Mathew called and said he had left the office and would be home soon. My heart leapt with joy. I hurried to put on my makeup, excitement bubbling as I prepared to welcome him back.
But then, another message came:"I have an urgent social engagement. Please eat by yourself."
In an instant, everything went cold. My fingers froze around the phone, my heart sinking into an icy pit.
There was no last-minute social event. I knew the truth. The real reason was her—Hellen, my so-called good cousin. She had returned with her perfect child, and Mathew, along with all his friends, was out there, celebrating her homecoming.
Of course, it was my "good cousin" who posted a carefully crafted, "friends-only" update—visible only to me. And there he was, Mathew, staring at her with that revoltingly tender gaze, the one he used to save for me. His smile wasn’t just affectionate; it was pathetic, like a lovesick dog begging for scraps.
If she had even an ounce less dignity, I swear, she would’ve invited me to watch them in person, just to savor the pain on my face while they played out their twisted little reunion.
But this wasn’t new. No, the performance had started long ago. When Mathew and I got married, she called me all the way from the States just to pour salt in the wound.
"My dear cousin," she had cooed with that poisonous sweetness in her voice, "even if you and I look like mirror images, Mathew will always love me. Not you. You’ll never be more than second place in his heart."
I remember the sting of her words. And now, as I stared at that photo, the wound she had opened so many years ago burned anew.
She was right. Mathew had always been thinking about her, all these years.
On our wedding night, his body moved against mine, his lips brushing over my eyes, my brows. Each kiss, each touch, a promise—until he spoke. And with every rise and fall of his breath, he whispered her name—Helen. Over and over, as if it were a prayer.But my name… my name is Mary.
The doctor said my illness is getting worse, that it’s feeding off my sleepless nights. "You need rest," he urged. "Just a few nights of real sleep, or it will only get worse."
But how could I sleep? For Mathew, I had always waited. No matter how late, I’d stay up, hoping, praying that he’d come home. Just to see him, to feel like we still shared something, anything.
Tonight was no different. I waited, like I always did. An hour passed, and still, nothing. My heart twisted in that all-too-familiar way, the ache of hoping for someone who was already gone.
Eventually, I lay down, drained from it all. But sleep wouldn't come—not tonight, not ever—not when the real wound, the one he left deep inside, can never heal.
Before going to bed, I found myself lost in thought—what time would Mathew come back from his night of indulgence?
But when I woke up the next morning, the cold, untouched sheets beside me screamed the truth: he hadn’t returned. Not at all.
Instinctively, I reached for my phone, dread coiling in my stomach. I opened Hellen’s Moments, and there it was, glaring at me. A post visible only to me, as if she relished my pain. A photo of her and Mathew, their hands entwined, radiating a sickening joy that twisted the knife deeper into my heart.
A sharp pain shot through my chest, stealing my breath, cold sweat breaking out across my skin. It felt as if my heart was being crushed in a vice. Yes, I have cancer—the doctor had said I might have three months left, maybe less.
And now, Mathew had the audacity to return home with her—Hellen—and her child, the embodiment of all my fears. She was the perfect, unattainable fantasy he had chased for years, his so-called "white moonlight."
I didn’t cry when Mathew lied to me, spending the night wrapped up in her embrace. I didn’t shed a tear when he failed to come home, not even when I saw that cursed photo tearing through my soul.
But the moment he walked in, leading them into what was once my sacred sanctuary, the dam broke. My tears poured out, an unstoppable flood, washing away the remnants of my heart. Everything I had left—the last piece of peace I clung to—was obliterated, trampled by the very people who had no right to enter my world.
This was my refuge, and it had been defiled by their presence—these heartless, vile souls who thrived on my suffering.
I couldn’t take it anymore. Before confronting them, I bolted upright, stumbling toward the bathroom, my body shaking with rage and despair.