He Swore He Hated Seafood, So Why Did His Lips Taste Like Oysters? - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Building up enough disappointment feels like being slowly boiled alive.
At first, you just notice the water's a bit warm—uncomfortable but manageable.
You tell yourself it's all in your head.
By the time it's actually boiling, you're too weak to jump out.
I started having insomnia, staring at the ceiling all night while my thoughts spiraled into chaos.
Nash's changes became impossible to ignore.
He started traveling constantly—sometimes disappearing for three or four days straight.
He'd show me his flight confirmations and hotel bookings, everything looking completely legit.
But I knew where he really was.
Sofia never bothered hiding her social media from anyone—or maybe she wanted me to see it all along.
She'd post location tags from whatever city Nash was supposedly "traveling" to, sharing scenic photos with loaded captions.
"Being spoiled so much, I'm turning into such a princess!"
The photo showed a hand wearing Nash's Patek Philippe watch, peeling shrimp for her.
Nash.
Shrimp.
The people and thing that could never appear together were now tightly connected in front of another woman.
I threw my phone aside and buried my face in my hands, but no tears would come.
I remembered when I had that brutal stomach flu—throwing up and completely dehydrated.
I called him with a shaky voice, begging him to come home and take me to urgent care.
He sounded annoyed on the other end: "I'm in a crucial meeting right now. Just call an Uber. If it's not a big deal, don't bother me again."
Later I found out he wasn't in any meeting.
One of his friends posted Instagram stories from a music festival, and there in the background were Nash and Sofia—he had her on his shoulders, both of them laughing like carefree kids.
Turns out my health crisis was "not a big deal."
Her fun times were "crucial."
I became quieter, stopped initiating conversations, stopped caring when he came home.
He seemed perfectly content with the arrangement.
Sometimes he'd look at me and frown. "What's with the attitude lately? Walking around with that sour face."
I'd look back at him, wanting to ask what expression he'd prefer.
Should I smile and congratulate you both?
But the words would die in my throat.
What was the point?
When your heart's already dead, I guess this is what's left.
Two months later, my birthday arrived.
I took half the day off and hit Walmart, loading up on ingredients.
I figured this might be our last shot.
I wanted to try, just one more time.
I made his favorite pasta bolognese and beef Wellington. I didn't buy a cake but baked one myself.
Maybe this way the chances of success would be better.
Right?
But I was in the kitchen from afternoon until evening.
Until every dish on the table had gone stone cold.
He still wasn't home.
I called him—straight to voicemail.
I curled up on the sofa, pulling a blanket around myself in the corner.
Waiting from dark until dawn.
Until sunlight came through the window and fell on my face, I picked up my phone to check the time,
6:33 AM.
I had really been waiting for him so long.
I scrolled through my notifications when Sofia's early morning Instagram update caught my eye.
A photo from Providence.
Sofia was holding this massive rose-covered cake, grinning like she'd won the lottery.
Nash stood behind her—his face was blurred out, but I'd recognize that shirt I'd personally ironed anywhere.
The caption: "Thank you for remembering my birthday and celebrating with me."
So he did remember it was someone's birthday today—it just wasn't me.
In that moment, the last flicker of hope in my heart was extinguished by this cold, relentless rain.
I calmly stood up, scraped all the untouched food into the trash.
Including the cake I'd put all my effort into making.
Then I called a lawyer.
"Hi, I need to discuss asset division in a divorce case."
No more crying.
No more trying.
Because I finally understood that to someone who doesn't love you anymore, your tears are worth absolutely nothing.