeling guilty, Paul actually came home that night, but entered to find me packing a suitcase.

"Running away again?!" He promptly bellowed.

I never stopped, replying nonchalantly, "Just packing some clothes."

At those words, I subtly moved aside, keeping my distance.

The sickly sweet perfume clinging to his body combined with the scent of shampoo left me with a headache.

Still, his expression stiffened as he noticed me moving away, and muttered as if for his own benefit, "The closet is just a little small. When we marry and move to a bigger house, I'll make you an entire wardrobe room, okay?"

In the past, I would have thought he really cared, even doting on me.

I would be scrambling over myself to say yes, and fantasize about our married life.

Now, anything he said left me feeling disgusted and deceived.

Still, seeing that I was not responding, he didn't press the issue and headed into the bedroom, unbothered.

He never sweet-talked me—even when I was upset.

He knew that all he had to do was beckon at me, and I would run up to him, apologizing and humbly asking to make up with him.

If anything, the fact that he spoke up first after we fought earlier was already the greatest compromise he would afford me.

Later, I entered the bedroom.

Water was splashing audibly from the bathroom, and Paul's phone was outside, vibrating endlessly.

His screen was still lit, and displayed his chat with Lily: [Paul, which one should I use for my wallpaper?]

She had sent him so many photos that one would never know where to look.

And in every single photo, Lily and Paul were at once affectionate and intimate.

There were even wedding photos, as if they were actually newlyweds.

Even the backdrops were places that I had personally picked.

Hah! And he always told me that he was busy—in the end, he just didn't want to go with me!

The apathy I felt just earlier was suddenly washed off, and my heart clenched, as if seized by a giant, unseen hand.

I used to be so excited and asked him to choose from our many photos too, but he'd just wave me off impatiently, not even bothering to look up. "No time. Stop bothering me."

I still remembered the look on his face then.

That man and the man in Lily's photos—who smiled as dazzlingly as the sun, were certainly two different people.

Suddenly, the bathroom door opened, and Paul came bellowing as he rushed at me, "Who told you to look?!"

He snatched it off so forcefully before I could react.

Then, seeing in just a second that I had swiped through his chat log, he pushed me to the floor, "Who told you to touch my phone?! Are you crazy?!"

I crashed on a table, and it cut into my leg, drawing blood.

He didn't seem to notice, and kept ranting at me as he replied to Lily's text—as if I was the third-wheeler meddling in their relationship.

Actually, I wouldn't have kept reading even if Paul never came out.

There really was nothing to see in those texts.

It was just photos of lacey underwear, flirting and the like.

I had seen what I needed to, and the worst had already passed.

I used to lose sleep as I stared at our chat that was hardly used, waiting day and night for Paul to come home.

In the end, I would still tirelessly share anything with him.

Days—perhaps weeks later, when he felt like it, he would reply shortly.

[Oh.]

[Yeah.]

[Right.]

That, and nothing else.

I wiped off the blood from my leg, and stood up, limping.

"It won't happen again."

At my words, Paul suddenly stopped ranting.