“Love Like a Sickness”
“You really think that free spirits gonna last long as a wife?” Emma tried to talk some sense into me.
“Well see,” I grinned, blissfully clueless that those words would become the mottoand curseof my whole life.
I remember that evening like it was yesterday. Stuffy banquet hall, the scent of expensive perfume, mindless chatter about money, fake smiles. I stood there with a glass in hand, thinking how sick I was of it all. I was about to slip out when I heard this infectious laugh behind me. I turned like someone had yanked a string.
And there she was. Katie. Waving her hands as she told some story to a group of blokes. Slim, in a simple dress, but with this fire in her hazel eyes that shattered my safe, predictable world to pieces.
“Whos that?” I asked Emma, my old uni mate.
“My friend Katie,” she sighed. “Fair warningshes a hurricane in heels. Youll fly high, but youll crash hard.”
I barely heard the warning. I was already hypnotised. For a bloke whose professor parents lectured over breakfast, Katie was life itself. Love at first sight? More like a diagnosis with no cure.
We married six months later, against my parents begging. “Shell break you, son,” Dad said, peering over his glasses. “That girl wasnt made for settling down.”
“Shes a beautiful, poisonous vine,” Mum added. “Shell choke you dry.”
But all I saw was sunlight. My life had always run on a tight schedulemaybe a storm was exactly what I needed.
The first months were madness. Katie would shake me awake at 3 AM: “James, look at that moon! Lets drive to the Thames!” And wed go. Shed chat with homeless blokes outside our flat, and within minutes, theyd spill their life stories. She was chaos. And I… I breathed it in like a prisoner tasting freedom.
Then the first thunder hit.
The crisis came out of nowhere. The market crashed. My businessmy lifes workcollapsed in months. I scrambled to save what I could, but it was hopeless. One night, I came home hollow-eyed, wrecked. The ground was gone beneath me.
Katie stood in the doorway. No hug. Just crossed arms and this cold, distant stare.
“Well, genius? Lost it all?” Her voice was sharp as glass.
My chest tightened. “Katie, ImIm trying”
“Youre bailing out a sinking ship,” she cut in. “And I dont drown. I dont *do* poor. I need solid ground. Stability. You cant give me that anymore. Sorry.”
She packed her bags right in front of me. My throat closed up.
“Katie, wait*please*” My voice cracked. “Ill fix this. Well fix”
She paused, tucked her bright red passport into her bag, and finally looked at me. No love. No regret. Just icy irritation.
“James, stop grovelling. Its pathetic. Dont call. Dont come after me. Bye!”
The door slammed. The sound physically hurt. I crumpled onto the hallway floor and sobbed like a kid, smearing tears everywhere. The world went grey. Food lost taste. Air turned thick.
Katie came back six months later.
Opened the doorand there she was. Thinner, tanned, smelling of someone elses cologne. My legs nearly gave out. She strode past me, kicking off heels.
“Well,” she said, “that banker turned out to be a bore. Even his car playlist was classical.”
Like shed just popped to Tesco, not slept with another man.
And instead of throwing her things down the stairs, instead of shoutingI felt this wild, sick joy. *She came back. She chose me.*
“Im sorry… I failed you…” My voice was broken. “I wasnt enough.”
She froze. When I looked up, her eyes didnt show remorsejust satisfaction. Shed been right. Always right. And Id been wrong.
There were more leave-takings.
First, a “guru” who took her to the Scottish Highlands to “find enlightenment.” I didnt leave the flat for weeks. Lay on the living room rug where wed once danced, staring at nothing. Imagined her laughing with him, gazing at him the way she once had at me. The thoughts literally made me sick.
Then a “real man”some gym-obsessed bloke with a smirk. I spotted them in Hyde Park. His arm around her waist, whispering in her ear. She threw her head back and laughed *that* laughthe one that had once pierced my heart. The world went black.
Every time, she returned. And every time, I was there to open the door.
