CHAPTER FIVE

The apartment felt bigger at night when I was alone in it. I sat curled up on the couch with my laptop open, and a half-eaten bowl of noodles was already going cold beside me. I had found Henry's fan community page three weeks ago by accident and had been stalking it ever since. Thousands of people posting about a man I lived with, analysing his interviews, dissecting his expressions, writing long threads about how much they loved him.

I scrolled slowly, without looking for anything in particular. Then I saw a photo. It was a selfie that was posted an hour ago by a fan account. Henry and a female singer named Aria West were sitting close together. His head was tilted slightly toward hers, their cheeks were so close to each other that they almost touched, and her hand was on his shoulder. Her hands were so small and smooth like a baby's hands.

The comments on the photo were already flooded with writings from different delusional girls: 

@urgirl567: They have such amazing chemistry 🤭

@henryleftkidney: Can we talk about how good they look together? Henry and Aria collab when??? 

@queen_diva: Sorry, but his wife should be worried lol.

@henrystalker: Aria move. It’s my turn now 😭😩

There were just a lot of comments. I couldn’t read them all, so I closed the laptop and stared into thin air.

My phone rang. At first I thought it was Henry, but it was my mum. I picked it up immediately.

“Hi mum, good evening.”

“Quinn. I've been meaning to call, but I keep forgetting. How are you? How is my son-in-law? Is he treating you well?”

"He's busy," I said. “... with work, of course.”

“Ah, these celebrity husbands.” She laughed warmly. “You knew what you were signing up for, my dear. Just be patient and supportive. That's what a good wife should do.”

I pressed my lips together. “Yes, Mom. I hear you.”

“Speaking of which,” her voice shifted into another tone. “Quinn, my one and only baby girl, when are you going to give me a grandchild? You know you've been married long enough now. I know Henry is kind of busy, but you know it never just ends; that's the nature of his job. And, you are now settled with your job and—”

“Mom.” My voice came out flat because I was angry. She just doesn’t understand how I live in the same house as him or what I am silently going through.

“I'm just asking, you know, married people of nowadays don’t—”

“Mum. If you want a child so badly, your husband is still alive.”

She went quiet. I heard her take a sharp breath in on the other end of the line. In the background, I could hear the television, the familiar sounds of my childhood home, and underneath it all, I heard my own heartbeat in my ears. I shouldn’t have said that. What is wrong with me?

“Mum, I’m kind of busy right now. Let’s talk later,” I said as I ended the call.

I sat there in the quiet apartment, staring at nothing. The laptop was closed. My noodles were cold. The internet was busy shipping Henry with another woman while I snapped at my mother on the phone.

I opened the laptop again and stared at the fan community page. The picture was still full. I stared at the lady’s hand. 

I remembered when Henry got me a very good hand cream when we were in college. It will make my hands soft and protect my skin after cooking. He would always tell me that he was jealous that my beautiful hands were cooking for someone else. We were in our third year when we started dating. He was my dream guy, and I’m sure he was also the dream guy of many other girls. I always felt like the chosen girl or y/n whenever we walked through campus holding hands. It was all in the past now, and none of it feels real anymore.

If only Henry could come home like he did yesterday, I’d be so happy. I thought as I closed the laptop, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

I went to work early the next morning because I had to confirm an order. 

The drive back home in the afternoon was slow; traffic was thick and unmoving. By the time I turned onto our street, the sun was already low and orange behind the buildings, and I was tired. 

I immediately noticed the car parked outside our building. It was a black van. It was the one Chris—Henry’s manager drove. I parked and went inside. The apartment door was unlocked; it was just slightly closed. Good, Henry must be back. I had a lot to ask him and talk to him about. I pushed the door open.