**Sick Love**
You really think that free-spirited little bird will stay married for long? Emily tried to talk some sense into me.
Time will tell, I sighed dreamily, blissfully unaware those words would become both the motto and curse of my entire life.
I remember that evening like it was yesterdaythe stuffy banquet hall, the overpowering scent of expensive perfume, the hollow chatter about money, the plastic smiles. I stood there with a glass of wine, thinking how utterly bored I was, already plotting my escape, when suddenly, behind me, a womans laughter cut through the noise. Infectious. Unapologetic. I turned around like a puppet yanked by its strings.
And there she was. Katie. All wild gestures and dramatic storytelling, holding a group of men captive. Slender, in a simple dress, but with fire in those hazel eyesenough to shatter my carefully constructed, safe little world to pieces.
Whos that? I muttered to Emily, our mutual friend.
My friend Katie, she sighed. Fair warningshes a natural disaster in a skirt. Like a rollercoasterthrilling, but you might walk away broken.
I barely heard the warning. I was already hypnotised. For someone raised by professors who lectured over breakfast, Katie was life itself. Love at first sight? More like an incurable diagnosis.
We married six months later, despite my parents protests. Shell ruin you, son, my father warned, peering over his glasses. That girl wasnt built for marriage.
Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine, my mother added. Shell strangle you slowly.
But all I saw was sunlight. My life had always run on a strict schedulewhat I needed was a hurricane.
The first months were madness. Shed wake me at 3 AMThomas, look at the moon! Lets drive to the river!and we would. Shed strike up conversations with strangers, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaos. And I? I breathed it in like a prisoner tasting freedom for the first time.
Then came the first storm.
The recession hit hard. My businessmy lifes workcollapsed in months. I fought to save it, but it was no use. One evening, I came home hollow-eyed, defeated. The ground was slipping away.
Katie met me at the door. Not with open arms. Arms crossed, icy glare.
Well, genius? Lost it all? Her voice was sharp, merciless.
I couldnt breathe.
Katie, Im trying
Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship, she cut in. And I dont drown. I dont *do* poor. I need stability. You cant give me that anymore. Sorry.
She packed her bags right in front of me. My throat burned.
Katie, waitplease My voice cracked. Ill fix this. *Well* fix this.
She paused, tossed her passport into her handbag, then finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just irritation.
Thomas, stop grovelling. Its pathetic. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye.
The door slammed. The sound echoed in my chest like a physical blow. I crumpled to the floor and cried like a child, smearing tears across my face. The world turned grey. Food lost its taste. Air turned thick.
Six months later, she came back.
I opened the doorand there she stood. Tanned, thinner, smelling of unfamiliar perfume. My knees buckled.
Well, she said, striding past me, kicking off her heels. That stockbroker was insufferable. Even his car playlist was classical.
She said it like shed just popped out for milk, not spent months in another mans bed.
And instead of throwing her out, instead of screamingI felt a sick, overwhelming *joy*. She chose me!
Im sorry I failed you
She froze. Not with remorse. With *satisfaction*. Shed been right. Always right.
There were more departures.
First, a guru whisked her off to the mountains for enlightenment. I didnt leave the house for weeks. Lying on the living room floor where wed once danced, I imagined her laughing with him, gazing at him the way she once had at me. The thought made me physically ill.
Then came the real manall muscles and smirks. I spotted them in the park. He whispered in her ear; she threw her head back and laughed *that* laughthe one that once pierced my heart. My vision darkened.
But she always returned. And I was always there to open the door.
Emily, whod introduced us, grabbed my shoulders after one reunion. Thomas, wake up! Shes *using* you! She bragged that you *apologised* again! For *what*?
Because Im not enough. Because I bore her. Its my fault, Em. Always mine.
I wasnt a man. I was a doormat. A waiting room for Katie. And the worst part? I *chose* it. Because life without her was worse than any pain she caused.
One night, after she returned from another stallion, I broke. I stood by the bed, watching her sleepsprawled across my side, peaceful, breathtaking.
Why? I whispered, voice thick. Why do you always come back to *me*?
She stirred, stretched, and flashed *that* smilethe one that used to level me.
Because youre my *home*, Tommy, she murmured sleepily. My safe harbour. You always wait.
No love in those words. Just convenience. That hurt worse than all her betrayals. Yet when she wrapped her arms around me, all my resolve dissolved.
I hated myself for it. But I couldnt let go.
Then, the day I nearly lost the last shred of *me*, she left againthis time with a pretentious gallerist (*He* gets art, she sneered at my corporate ties). I was alone in our sterile flat when the phone rang. My father had had a stroke.
Rushing to the hospital, his warnings replayed in my head: Shell break you, son. Id thought he meant my career. My money. But he meant *me*. My soul.
In the hospital, my motheralways so composedsat crying silently by his bed. My father, once formidable, lay frail, his face slack. Staring at his helpless hand, something *clicked* in me. A cold, clear realisation: he was broken by illness. I was broken by love.
I took my mothers trembling hand. Im sorry. I shouldve listened.
We always hoped youd wake up, she whispered.
That night, I did the first thing that came to mind. I packed Katies things. Didnt throw them outjust shut the wardrobe door and taped a sign on it: **WAITING ROOM CLOSED.**
The hardest part? Not replying when she texted weeks later: Miss our coffee. He drinks some pretentious dust. My fingers hovered over *Come home.* But I remembered my fathers face. For the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt understand. The messages turned angry, then mocking: Tommy, on a *silence diet*? Withering without me? I held firm. Silence became my fortress.
Then she showed up. Tossed her bag down. Thomas, fetch my suitcase from the car!
You misunderstood, I said, calmly. This isnt your home anymore.
For the first time, fear flickered in her eyes. Shed lost control.
Are you *ill*?
Yes, Katie. Very. But Im recovering. And it *hurts*. You were my sickness.
The withdrawal was agony. Like detoxing from a drug. But my fathers slow recovery, my mothers quiet strength, kept me going.
The first months of freedom felt like convalescence. Id catch myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But slowly, the habit faded.
Six months later, a postcard arrived from some tropical island: *No one ever waited for me like you.*
I moved her things to storage. Not out of spitejust hygiene. Making space for *my* life.
Months after, Emily dragged me to a gallery opening. Dont worry, your hurricane isnt here, she joked.
But I wasnt afraid. I sipped wine, admired the art, and locked eyes with a womannot dazzling like Katie, but steady, warm. We talked books, paintings. No pretending. No performing.
Walking her out, I realised: I wasnt anxious. No fear of saying the wrong thing. Just calm.
Turns out, you *can* just be yourself. No expectations. No endless waiting in an empty room.
Whatever comes next? Itll be *my* life. *My* choice. And thats enough.
