Wife Or Mistress? The Shocking Truth About My Marriage - Chapter 131: Chapter 131

I can't even remember when Kenton started treating me this way.
He used to be so gentle.
He still remembers all my preferences—what I like to eat, what I don't, he gives me gifts on special days, reminds me not to eat cold things during my period.
But he doesn't smile at me anymore, and his temper has gotten progressively worse.
I don't understand what's happened to him over these years. I don't know if he even wants me anymore.
My friends say it's probably the "SEVEN-YEAR ITCH."
But we haven't even been together for seven years, and he definitely wasn't like this before.
I just can't figure it out. I honestly can't.
Kenton rents an apartment off campus.
Sometimes I go visit him there, like now, as he opens the door.
We exchange a flat, emotionless look.
I know exactly how pathetic I've become, always chasing after him like this.
"The dorm showers are broken again," I say.
He steps aside to let me in, tossing my slippers in front of me with practiced indifference.
"Whatever."
This is how we often are together. Not fighting—we never really argue.
Not in a cold war either.
Because clearly, my attitude is anything but cold.
Tomorrow is Saturday. On days without classes, he usually brings his easel home to work.
There's a new drawing on it—a girl with short hair.
He's already used an eraser to create the light and shadow contours.
Most of the girl's three-quarter profile is backlit, yet he effortlessly creates this mysterious, almost reverent lighting effect.
I can't help wondering how his gaze moved across that girl's face.
During those two and a half hours, was she all he saw?
"Seen enough?" he asks, looking down at me, cold and impatient.
"She's not as pretty as you. Go take your shower."
Kenton's apartment is a one-bedroom, with no separate place for someone to sleep alone.
Early summer has arrived, with breezes slipping through the windows. The thin cotton blanket doesn't feel too warm.
I sleep in his bed while he works on his art in the living room.
The door isn't completely closed. A sliver of warm light sneaks into the bedroom, and I find myself staring at that thin line of brightness.
As I watch, drowsiness overtakes me quickly.
For some reason, I sleep restlessly that night, waking up soon after dozing off. It feels like I've only been napping lightly.
I sit up. The bedside clock reads 3:16 AM.
The light outside the room is still on.
So I just sit there, in the quietest hour of night, listening to the constant sound of pencil scratching against paper.
I keep listening, not sure how much time passes.
Then suddenly I hear the sounds of him packing up his art supplies, followed by footsteps.
Finally, the light outside goes out.
Kenton is actually quite lean. When I've hugged his waist before, it's always been firm, solid in a way that feels good to hold.
He walks into the room and freezes when he sees I'm awake.
Only the scattered lights from buildings outside and the moon allow us to make out each other's faces.
I feel like something flickers across his eyes, but I can't see clearly, can't identify it.
He steps forward until his shadow nearly engulfs me, then leans down and pulls me into his arms.
The bed sinks under his weight.
His short hair tickles my cheek as he holds me tightly—incredibly tight.
In the darkness, I can hear his heartbeat.
"What's wrong, Kenton?" I ask, tilting my head in his embrace, unable to see his expression.
He tells me not to cry.
But he's the one crying.
I can feel it—my back is getting damp.
I can hear it—the tremor in his voice.
He's holding me so tightly, like he's trying to absorb me into himself, like I might vanish into thin air any second.
"I really..." His voice is low and hoarse, nasal from crying, like someone stirring up a calm pool of water.
"I really love you so much."
The words come out with a sob, yet somehow through gritted teeth.
I look up into a long, silent night.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the pale moonlight spills in.