“Sick Love”
“Do you think this free-spirited bird will stay married for long?” Emma tried to talk sense into me.
“Time will tell,” I replied with a blissful smile, unaware those words would become both the motto and curse of my life.
I remember that evening like it was yesterday. A stifling banquet, the scent of expensive perfume, chatter about money, fake smiles. I stood with a glass in hand, thinking how tired I was of it all. I was about to slip out when I heard infectious laughter behind me. I turned as if pulled by strings.
And there she was. Katie. Gesturing animatedly while telling a story to a group of men. Slim, in a simple dress, but with such fire in her hazel eyes that my carefully constructed, safe world shattered instantly.
“Whos that?” I asked Emma, an old acquaintance.
“My friend Katie,” she sighed. “Fair warningshes a whirlwind in a skirt. Being with her is like flyingthrilling, but you might crash.”
I barely heard the warning, already hypnotised. For someone raised by professor parents who lectured even at breakfast, Katie was life incarnate. It was love at first sightor, more accurately, an incurable diagnosis.
We married six months later, despite my parents pleas. “Shell break you, son,” Dad said, peering over his glasses. “That girl isnt cut out for family life.”
“Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine,” Mum agreed. “Shell choke you until theres nothing left.”
But all I saw was sunshine. A hurricane was exactly what my regimented life needed.
The first months were madness. Katie would wake me at 3 a.m., shouting, “Oliver, look at the moon! Lets drive to the river!” And wed go. Shed strike up conversations with rough sleepers outside our building, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaosand I inhaled it like a prisoner tasting freedom.
Then, the first storm hit.
The financial crisis struck without warning. My business, my lifes work, wobbled and collapsed within months. I fought to salvage what I could, but it was hopeless. One evening, I came home exhausted, hollow-eyed. The ground was vanishing beneath me.
Katie met me at the door. Not with an embrace. Arms crossed, she stared at me with a cold, alien gaze.
“Well, genius? Lost?” Her voice was sharp, merciless.
My breath caught.
“Katie, Im trying”
“Youre trying to bail out a sinking ship,” she cut in. “I wont drown with you. I cant live like this. I need stability. You cant give that anymore. Sorry.”
She packed her bags right in front of me. My throat closed up.
“Katie, wait please,” my voice cracked into a whisper. “Ill fix this. Well fix it”
She paused, tucking her bright red passport into her handbag. When her eyes finally met mine, there was no love, no regretjust icy irritation.
“Oliver, stop humiliating yourself. Its pathetic. Dont call. Dont look for me. Bye!”
The door slammed. The sound reverberated in my chest like physical pain. I crumpled to the floor in the hallway, crying like a boy, smearing tears across my face. The world lost colour. Food turned bland; the air thickened.
Katie returned six months later.
I opened the doorand there she stood. Thinner, tanned, smelling of unfamiliar perfume. My legs nearly gave out. She strode past me, kicking off her heels.
“Well,” she said breezily. “That broker was insufferable. Even his car music was classical.”
She said it as if shed just popped to the shops, not left another mans bed.
Instead of tossing her things onto the street, instead of shouting, I felt wild, overwhelming joy. Shed come back! Shed chosen me!
“Im sorry I failed you,” I whispered. “I wasnt strong enough”
She paused, surprised. When I looked up, I didnt see remorse in her eyesjust satisfaction. Shed been right. Always right.
There were more departures.
First, a “guru” who whisked her off to the mountains to “find enlightenment.” I didnt leave the house for weeks. I lay on the living room rug where wed once danced, staring blankly, imagining her laughing with him, gazing at him the way she once had at me. The thoughts made me physically ill.
Then came the “real man”muscled, with a cocky grin. I spotted them in the park. He whispered in her ear; she threw her head back and laughed that same laugh that had once pierced my heart. Darkness clouded my vision.
Every time, she returned. And every time, I was there to open the door.
Emma, whod introduced us, grabbed my shoulders after one such return, near shouting:
“Oliver, wake up! Shes using you! She bragged about you apologising 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 accepted it. Because life without her seemed worse than any pain she caused.
One night, after she returned from the “stallion,” I broke. I entered the bedroom. She lay sprawled across my side of the bed, serene, breathtaking. Sitting beside her, I whispered through the lump in my throat:
“Why? Why do you always come back to me?”
She stirred, stretching, her face lighting up with that same disarming smile.
“Because youre my home, Olly,” she murmured sleepily. “My safe harbour. You always wait.”
There was no love in those wordsjust convenience. It hurt more than all her betrayals combined. Yet when she wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing her warm cheek to my chest, my pain, pride, willeverything dissolved.
I despised myself in those moments but couldnt let go, even knowing the door might slam again. And Id keep waiting. Because those stolen moments when Katie was near were my only breath of air. Without her, there was only an endless, silent void.
The final time she left was the day I nearly lost the last remnant of my true self.
This time, it was with a gallery ownera “sensitive artist,” shed said, sneering at my corporate ties in the wardrobe. Again, I was left alone in our sterile flat.
Then, the phone rang. Dad had had a stroke.
Rushing across town, his warnings echoed in my headthe ones Id dismissed so fiercely. “Shell break you, son.” Id thought he meant my career, my money. But he meant me. My soul.
I burst into the hospital room. Mum, always composed, sat weeping silently by the bed.
Dad lay pale, his face twisted, staring at the ceiling. A shadow of the formidable man whod taught me lifes lessons. Shock numbed me. Seeing his limp hand, something inside me snappeda near-physical click. With chilling clarity, I saw myself in him: just as broken, just as paralysed. Only, his ruin was illness. Mine was love.
I sat beside Mum, taking her trembling hand, resting my head on her shoulder.
“Forgive me. I didnt listen.”
“We always hoped youd wake up,” she whispered.
That night, back in the empty flat, I did the first thing that came to mind. I packed Katies belongings. I nearly threw them out but stopped myself. Instead, I shut the wardrobe door and taped a sign to it: “Waiting Room Closed.”
The hardest part was ignoring Katies text two weeks later: “Miss our coffee. He drinks some overpriced dust here.” My fingers itched to reply, “Come home.” But I remembered Dads face. For the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt understand. The messages cameconfused, then angry, then mocking: “Olly, on a diet? Wasting away without me?” I said nothing. Silence became my fortress.
Then she showed up unannounced. Dropping her bag in the hallway, she barked:
“Oliver, fetch my suitcase from the car!”
“You dont understand,” I said softly, each word deliberate. “This isnt your home anymore.”
For the first time, fear flickered in her eyes. Shed lost control.
“Whats wrong with you? Are you sick?”
“Yes, Katie. I was very sick. Now Im healing. And it hurts. You were my disease.”
The withdrawal was agonylike a detox. But Dads slow recovery, Mums quiet strength, and my own willpower kept me going. For once, I fought for myselfnot for her return.
The first months of freedom felt like convalescence. My body and soul ached, purging the poison. Id catch myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But the urges faded.
Six months later, Katie sent a postcard from a tropical island: “No one ever waited for me like you did.”
I moved her things to storage. Not out of angerjust hygiene. Making space for my own life.
Emma invited me to a small gallery opening.
“Dont worry, your storm wont be there,” she joked.
I wasnt afraid anymore. I studied the art, sipped wine, and met the gaze of a womannot a stunner like Katie, but with calm, attentive eyes. We talked about books, paintings. For once, I didnt have to pretend.
Walking her out, I realised I wasnt anxious. No fear of saying the wrong thing, no desperate need to impress. Just peace.
Turns out, you can just be yourself. No grand plans, no fantasies.
Whatever comes next, itll be my life. My choice. My pathno more waiting in an empty room.
