Chapter 1

The day I moved out, I sent Robertson a voice message.

"Let's break up."

A second later, he replied with one word: "Okay."

My best friend Catherine sat across from me, her jaw practically hitting the floor.

"You two were about to get married. Breaking up is that simple?"

I took a sip of coffee, bitterness spreading through my mouth.

"Because he didn't even listen to my voice message."

No matter what message I sent him, he only ever replied with "okay."

It actually didn't bother me at first. I'd gotten used to it.

Until I discovered that when other women sent him voice messages, he'd smile and patiently listen to every word.

When I saw that 60-second voice message marked as "read" on Robertson's phone, he was still asleep.

The light from the phone screen hit my face, and tears just streamed down.

I knew Robertson found it troublesome. He didn't like chatting. He didn't like listening to voice messages.

Over the years, I'd learned to accept it.

But that fully-listened-to 60-second voice message carved a wound straight through my heart.

Thiago. His high school classmate. His gaming partner.

They chatted about games every day, mixed with everyday conversation. Their chat history took up twice as much storage as mine.

Love becomes heavy through difference.

Robertson's character seemed to have crumbled too.

"Baby... come here."

Perhaps my crying was too loud. Robertson stirred awake, half-conscious.

His arm reached out and pulled me tightly into his embrace.

His warm arms carried Robertson's unique scent, and my tears broke through the dam.

He loved me too, didn't he? He still wanted to hold me while sleeping...

In that moment, I wanted so badly to wake him up and confront him. To have a huge fight.

But I was truly exhausted.

Robertson and I were pressed close together, yet I felt he was so far away.

This bed was too wide.

I lay on my side like that all night, letting the tears fall silently.

I thought Robertson and I had reached the end.

The next day I started looking at apartments. After half a month of searching, I settled on a two-bedroom.

During all this time, Robertson didn't notice a thing.

Even today when he left, I answered a call from the moving company and he didn't pay attention.

After eating with Catherine and saying goodbye, I returned to the apartment Robertson and I shared.

This apartment was bought by Robertson's parents as our wedding home.

Although we weren't married yet, to save money, Robertson and I had moved in early.

I didn't actually need to come back. After all, this home barely had anything of mine left in it.

But I wanted to see how long it would take a forensic scientist—someone who survived by detecting the smallest clues—to notice his future wife had moved out.

I'd just sat down when the door behind me opened.

"Home early today?"

Robertson bent down to change his shoes, greeting me naturally, no different from any other day.

As expected, he hadn't listened to that voice message.

Like an auto-reply bot, he'd just responded with "okay."

I opened my mouth, bitterness filling it, hard to swallow.

"Why didn't you make dinner?"

Robertson glanced at the empty dining table and asked with surprise.

Unless there was something unusual or special plans, I basically cooked for him every day.

I didn't answer. Robertson put down his bag and went into the bathroom.