4
Around 9 PM, John surprisingly arrived on
time.
He carried several takeout containers straight
into the kitchen.
Because of his OCD, John couldn’t cook
normally.
The smell of cooking would make him
nauseous.
Let alone cooking voluntarily.
L
Entering the kitchen was already remarkable.
“You said you wanted to eat Sichuan food,
didn’t you? I contacted the chef before work
to prepare it; I just need to heat it up.”
John carefully placed the containers in the
microwave and turned the dial.
In his eyes, was this the best “compensation”
he could offer?
After heating the food, John wore disposable
gloves.
He placed the uniformly colored and shaped.
plates on the table, carefully adjusting their
positions.
Until every plate was at the perfect angle.
“Eat. Remember to start with the vegetables,
then the meat…”
John stared at me, even counting my chews.
Fearing that I’d chew too many times and
disrupt his established order.
“Sarah, don’t chew on the right side, you’re
doing it too much. Switch sides…”
“There’s less than half the broccoli left, eat
more meat first…”
A normal dinner was torture in this house.
To please John, even my eating habits were
controlled.
But for Jessica, these restrictions seemed
nonexistent.
This girl, fresh out of art school, quickly
became John’s most frequent model.
At first, he patiently corrected her poses and
expressions.
Once, I was there when Jessica finished a
photoshoot.
She patted John’s shoulder and whispered:
“John, thanks for your hard work today.”
This shocked everyone present; we nervously
watched John, unable to speak.
He hated unauthorized physical contact.
Even getting too close would infuriate him.
Surprisingly, he remained calm, unfazed.
I thought John was overwhelmed by work.
But a month ago, Jessica caught a bad cold
from a shoot in ice water.
John went straight to her house and took
care of her.
He carefully wiped her body with a wet towel.
Before giving her medicine, he’d taste–test
the temperature and flavor.
I accidentally found this on Jessica’s private
Weibo account.
Why was John so resistant when I needed
care?
Fearing infection, he moved to a hotel.
After I recovered, he hired a cleaner to
thoroughly clean the house.
He found it dirty, even throwing away my
bedding and buying a new set.
Soon, I finished my dinner.
John stepped back softly saving:
く
“No need to wash the dishes, the cleaner will
come later, you can rest.”
I put down my chopsticks, looking up at the
overhead light.
The bright light was dazzling.
After calming down, I realized the
inconsistencies.
John didn’t dislike dirt; he disliked me.
I took a deep breath and looked at him.
Finally uttering the words I’d been
contemplating:
“John, let’s get a divorce…”
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