The Divorce That Saved Us

The first thing I felt was a dull ache and a blinding white light. I was in a hospital, my wrist bandaged, my mind a blank slate.

Then I heard the voices: "The guy in 302, Ethan, tried it again." "The one married to CEO Sterling? This is what, the third time this year?"

My stomach turned. They somehow thought I was Ethan, the pathetic, clingy husband of Sophia Sterling, the girl who was always out of my league in high school. And I had tried to kill myself over her.

When a nurse confirmed it, revealing my arm was slit, a wave of nausea hit me. I stared at my older, gaunt reflection in the mirror, five years of my life vanished, all tied to this humiliating existence.

How could I have become this person? This wasn't me. The desperate, attention-seeking man they described-the one who sent bleeding wrist selfies-was a stranger.

I wanted nothing to do with him. So when Sophia, colder and more beautiful than ever, arrived to discharge me, I knew what I had to do. I wanted a divorce, and I would start shedding this unwanted life, piece by painful piece.

The first thing I felt was a dull ache in my left wrist, a persistent throb under a tight bandage. The second was the blinding white light that burned my eyes even through closed lids. A rhythmic, high-pitched beeping sound drilled into my ears, one beat at a time. I tried to move, but my body felt heavy, disconnected from my mind.

I forced my eyes open, squinting against the sterile brightness of the hospital room. Everything was white and smelled of antiseptic. I was alone. My mind was a complete blank, a fuzzy, empty space where memories should have been. Where was I? What happened?

"Did you hear? The guy in 302, Ethan, tried it again." A voice drifted from the hallway, low but clear.

"The one married to CEO Sterling? God, what a drama queen. This is what, the third time this year?" another voice replied, laced with disdain. "Some people will do anything for attention."

Ethan. They were talking about me. But their words made no sense. I had never been a drama queen. I hated clingy, desperate people. The thought of being one of them made my stomach turn. And married? To CEO Sterling? I knew that name. Sophia Sterling. She was the girl I had a hopeless crush on in high school, the one who was always out of my league. It was impossible.

A nurse walked in, her face a mask of professional boredom. She checked my IV drip without making eye contact.

"You're awake," she stated, not asked. "Dr. Reynolds will be in to see you shortly. Your wife has been notified."

Her words hit me like a physical blow. Wife. It wasn't a mistake.

"I'm not... I'm not married," I stammered, my voice raspy.

The nurse finally looked at me, a flicker of irritation in her eyes. "Look, Mr. Vance. We don't have time for these games. You slit your wrist. You're lucky the cut wasn't deeper. Now please, just rest."

She turned and left before I could process what she said. I stared down at my bandaged wrist. The dull ache suddenly sharpened into a sickening reality. I did this? I tried to kill myself? The idea was so foreign, so repulsive, I felt a wave of nausea.

I pushed myself up, my muscles screaming in protest. I stumbled out of bed and into the small, attached bathroom. I gripped the sides of the sink, my knuckles white, and forced myself to look in the mirror.

The face that stared back was not the one I knew. It was me, but older. The boyish features of my eighteen-year-old self were gone, replaced by the tired, gaunt face of a man in his early twenties. There were dark circles under my eyes and a hollowness in my cheeks that spoke of long-term stress. I looked... defeated. The date on a newspaper left on the counter read October 26, 2023. Five years. I had lost five years of my life.

I was Ethan Vance, twenty-three years old. And according to the nurse, I was the pathetic, attention-seeking husband of Sophia Sterling. I had tried to kill myself to get her attention. A cold dread washed over me, a feeling of absolute disgust for the man I had apparently become. This wasn't me. The person they described, the person who did this to himself, was a stranger. And I wanted nothing to do with him.

The door opened again, and a man in a sharp suit with a weary expression walked in. This was Dr. Reynolds, and from the look on his face, he was also Sophia' s friend. He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Ethan," he said, his voice flat. "I've canceled my afternoon appointments for this. Sophia is on her way."

He saw the blank look on my face. "You've been married for five years. It was a contractual agreement. Your family's business was failing, her grandfather insisted she marry before taking over the company. You were convenient. You were also obsessed with her since high school, so you jumped at the chance."

Each word was a cold, hard fact that settled in my gut like a stone. A sham marriage. It explained the distance, the coldness. I wasn't her husband, I was a business transaction she was forced to endure.

"She doesn't love you, Ethan," Dr. Reynolds continued, his tone softening slightly, as if he pitied me. "You know she's always been close with Liam. He's been by her side since they were kids. You've always known that."

Liam. Liam Hayes. I remembered him too. Handsome, wealthy, and always orbiting Sophia. Her "white moonlight," everyone had called him. The perfect match. And I was the desperate fool who got in the way.

Bits and pieces of the last five years started to come back, not as memories, but as ugly, secondhand stories people told me. I had apparently spent the entire marriage trying to win Sophia's affection. I cooked for her, waited up for her, followed her to business events where I wasn't wanted. I had begged for her attention, cried when she ignored me, and made spectacular scenes of jealousy over Liam. I was a laughingstock, the clingy husband of the untouchable ice queen CEO. The shame was suffocating.

The worst part was the suicide attempt. Dr. Reynolds explained it in clinical detail. I had sent her a picture of my bleeding wrist from the bathtub. Her only reply, minutes later, was a text message.

"Don't bother me. I'm in a meeting."

The man I used to be must have felt his world end. But me, the eighteen-year-old trapped in this older body, felt only a surge of cold fury. How could I have let myself become so pathetic? How could I have given another person that much power over me?

When Sophia finally arrived, she was exactly as I remembered from high school, only more so. Her beauty was sharper, colder. She wore a perfectly tailored black dress, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She looked at me not with concern or anger, but with a profound, bone-deep weariness. She was tired of me. Tired of my drama.

"The doctor said you'll live," she said, her voice as crisp and emotionless as a bank statement. "I've arranged for your discharge. The car is waiting."

She didn't ask how I was. She didn't touch me.

We drove back to our house-her house-in silence. It wasn't a home, it was a museum. A sprawling modern mansion of glass and steel, filled with minimalist furniture and expensive art. It was as cold and uninviting as she was. I walked through the cavernous rooms, a stranger in my own life. I watched her as she moved through the space, graceful and distant. She was beautiful, an ice sculpture I was forbidden to touch. But I felt no longing. All I felt was the desperate, overwhelming need to escape. This life, this house, this marriage-it was a cage. And I had to get out.