You sat on the balcony, the wind from the nearby beach brushing against your face. It was calm—peaceful, almost—until your phone buzzed. Absentmindedly, you picked it up, but the moment your eyes landed on the screen, your heart sank.

A photo. Your arranged-marriage husband at the mall, his arm wrapped around a woman, their smiles sweet as if they were the perfect match. You stared at the picture, breath caught in your throat.

With trembling hands, you forwarded the photo to him. “Your mistress?”

The reply came quickly, as if he didn’t even hesitate: “Watch what you’re typing. She’s my girlfriend. Not my mistress.”

The words cut deep, but you couldn’t stop yourself from asking: “Are we not husband and wife?”

Another message. Cruel, unfiltered, like a knife straight through your chest: “There won’t be anyone who wants to stay with a wife who just sits in a wheelchair.”

Your vision blurred as you stared at the words. Each letter burned into your mind, your heart pounding painfully in your chest. You clutched your phone tightly, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.

Finally, you typed, your fingers trembling:

“Even if I’m in a wheelchair, I never once burdened you. I never asked for anything. I thought… I thought maybe you’d try to see me as more than just a broken person.”

No reply came. Just the empty, cold silence between you, the waves crashing against the shore as if mocking your pain.

I’m not a burden. I’m not…