Chapter 5: Unraveling

The new clothes I ordered for Caleb half a month ago are finally ready. The books I asked the local bookstore owner to order from out of state have arrived too—just the ones Caleb wanted.

The package sits on the kitchen table, brown paper torn open to reveal the crisp shirts and new jeans. When I get home, Caleb is as usual: sitting cross-legged on the couch, meditating. The firewood by the porch is chopped, vegetables washed and set on the table, water in the pot nearly boiling.

He takes the books, says nothing, still cold and distant. But when he sees the new clothes, he frowns and sneers, "Is it necessary? Whatever I wear, you’re just going to rip it off at night for punishment, aren’t you?"

The subtitles cheer:

[Haha! Told you, the male lead only cares about our girl. No matter what the villain does, it’s useless!]

[Does the supporting character think a gift will make the male lead like her? He’s the governor’s son! Who would want such cheap stuff? It just makes her look poor and tacky!]

[The male lead’s sarcasm is so satisfying. Usually he gives in to the supporting character out of courtesy, and she really thinks he likes her?]

I clutch the new clothes in my hands, my heart pricked by a thousand tiny needles.

My parents died young. Most of the men’s clothes at home are old and worn. After helping Caleb recover, I wasn’t well-off. When I saw that pale blue shirt, I just thought how good he’d look in it. I couldn’t help buying it, completely forgetting I hadn’t bought new clothes for myself in years.

I squeeze the fabric between my fingers, feeling the roughness of the cheap cotton, the tiny tag still dangling. My chest aches, a slow burn that seeps into my bones. Though I’m a bit rough, I dare say I’ve never treated him badly. Only when he truly made me mad did I whip him a couple times to teach him a lesson. That’s still better than those guys in town who hit their wives every day.

But he’s like a stray dog—impossible to train. At first, he couldn’t do any chores, was even scared of pigs. Reluctant to help with anything. When I asked him to help me bathe or change, he looked like he’d rather die—face cold, lips pressed tight, only his ears turning red with anger. As if he’d suffered a huge humiliation. Always talking back. No matter what I did, I couldn’t warm him up. The whip didn’t faze him at all. He’d admit fault, but do the same thing next time. Just couldn’t get through to him.

After seeing those subtitles, I finally understood why.

My heart is both sore and swollen, my chest aching a little.

Suddenly, it all feels pointless. I don’t want him anymore.

I throw the new clothes to the floor, my voice cold: "Fine, then don’t wear any from now on!"

The shirt lands in a heap, dust swirling in the air. The room seems smaller, suffocating, the silence stretching between us like barbed wire. I turn away and wipe my eyes roughly with my sleeve, refusing to let him see me cry.