The Brother Who Left Me Twice

I was hooked up to an IV drip for acute gastroenteritis, and it took Tom nearly three hours to finally show up.

He reeked of stale cigarette smoke, a chill following him like a persistent shadow.

What happened to you? He frowned, glancing at the IV bag. How much longer will this take? Kyle and I were in a crucial match online; your call forced me to abandon the game.

My left hand, with the needle still in, felt cold, but my heart was colder.

"Could you go to the front desk and top up my deposit? I didn't bring enough cash earlier," my voice was weak.

"...I rushed out and didn't bring my wallet either. Don't you have any funds on your phone?"

"I used all the mobile payment for the initial fee."

He "tsk-ed," sounding incredibly impatient. He pulled out his phone, eyes glued to the screen as his fingers flew across it, muttering, "Seriously, why now of all times...".

I closed my eyes. The pungent, sickening smell of hotpot, mixed with the cheap tobacco clinging to him, instantly filled my nostrils.

Just ten minutes earlier, the old man in the next bed, also suffering from acute gastroenteritis, had his wife fussing over him. She was scolding him playfully for being "greedy to death," while fetching hot water, fluffing his pillow, and even draping her own down jacket over him.

And my boyfriend, in the seventh year of our relationship, stood by my hospital bed, complaining about me interrupting his game.

The liquid in the IV bag dripped, drip by drip, as if cooling my heart. The last flicker of warmth finally extinguished completely when he grumbled, "Why is the hospital WiFi so slow?"

"Tom."

"Hm?" He didn't even lift his head.

"Let's break up."

His fingers finally froze. He snapped his head up, looking at me with an utterly bewildered expression. "What did you say? Are you out of your mind, Evelyn, with that fever?"

"I don't have a fever," I said calmly, looking at him. "I'm perfectly lucid. I just suddenly realized that these past seven years have been a long, drawn-out act of self-pity. And now, I don't want to perform anymore."

"Just because I was late? Just because I didn't bring money?" He looked as if he'd heard the funniest joke. "But I'm here now, aren't I? Do you really have to be so dramatic?"

"Yes," I nodded. "I really do."

He seemed infuriated by my unyielding demeanor, his chest rising and falling. "Fine, fine, you're sick, you're amazing. I won't argue with you. Let's talk once you're better and have calmed down."

He turned and left without hesitation. He didn't top up the deposit, didn't ask if I'd be able to get home that night, and didn't even glance back at me.

I knew then. He wasn't here to "visit a patient"; he was here to "punch his timecard." I showed up. I fulfilled my obligation. You can shut up now.

I looked at the nearly empty IV bottle and pressed the call button myself. The nurse came in to remove the needle, saying softly, "Where's your boyfriend? The deposit hasn't been paid; you'll have to go settle it yourself."

"He's not my boyfriend," I said softly, pressing the cotton swab to my arm.

"Oh?"

"He's just... a stranger I barely know, who walked into the wrong room."

That night, I paid the bill myself and took a cab home to the apartment we shared.

It was two in the morning, and the living room light was still on. Tom wasn't there, but his computer screen was lit, showing his active game. In the kitchen sink, a pile of his lunch delivery containers overflowed with greasy sauces.

For the past seven years, the first thing I did after work was clean up his messes. I'd clean while reassuring myself that he was busy with work, stressed out, just a boy who hadn't grown up. I was like a mother, a housekeeper, anything but a girlfriend.

I was tired.

I didn't clean. Instead, I walked into the bedroom and pulled out a 24-inch suitcase. I packed only a few seasonal clothes, my skincare products, my laptop, and my DSLR camera.

Halfway through packing, I heard the door. Tom was back, carrying an even heavier scent of alcohol and cigarettes, his steps unsteady. Seeing me in the living room and the open suitcase, he froze. His drunkenness dissipated almost instantly.

"Evelyn, what kind of fit are you throwing in the middle of the night?"

"I'm not throwing a fit," I zipped up the suitcase and stood. "Tom, I told you. We're breaking up."

"Because of that little thing at the hospital? I told you I wouldn't argue, and now you're pushing it, aren't you?" He snatched my suitcase. "Seven years! Evelyn, are you going to throw away seven years over this trivial matter? Has your conscience been eaten by dogs?"

"Conscience? Then let's talk about conscience."

I looked at him, unusually calm. "Three years ago, my dad had surgery, and I took time off to care for him. How many calls did you make to me? One. Asking when I'd be back because you had no clean clothes."

"Last year, I worked until one in the morning, told you I was scared, and asked you to pick me up. You said you were already asleep and told me to take a cab, be careful. But that night, you were pulling an all-nighter playing games with Kyle."

"And today, I went to the emergency room, you arrived two hours late, reeking of smoke."

"Tom, you weren't just late; you chose your game over whether I lived or died."

"You just decided to drop by and see if I was still breathing after your game ended."

He was speechless, his face flushed scarlet. "I... I wasn't..."

"Wasn't what? You just don't have feelings for me anymore; you're tired of this relationship."

"You're too lazy to invest any more emotion, any more time."

"To you, I'm like the refrigerator and washing machine in this house C I keep things cold, I do laundry, but you don't care if I break down."

"I didn't!" He got agitated. "I'm just... I've just been so tired lately! We've been together so long; do you have to be all clingy like we just started dating? Aren't relationships supposed to be steady and unremarkable?"

"Unremarkable? Unremarkable and indifferent are two different things."

I didn't want to argue anymore and reached for my suitcase. "Let go."

He held on tightly, his eyes suddenly red, his attitude softening. "Evelyn, don't do this. We've been together for seven years. Can you really bear to let it go? Just give me another chance, I'll change, I really will."

"It's not necessary."

"Why isn't it necessary?" He was practically yelling. "What do you want from me?"

Looking at him like this, I suddenly felt completely fed up. I let go.

"Fine. Then what do you think about us taking some time apart, cooling off?"

He froze, seemingly surprised by my giving in. "...Apart? What do you mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

"I'm moving out. We won't contact each other for a month."

"After a month, if you still feel like you've thought things through, we can talk. If you're still like this, then that's it."

This was the last shred of dignity I could offer. I knew this month was just a stay of execution. He needed this graceful exit. He needed time to prove it wasn't "I got dumped," but "we're taking a break."

Tom hesitated for a long time, finally nodding. "Okay. One month."

He thought I was just acting stubborn. He didn't know that the moment I decided to move out, this seven-year marathon had already crossed the finish line in my heart.

I found an apartment surprisingly fast. Three days later, I moved into a one-bedroom apartment not far from my office.

On moving day, Tom had a "change of heart" and offered to help. The result was him sitting on the sofa in my new living room, playing on his phone, while directing the movers: "Hey, that box is light, the stuff inside is expensive." "That one, yeah, put it over there, don't block the way."

The movers looked at me with sympathy. I paid them, saw them off, and closed the door. Tom stood up, surveying the small but cozy room. "This is it? It's not even as big as our master bedroom. How much is the rent? Can you afford it alone?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Evelyn, do you really have to be like this?" He wore that familiar expression of being hurt and helpless.