Chapter 1Seven-Year Itch: Divorce Denied

A university junior contacted me for an interview about "Seven Years of Love," referencing my past with Alexis Medlock—our romance still legendary on campus forums.

"Are you still as in love?" she asked.

"No," I said. "We're divorcing."

She looked crushed. "No chance to fix things?"

Truth was, I only realized two weeks ago: Alexis had stopped loving me.

It began with a small fight. My seasonal illness always required special medication—Alexis used to portion doses with care, leaving notes saying how many to take.

That day, the drawer was empty.

Since we'd graduated and entered the professional world, Alexis had been working himself to the bone. He was always busy, always stressed. I told myself he'd just forgotten. I tried calling him, but his line was busy. I sent him a text, asking him to pick up a box of my medicine on his way home.

It wasn't something you could get on a delivery app, and I was too dizzy to even get out of bed.

Hours passed with no reply. I figured he was just swamped. I spent two agonizing hours wrestling with a fever and a spinning head.

When Alexis finally came home, his hands were empty. "My medicine?" I asked, my voice weak.

He frowned. "What medicine?"

He checked his phone then and saw my message. I expected him to say he'd go out and get it right away, or at least order a courier. He did neither. Instead, he looked at me with an expression bordering on disgust.

"Have you completely lost all ability to function?" he snapped. "It's just a box of pills, Anna. Did you really have to wait for me to get it? I'm busy. Couldn't you have just gotten it yourself? Can't you be a little more considerate for once?"

It was the first time I had ever seen him truly angry. His voice was harsh. I sniffled, my voice thick from my cold. "Okay. I get it."

Humiliation… helplessness… pain… The emotions crashed over me, suffocating me. I had tried so hard not to be a burden. I knew how busy he was. I rarely bothered him, terrified of being seen as a nuisance. When the lightbulb in the living room burned out, I watched a tutorial online and replaced it myself.

My fever was raging. Alexis's image blurred before my eyes, splitting into two. As my consciousness started to fade, I gripped the sharp corner of the bedside table, the pain a welcome anchor to reality.

"Alexis," I rasped, "could you please just call..."

911.

I never got the word out. He cut me off.

"I have to get back to the office. Don't bother me with little things like making a phone call. My time is valuable."

My body went rigid. My eyes burned. When did it happen? When did asking him to make a simple phone call for me become an imposition?

Alexis, what happened to you?