The Severance

"I don't really like breakfast."

'Liar...'

That was what she thought. On the rare occasions she woke up at dawn, she would prepare breakfast for him. Back then, even as he looked at her with her usual cold expression, he would say:

"Did you make this for me? I'm touched... Noona."

"It's not like that. I'm just hungry myself."

"...S-still, I'll eat it well. When I eat breakfast and go to work, I can focus so much better, and also..."

"Eat quickly. I have to do the dishes."

Even though her words were laced with thorns, he would just smile at her, unbothered. But now, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠he claimed he didn't like that breakfast anymore.

"I'd like it if you didn't do it from now on."

She couldn't say a word. It wasn't just that her chest felt heavy; it felt as if a boulder weighing several hundred kilograms had fallen onto her, crushing her down.

"Don't make lunchboxes anymore."

'That, too... that's a lie as well...'

She sat huddled against the wall, knees pulled tight to her chest, tears streaming down her face. She dropped her head, burying her forehead against her knees, and sobbed. She just told herself that he hated her. She desperately tried to believe that he was only saying those things because he loathed her.

Sometimes, when she sent him messages telling him to eat lunch properly, he would come home and talk about how some employee, who was a newlywed, had brought a lunchbox, and how wonderful that looked. He’d mention how she even wrote a letter to go with it, and she would snap back:

"Then go meet a woman like that. I can't do things like that."

"...Ah, no, I didn't mean it like that."

"What? You're asking me to do it. You're subtly forcing me. I absolutely hate that kind of thing."

She couldn't remember what happened after she lashed out like that. It was only natural; whenever she snapped at him, he would simply stop talking. As those memories of the past resurfaced, she burst into tears.

"It's become more comfortable to just go out and buy food."

He might have said it because it was truly the case, but for her, it wasn't. After hearing those words, it sounded like: I don't even want to eat the food you make. And even if you did it now, it's so burdensome it makes me want to vomit. The reason I started eating out is because of you. Don't pretend to care, you contradiction. That was how it sounded to her.

"*Hic*, *sob*, really... truly, it's not a contradiction... I, I... I liked it... *hic*, I liked it, so... I did it because I liked it... *sob*,"

Once she thought that, she realized how tangled everything had become. She was the one who asked for a divorce, and she was the one who selfishly forced her way back in. If only some time had passed and she had been in a calmer state—

"I think I thought about it wrong. I was sorry. I think I was a bit strange for a moment. I'm sorry. I want to... try again. I hope you'll give me a chance."

She should have approached ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it like that, but she couldn't. To make matters worse, she had turned the house upside down, threw tantrums to take his belongings, and then forced herself upon him. To call it "forcing herself" was putting it lightly; if the roles of man and woman were reversed, it would have been sexual assault, and she would have been fit for prison. Fortunately, he was kind. She figured that was why it had all been swept under the rug.

"..."

And what followed. She visited his company as she pleased, shouted at him without any warning while looking for him, and brought him lunchboxes even though he never asked for them. In the evenings, it was even worse; she would show up at his business dinners, making him uncomfortable, and after getting him drunk, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she would drag him to a hotel to try and have sex. And all of that, combined with the things she had said in the past—

'Don't drink. And why are you forcing me to drink too? This is date violence. After you drink... you're going to do something else, aren't you?'

Whenever she said that, he would reply, "I... I just thought the atmosphere was nice... since I cooked like this. I wanted to... have a drink..."

But she would pick at his words even then. "What's good about the atmosphere? It's just home. What's so atmospheric about eating at home? Just because you cooked, I have to play along? Ah, what, do you want me to pour you a drink?"

She wept, soaking the carpet. She felt a surge of rage at herself for the nonsense she had spewed. He was her husband, and when he asked to have a drink, she had interrogated his intentions and doubted him. And she even told him not to drink, and eventually...

"Get away..."

"...."

Crash! A wine bottle fell to the floor and shattered. As that memory began to surface, she started clawing at her hair and rolling on the carpet. She remembered his expression at that time. But even then, seeing his cold expression, she had said, "...So why do you keep giving it to me when I said I didn't want it? I don't know. You clean it up. ...I don't want to eat anymore. I'm going in."

Every time he treated her coldly, she would sink into thoughts of the past and get angry at herself, and she was in the same state now. She thought that, at least, he hadn't forced her. His suggestions were more like, "How about a drink?" But she, dressed in a hanbok, would fill his glass to the brim before he could even empty it, trying to get him drunk. Why? Because she wanted to go to a hotel, climb on top of him, and move her hips.

"...A woman crazy for sex, Seo Jia..."

That wasn't a word that suited her. Obviously. Every time she asked, he refused half the time, and the other half, he did it as if he were being forced. Of course, if she told him, 'I hated being pinned underneath because it felt too submissive,' he would probably say:

"Fine. Then don't call me Master. Just speak casually like you used to."

"Or I wish you'd just leave. It's burdensome for me to serve someone so high and mighty, too."

"That's why I divorced you. What's the problem? You're the one who came back in, Seo Jia."

"Making excuses now..."

He would have sneered at her like that and walked into the master bedroom. Thinking of that, she felt as if the walls were closing in on her neck. There was no longer any way to win his favor by trying something new. She wondered if he would like it if she did nothing, but then there would be no reason for her to be here. And if she came here, turned everything upside down, and then left the house, he would likely rejoice and never look for her again. Knowing that she was the very person who had created this entire situation made her feel like she was suffocating to death.

"I, I..."

She fell into a sleep as if she had fainted from crying.

About a week seemed to have passed since then. Forget weekdays; nothing happened even on the weekend. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, every time he washed up, put on his clothes, and opened the bedroom door, she would be standing in the kitchen, looking as if she would cook if he just said the word. But as he passed her by, he would pour the coffee he had prepared the night before into a cup, sit on the sofa, and drink it. Then he would say:

"I'm leaving."

"...Yes, have a safe trip."

And when he came home, she would walk out slowly, with cautious movements, trying to welcome him, but he would say:

"I'm home."

"Ah... you worked hard. Your clothes..."

"Forget it. Go inside."

She would reach out to take his clothes, but even that was rejected. And she would repeat the cycle of going into her room and crying. She felt like she was going to die. She wondered if this was anything other than torture, but it was her choice. Even if it meant destroying herself, she was happy. By his side—no, she barely even came to his side anymore—being able to see him breathe, watch him eat something, work, and see that he was alive, she considered it a happiness granted by the heavens. Talking exactly twice a day was what was permitted to her. On the weekend, it felt like they hadn't spoken a single word. When he was hungry, he even went to the kitchen and cooked for himself, and she watched him, tears welling up, before retreating into her room.

"Why, why... can you hate me that much? I... still, I worked hard... tried to look pretty..."

She, who said that, finally realized it now. That the effort she thought she was making was purely her own judgment. That he didn't consider it effort, but a nuisance. She realized, to her bones, that she had never once thought from his perspective.