My Husband Claimed Asexuality And Fathered Her Child Instead Chapter 11

My Husband Claimed Asexuality And Fathered Her Child Instead Chapter 11

He really did start to “hurt.”

Every day, a bouquet of white roses arrived, with a card that had one printed word on it.

[Sorry.]

He waited outside my office building until late at night.

He even learned how to make oatmeal, eating the scorched part himself and packing the untouched portion into a thermos for me.

My coworkers all said my ex was hopelessly devoted.

I only found it absurd.

For seven years, he had been too stingy with even the smallest bit of warmth.

Now he was pouring the whole world’s worth of devotion at my feet.

Too bad.

It was too late.

I still went to the baby’s sip-and-see.

Julian held the baby stiffly but carefully.

Serena greeted the guests with a smile, though her eyes stayed locked on him the entire time.

I left my gift and prepared to go.

He chased after me.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Just being polite.”

“The baby…” He hesitated. “Her eyes look a lot like yours.”

My eyes snapped to him.

“Julian, don’t make me sick.”

“It’s true.” He hurriedly opened the photo album on his phone.

“Look, the inner corners turn down, and her lashes are long…”

“That is your child with Serena,” I cut him off.

“She has nothing to do with me.”

He froze. The light from his phone screen fell across his face, making him look deathly pale.

After that day, he disappeared for two months.

When he appeared again, he had lost a lot of weight. He handed me a medical evaluation.

“A new evaluation. The doctor said my emotional responses are coming back faster than expected.”

“So?”

“So…” He swallowed. “I’m in pain every day now.”

“Seeing you hurts. Not seeing you hurts. Thinking about the past hurts. Thinking about the future hurts too.”

He pressed a hand to his chest, his brow tightly furrowed.

“Right here. It feels like something is tearing me open.”

I listened quietly, then asked, “What about Serena? Does it hurt when you see her too?”

He fell silent.

The answer was obvious.

I nodded and turned to leave.

“Julian, your pain has nothing to do with me.”

“Just like my pain had nothing to do with you for the past seven years.”

“And stop getting doctors to help you act out this little drama. It’s boring. And childish.”

After that day, I didn’t see him again for a long time.

Later, I heard from a mutual friend that he went to Iceland alone to see the northern lights.

He once said the aurora was the universe’s most pointless release of energy.

Completely meaningless.

Now he had gone to see it.

My friend sent me a photo.

Julian stood beneath a sky full of green light, his back lonely and still.

The caption read: [He said he wanted to see what meaningless romance looked like.]

I didn’t like it.

I deleted him from my contacts instead.

Three years later, I got married.

My husband was my coworker’s older brother. He was gentle and smiled easily.

He remembered everything I liked and brought me late-night food when I worked overtime.

He talked about future travel plans without waiting for me to ask.

The wedding was simple.

When we exchanged rings, I saw a familiar figure at the door.

Julian.

He had grown so thin he was almost unrecognizable, and he held a large bouquet of white roses in his arms.

He stood far away, like a statue.

The officiant asked, “Do you take this woman to be your wife?”

My husband said, “I do.”

The flowers slipped from Julian’s hands and fell to the floor.

He didn’t pick them up.

He turned and left.

Rose petals scattered in the wind, like a snowfall that had arrived too late.

When I came back from my honeymoon, there was a letter in the mailbox.

There was no signature, only one line.

[I learned how to let go, but no one told me it would hurt even more afterward.]

I tore it to pieces and threw it into the trash.

My husband asked, “Who was that from?”

“Someone I helped a long time ago. A thank-you letter.”

He teased me, “Look at you, doing good deeds without me. Next time, take me along.”

Outside the window, sycamore leaves were falling.

Autumn had arrived.

Some stories were meant to end in autumn.

Some were meant to begin there too.

I held my husband’s warm hand tightly and walked into our home.

Outside, beneath the distant sycamore tree, a figure stood quietly for a long time.

Only when the streetlights came on did he slowly leave.

This time, he didn’t look back.

Neither did I.