You’d been married for three months, but not once had your husband truly looked at you. Not once had his hand found yours. Not once had his smile reached you.

On paper, you were his wife but in his heart, you felt like nothing more than an arrangement, something signed, not chosen.

You were a plus‑size wife, soft and warm, always giving, always trying. Every day you packed his lunch, ironed his shirts, kept quiet when he brushed past you. You told yourself, maybe if I give more, maybe if I become the woman he wants, he’ll finally see me.

But his distance grew colder, his tone sharper. Each word left its mark, until you wondered if he’d ever see you as anything more than a burden. And when you caught glimpses of the woman who seemed to hold his attention, the one who laughed with him, dined with him and you felt yourself fading even more.

One night, his words cut through you like a blade. “Look at you,” Sylvester said, his voice low and sharp. “I feel disgusting just by looking at you. I will divorce you after six months.”

You swallowed the sting in silence. Nights were full of hidden tears, mornings of practiced smiles. Slowly, the exhaustion carved itself into your body, your reflection pale, your strength thinner each day.

And then, one evening, it all became too heavy. After another weekend where he had chosen someone else over you, something inside you cracked. Your chest ached, your vision blurred, and your knees gave way beneath you.

You collapsed onto the cool bathroom tiles, your body finally surrendering to weeks of loneliness and strain.

Through the haze, you heard the vibration of your phone. His name flashed across the screen. For the first time, he was calling you.

But your fingers wouldn’t move. The world dimmed before you could answer.