Emma, whod introduced us, grabbed my shoulders after one return and nearly shouted: “James, wake up! Shes *using* you! She bragged you apologised again! For *what*?!”
“For not being… enough. For boring her. Its my fault, Em. Always mine.”
I wasnt a man anymore. I was a doormat. Katies waiting room. And the worst part? Id signed up for it. Because life without her hurt more than anything she could do.
One night, after shed come back from some fling, I broke. Sat on the edge of the bed while she slept, sprawled across my side, peaceful and perfect.
“Tell me,” I whispered, throat tight. “Why me? Why always come back to *me*?”
She stirred, stretched, and flashed *that* smilethe one that used to wreck me.
“Because youre my home, Jamie,” she murmured sleepily. “My quiet place. You… always wait.”
No love in those words. Just convenience. And *that* cut deeper than all her betrayals. But when she wrapped her arms around my neck, pressed her warm cheek to my chestall my pain, my pride, my will dissolved.
I hated myself in those moments. But I couldnt let go, even knowing the door might slam again. And Id still wait. Because those stolen moments when she was here? They were gulps of air. Without herjust endless, grey silence.
…Katie left for good the day I nearly lost the last real part of me.
This time, with some pretentious gallery owner (shed sneered at my corporate ties). Again, I was alone in our sterile flat.
Then the phone rang. Dad had a stroke.
Speeding across London, his warnings played in my headthe ones Id ignored. “Shell break you, son.” Id thought he meant my career. My money. But he meant *me*. My soul.
Mumalways so composedsat by his hospital bed, crying silently into a handkerchief. Dad lay pale, face slack, staring at the ceiling. A ghost of the stern man whod taught me life. Seeing his frail hand, something in me *clicked*. Like ice cracking. I saw myself in himjust as broken. Just as paralysed. Only his sickness was physical. Mine was love.
I sat beside Mum, took her shaking hand, and buried my face in her shoulder.
“Im sorry. I didnt listen.”
“We always hoped youd wake up,” she whispered.
That night, back in the empty flat, I did the first thing that came to mind. Packed Katies things. Nearly dumped them, but then just shut the wardrobe and taped a sign on it: “WAITING ROOM CLOSED.”
The hardest part? Not replying when she texted two weeks later: “Miss our coffee. He drinks some pretentious dust here.”
My fingers itched to type *Come home*. But I remembered Dads face. And for the first time, I stayed silent.
She didnt get it. More messages. Calls. First confused, then angry, then mocking: “Jamie, what, on a diet? Wasting away without me?”
I kept quiet. Silence became my fortress.
Then she just showed up. Dropped her bag in the hall. “James, fetch my suitcase from the car!”
“You dont get it,” I said softly, each word deliberate. “This isnt your home anymore.”
For the first time, fear flickered in her eyes. Shed lost control.
“Whats *wrong* with you? Are you ill?”
“Yeah, Katie. I was. Now Im healing. And it hurts. You were my sickness.”
It was agony. Like detoxing. But Dads slow recovery kept me steady. Mums quiet strength. And my own willfinally fighting for *me*, not waiting for her.
The first months of freedom felt like convalescence. My body and soul ached, weaning off the poison. Id catch myself checking my phone, listening for footsteps. But it faded.
Six months later, Katie sent a postcard from Bali: “No one ever waited for me like you.”
I moved her things to storage. Not as revenge. Just… hygiene. Making space for my own life.
Months later, Emma invited me to a gallery opening.
“Dont worry, your hurricane wont be there,” she joked.
And I realisedI wasnt scared. Just sipping wine, chatting with a woman who had calm, observant eyes (not Katies dazzling beauty). We talked books, art. No pretending. No performing.
Walking her out, it hit me: I wasnt anxious. Not scared of saying the wrong thing. Just… calm. Turns out, you can just *be*. No grand plans. No fantasies.
Whatever comes next? Itll be *my* life. *My* choices. No more waiting in an empty room.
