Chapter 2

Grace POV

It was from that evaluation form that I became certain: what Ethan said and what he thought were never the same thing.

Later, we got together, and then, we got married.

The year we got married, my mentor helped me secure a fully-funded PhD scholarship in sports medicine, a field I dreamed of pursuing.

When I told Ethan, he was looking at literature, not even raising his head.

"Someone in the family needs a stable career."

That sentence nailed my PhD dreams in place.

I wanted to say I could manage both, but he added,"Look at all the female PhDs in the department right now; they're all a total mess."

He wasn't talking about others; he was making decisions for me.

I didn't argue further.

Because back then, I still believed that even if his words weren't pleasant, they were always for my good.

Later, to circumvent the hospital policy against spouses working in the same clinical department, I transferred from Orthopedics to the administrative office.

He said,"Anyway, going into administration isn't a loss for you. Nine-to-five, much easier than clinical work."

The day I moved my personal belongings from Orthopedics, the head nurse held my hand and said,"Grace, are you sure about this? Your surgical skills are among the top three young doctors in our department."

I smiled and said I was sure.

I didn't tell her that when I got home, I cried in front of the mirror for a long time.

I truly loved the feeling of standing at the operating table.

The precision of millimeter-level operations, the urgency of racing against death, the post-surgery patients holding my hand and saying thank you.

All those things vanished after I transferred.

Replaced by reports, meeting minutes, and research grant applications.

And Ethan's dismissive comment every time he mentioned my work:"Anyone could do what you're doing now."

Anyone could do it.

He probably never knew how heavy those four words were.

Because I gave up something only I could do, to do something anyone could do.

And all of it, because of him.

…

It was late when I got home.

The rented apartment was small, one bedroom, one living room, a place I'd temporarily found after moving out of our house a few days ago.

He probably still didn't know I wasn't living at home anymore.

Or maybe he knew, but thought I'd come back in a few days.

After all, every argument before, I was always the one to back down.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my phone. The Observer app lay quietly on the last page of my screen.

I tried long-pressing the icon, wanting to delete it.

A prompt popped up: [This app cannot be uninstalled.]

I tried tapping into it again.

The interface was simple, gray and white, with only one line at the top: [Observing: Ethan, Status: Online]

Below it was a timeline, recording today's notifications.

[18:23 Ethan's Current Status: Noticed Grace left, paused surgical video. Silence duration: 4 minutes 12 seconds.]

[18:31 Ethan resumed playing surgical video, Serena still present.]

[19:45 Ethan opened the meal box brought by Grace, eating duration 6 minutes, checked phone call history 1 time, lingered on Grace for 3 seconds before locking screen.]

[21:17 Ethan's Current Location: Hospital parking lot, vehicle not started, sitting still for 9 minutes.]

[21:26 Vehicle started, navigation destination: 10 West 74th Street, New York.]

That was the house we used to share.

I looked at the notification, unsure how to feel.

Maybe I should be grateful he at least remembered to come home.

I turned off my phone, pulled up the covers, and closed my eyes.

I used to think he just wasn't good at expressing himself, but that he cared about me deep down.

Like how he drank that cold coffee I brought him, like how he recommended me for residency on my evaluation.

But tonight, as I lay on my pillow thinking about these things, I suddenly realized something: that was seven years ago.

Seven years ago, he was willing to drink a cold coffee because he had nothing, and I was the only one who was good to him.

Now he had the title of Head of Department, a high salary, and an academic partner like Serena.

And I had gone from being his most promising student to someone sitting in an administrative office filling out forms.

It wasn't that he didn't love me anymore.

It was just that I didn't seem important to him anymore.

My phone screen suddenly lit up.

I picked it up.

The app pushed another notification—

[22:04, Ethan found house empty, called Grace, no answer, calling a third time.]

I stared at the constantly refreshing"no answer" on the screen, silent for a long time.

Then I turned over and tucked my phone under my pillow.

My phone vibrated continuously under the pillow.

I didn't answer.

It wasn't out of spite.

I honestly didn't know what to say to him anymore.