Chapter 3 Ghost message

It's that woman's fault.

If it weren't for her, for that invisible bond that ties him to another life, another home, another broken promise, he'd be with me already. He would have chosen by now, crossed the line, and left it all behind. But he doesn't. And he doesn't because he has to, because that name I don't say is etched into his skin like a chain he can't break, even if he wants to.

That woman is the wall that separates me from him, the obstacle that turns every encounter into a stolen sigh, every word into a lie disguised as truth, every absence into a void that consumes me. And here I am, waiting, trapped in this absurd wait, guilty for wanting what I can't have and for losing myself in a game we won't win.

Because as long as she exists, as long as he has this obligation, I will always be the other. And this guilt, which falls on her, weighs on me too.

I should be sleeping. In fact, I should be doing something other than clutching my phone like a self-esteem defibrillator. But here I am. 2:23 in the morning. Sitting on the couch, wearing an old college sweatshirt, my hair tied back in a crooked bun, my lipstick smudged from a wine that's been out for about thirty minutes, but I keep licking the rim of my glass, as if I can find some trace of dignity there.

Deep down, I know. I know this notification won't come now. And yet, I refresh WhatsApp as if I were a lawyer on call. In a way, I am. The only difference is that the defendant is my heart, and the sentence, well, has already been handed down.

Fábio said he'd call me "as soon as I get out of the meeting."

What meeting is this, at 11:00 PM on a Friday? I don't know. It must be the "meeting" with his king-size bed. Rebeca, his wife, must be lying next to me, watching the show, worrying about the logistics of Sunday brunch. And me? Here I am, memorizing every minute of emptiness.

I get up and go to the kitchen. The floor is cold, the light is too cold. I open the fridge. I close it. I open it again. It's automatic, like obsessive-compulsive disorder. The only thing that's changed since the last time I opened it is the ice melting in the ice bucket. And my patience, which is at rock bottom.

Between the shelves, I see an expensive jar of jam I bought last week, a gourmet special at the Cambuí delicatessen. At the time, I thought it was elegant. Now I look at it and think: what's the point of spreading jam on bread if I don't even have any bread?

My phone vibrates. I almost hit my head on the fridge door, I'm turning it so fast. It's instinct: him! It's him! Of course it's him!

It's not. It's Renata. My Renata. My best friend, my confidant, my sense of reality when I lose mine, which has been happening to me every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Sometimes, on Sundays too.

"Are you alive?"

I take a deep breath. I write slowly, as if to hide my fiasco:

"Unfortunately."

Her pen turns green; she's already writing. I love this woman. I love her more than this man. Too bad that doesn't stop me from making a mistake.

"She disappeared, right?"

"It's not a disappearance. It's style. It's charm. It's suspense."

"Luxury ghost."

I laugh to myself. She knows me too well.

"Friend, I already told you: a married man is like a sale on clothes. He seems worth it, but he has flaws. And there are no exchanges."

"You're very poetic today."

"Go to sleep, Marília." "I'm leaving."

Lie. I'm not leaving.

I close the fridge again, as if it were an exorcism ritual. I return to the living room. The sofa swallows me. It smells of fabric softener and loneliness. My phone rests on my lap, heavy, warm, almost an extension of my body. I think: Is he writing? Is he writing and erasing? Is he forgetting me on purpose?

The TV is on the nightly news, but I can't even hear it. My head is playing a movie: the first night with him. The first crooked smile. The first lie I decided to swallow like someone swallowing a pill without water.

I relive that scene as if it were now. Me in heels, wine in hand, him talking nonsense about Dubai. I don't even know where Dubai is. But I thought he was sexy. He looked at me like I was the first woman on the planet. And I let him. I wanted to. My whole body was screaming: Go! My head was saying: No way. And guess who lost?

I return to the present. My phone remains silent. I check Instagram, as if I'm about to find a clue to a crime. I open Rebeca's profile, of course. I follow her with a fake account I created just for that. There it is: a photo of her today, at a gala. Black dress, flawless hair, a motivational message from an empowered woman. The message says: "A real woman doesn't compete, she shines."

I want to laugh. But I laugh nervously. She is competing. Even if it's with me. Even if she doesn't even know it.

I keep scrolling through the feed. She's gorgeous in all of them. In one, Fábio appears behind her, holding a glass of sparkling wine, a smile I recognize. That smile that dismantles any defense. The smile I swear was mine, only mine, at least a few hours a week.

I should stop doing this. I should block him.

I should block her.

I should, I should, I should...

But I'm not blocking anything. Not even my own shame.

Renata sends me an audio message. I hit play and turn down the volume on the TV:

"Dude, listen to something. You're not stupid, okay? You're just in love. He's the stupid one. Or maybe he's too smart. The point is, if he wanted to give it all up, he would have done it already. You know it, I know it, even the doorman at your building knows it. So decide now: either you leave him or you stop being stupid. Choose what pain you want to feel. Kisses. Go to sleep."

He's right. I hate it when he's right.

I think about responding, but I don't. I stay there, curled up on the couch, my phone dangling from my hand, like a ticking time bomb. I close my eyes. I try to remember what my life was like before him.

It was gray. It was monotonous. But he was mine. Now it's this colorful chaos that sparkles when it appears and fades when it disappears. And I stay here, sorting through the pieces.

The notification buzzes. I hold my breath. Is it him?

It's not.

It's Uber Eats, offering a discount on pizza. I really want pizza right now. Even more: I want it here, instead of pizza. The worst part? I know if he showed up, I'd open the door. And open it again.

I think about how I'll deal with him on Monday, when he appears out of nowhere, full of explanations. He'll tell me his phone battery died. That he was stuck in an endless meeting. That he thought about me all night.

I, naive, will pretend to believe him. And, worse yet, I will want to believe him. I will convince myself that I am special. That I am different. That he doesn't do this to anyone else.

I lie down on the couch. I cover my arm with the gray blanket. My body still smells of his perfume. I still feel the touch of his beard on my neck. It's ridiculous how a memory can be more powerful than reality.

I close my eyes. I imagine my father looking at me now. At my mother. I wish they knew. Me, the proper, independent daughter, a lawyer with a smiling photo on the firm's website. "Marília Marques, specialist in contracts, regulatory compliance, and crisis management." What they don't know is that the crisis is me.

I unlock my phone for the last time. No messages. No audio. No lame excuses. Not even a meager "good night." Nothing.

I laugh. Softly, almost unintentionally. Laughter is the only thing that still reminds me of who I am, or who I was before I became The Other.

When I finally fall asleep, I think of a phrase I read in an old book, I can't remember who wrote it: "Sometimes we hurt ourselves little by little, just to make sure we still feel something." Maybe that's it. Maybe I just want to feel.

Even if it hurts.

Even if I disappear.

Even if I come back. And when I come back, I'll open the door. Of course I will. Because I am Marília Marques: a senior lawyer, controlling, independent. And completely out of control.