The number “5” on my wrist flickered once and turned into “4.”
…
I didn’t die in the hospital.
Clinging to my last breath, I went back to the home Jason and I shared.
Three years of marriage, and yet the house was colder than an ice cellar.
At the entrance, beside a pair of women’s heels, a pair of men’s leather shoes lay carelessly tossed.
I recognized them. They were Jason’s.
The lights inside were off, except for a faint glow seeping through the crack of the bedroom door.
I pushed it open.
Jason was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, video calling a woman.
His tone was a softness I had never heard from him.
“Emily, go to bed early. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”
The woman’s coquettish voice drifted from the phone.
“Jason, when will you divorce her? I don’t want to wait any longer.”
Jason was silent for a moment, then his voice cooled.
“Don’t start. She’s not in good health.”
It felt like my chest was being sliced apart by a dull knife.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know my health was fragile. He just didn’t realize that his love was my very life.
Leaning against the doorframe, I let out a faint sound.
Jason jerked his head back, panic flashing in his eyes before he quickly hung up the call.