Divorced, Yet Dazzled

The operating room light was still on, its harsh white glow leaking through the door crack and falling on the cold back of my hand. I pulled my fingers back, and as I took out my phone, my fingertips trembled; the screen's light stung my eyes. In the chat, I saw Mike Collins's message: "Sophia, Ruby is vomiting badly, I can't leave." I gripped my phone tightly, my knuckles turning white, cold sweat breaking out on my palms. Half an hour ago, the doctor tapped on the report and said, 'The tumor in your stomach is most likely malignant. Surgery must be done as soon as possible, but the consent form needs to be signed by a family member.' "Family member" felt like a needle stabbing straight into my heart. I searched for Mike Collins for three hours — from the lobby of his company to the gym, and then outside Ruby Lynn's apartment building. I ran through those places twice, called over and over again, but no one answered. Only now did he reply with these few words, so casually, so coldly. Sudden sharp pains twisted through my stomach, like a dull knife cutting into me. I leaned against the wall, doubled over, gasping for breath. I pulled the divorce agreement from my bag; the paper was crumpled and worn from being clenched so tightly. My pen hesitated over the two words 'Sophia Scott.' Tears fell onto the paper, smudging the ink. I sniffled and carefully traced each stroke to finish signing—walking away with nothing, desperate just to escape this suffocating relationship. After signing, the pain in my stomach strangely lessened, as if a weight that had pressed down on me for so long had finally been lifted.