Chapter 5: The Bathroom Confrontation

After a year of dating, as her official boyfriend, I still had to ask permission just to hold her hand or kiss her, depending on her mood. Every date felt like walking on eggshells, never sure if she'd recoil or let me get close. I made excuses to my friends about how she was just shy, just different.

Anything more? Forget it. Because my girlfriend always said girls should be reserved, that she prided herself on her strict upbringing, that she was saving herself for marriage—that’s how you treat love and marriage responsibly. She’d lecture me about standards, her voice so sweet but so firm.

I respected her. I really thought I’d met a rare, good girl. The kind my mom always said to look for. I imagined a future, the white-picket fence, the whole nine yards.

But what did I get? In front of me, she acted holier-than-thou. Behind my back, she was sleeping with another woman’s husband. Like a bad sitcom punchline, except I was the punchline.

Is there anyone more pathetic, more of a joke than me? I laughed—a dry, bitter sound, the kind you make when there’s nothing else left to do. Guess I should’ve just bought a "World’s Best Doormat" mug while I was at it.

Rage boiled up—I was about to lose my mind. My heart pounded, blood rushing to my face. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles white, trying not to scream.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore and pushed open the bathroom door. My pulse was racing. I didn’t care about boundaries anymore, not after what I’d seen.

My girlfriend, still showering, screamed in shock: “What are you doing? Who said you could come in?!”

She covered herself below the waist, not even caring about the top. The faint red marks below her collarbone burned my eyes. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe.

I forced myself not to confront her. Not yet. I clenched my jaw, fighting to keep it together. No, now’s not the time to blow up. There had to be a better way to handle this, to make sure she couldn’t twist it all around on me.

I took a deep breath, pointed at the razor. “Just came to get this.” My voice came out flat, almost robotic.

She hurled the soap at my face. “Get out!”

That fierce, disgusted look—nothing like how cute and flirty she acted with that guy on Messenger. My heart twisted all over again.

Screw this.

I have to break up. No more. I knew it right then, as I closed the bathroom door behind me and heard her cursing under her breath. The bathroom door slammed behind me, the sound echoing through the apartment. I could still hear her angry curses, muffled by the running shower.