Chapter 5: Anniversaries and Aftermath

After seeing Marcus’s smile in his office, I started watching him more closely. It was a strange, uneasy feeling, like eavesdropping on a conversation you used to be part of.

He seemed to tiptoe around me—gentle, careful, never letting his guard down. Maybe it was my illness, the way I’d withdrawn. But it was also more than that. We’d slipped into a pattern: he’d tell me less, smile less, share less. It was as if every funny story, every moment of joy, was reserved for someone else.

Once, he’d share the funny things that happened at work, finding light even when things were hard. He’d text me at 2 a.m. saying he missed my coffee, or that he craved my chicken noodle soup after a long day. He’d listen to me ramble about Hollywood gossip, patiently sitting through my wild stories of costars and contracts.

Now, there was only gentleness—polite, restrained, and empty. The black hole inside me had sucked away his joy too. I saw it every time we sat across from each other at breakfast, every time we curled up together at night but felt a thousand miles apart. There was a barrier between us, invisible but absolute.

Marcus’s easy laughter around Aubrey played in my mind on repeat. He hadn’t laughed like that with me in ages.

It was me who made him unhappy. Maybe if I changed, things could change too.

In a few days, it would be our wedding anniversary. I told myself maybe, just maybe, I could fix things—a bouquet of roses, a homemade cake, chicken soup, and coffee, just like the old days.

So on our anniversary, I called him. "Marcus, today I bought a bouquet of roses, a cake, cooked chicken soup, and made coffee. So, will you come home early for dinner?"

He sounded startled by my sudden enthusiasm. Silence, then: "There’s an urgent matter, I have to work overtime tonight, but I’ll be home before midnight. I have a gift for you. Wait for me, Rachel."

"Okay, I’ll wait for you."

I hung up, and the house seemed to shrink around me. Candles flickered on the table, illuminating the roses, the cake, the chicken soup—everything staged for a happiness I couldn’t summon. It all felt like a theater set for a play no one was going to watch.

Eventually, I grabbed the soup, the cake, the roses, and headed out into the humid Georgia night. The air was thick with the smell of rain. I told myself if I could just get to Marcus, if I could just see him, maybe the darkness would loosen its grip.

The kitchen filled with steam and the smell of thyme, just like when my mom used to make it on sick days. I drove through the night, headlights cutting through fog, music low and sad on the radio. I pulled into the underground garage at Marcus’s company just in time to see him step out of the elevator, moving with purpose. Before I could even call out, he peeled out in his car, taillights streaking red through the gloom.

He was in a hurry—urgent overtime, he’d said. But it looked like something more than that. Was he going home? Was he racing to join me for our anniversary? Or…

I followed, barely thinking, just reacting. Five minutes in, it was clear: he wasn’t heading home.

The further we drove, the heavier my heart grew. Deep down, I already knew what I’d find, but denial is a hell of a drug. Maybe, I told myself, maybe I was just overthinking again.

I pressed the gas, following his taillights, hands gripping the steering wheel. The urge to crash into him—end it all, make sure no one had to suffer anymore—flickered in the back of my mind. At a yellow light, a big truck thundered through the intersection. For a split second, I pictured ramming Marcus’s car into its path and disappearing into oblivion.

Then a deafening horn snapped me back. I slammed on the brakes, heart hammering. Someone yelled from the next lane, "Lady, if you got a death wish, don’t drag the rest of us with you!"

I let out a shaky, bitter laugh. My T-shirt was stuck to my back with sweat. Even my worst impulses had a dark, twisted logic.

The light changed. I pushed aside the urge to self-destruct and followed Marcus’s car into a condo complex on the edge of town. He jumped out and dashed inside, phone pressed to his ear. "I’m almost there," I heard him say.

I sat in my car, engine idling, headlights reflecting off wet pavement. Rain had started, the heavy southern kind. I watched Marcus vanish into the building.

The elevator was out of order—yellow caution tape, blinking red light. But the stairwell light was on. Marcus must’ve taken the stairs, so I followed, my footsteps echoing through the empty hallways.

One flight, then another. I listened for his hurried steps above me, the stairwell lights clicking on and off with each movement. My sneakers squeaked against the concrete, and the stale air tasted like old cigarettes and rain. By the time I reached the thirteenth floor, my lungs were burning.

The lights on the fourteenth floor were off. Marcus’s destination was the thirteenth.

I climbed a few more steps and collapsed on the landing. Then I heard footsteps, urgent and uneven.

Marcus’s voice: "Hold on, I’ll take you to the hospital right away."

I peeked over the edge and saw Marcus carrying Aubrey, who was doubled over in pain, down the stairs. His face was carved with worry; he didn’t notice me at all.

One by one, the motion-sensor lights snapped on as he passed, then faded out behind him. I sat in the dark, the emergency exit sign glowing faintly, swallowing the world around me. It was like all the light had drained out, and the darkness settled in for good.

My phone chimed. Midnight. It was officially our anniversary.

"Happy anniversary, Rachel," I whispered to no one.