For Him I Waited, Now I Chase Mine

At 6 p.m., Lucien Hawthorn returned home on schedule and went into the study to handle affairs for the military district. At 8 p.m. sharp, he made a call on the dedicated landline, sending routine regards to Port Haven Refugee Zone. At 10 p.m., after soothing two stray cats and dogs, he returned to his room, leaving Aurelia Vale with only his receding figure. Aurelia had lived like this in the military compound for a full five years. At this moment, she sat alone in the study, fingertips brushing a thick Russian dictionary. Between its pages were several sheets of draft paper—her application for advanced study, written in Russian. For the past half month, every night after Lucien fell asleep, she slipped into the study and, under the dim glow of the desk lamp, repeatedly refined her application materials, all for a chance at the only overseas art training slot offered this year by the Crownia Embassy in Masford Art Institute. That was the dream she had cherished for eighteen years—and one she had once given up for Lucien. ***** A week earlier, Lucien had received a divorce papers at his office, only then realizing how badly he had neglected his legal wife. On the fifteenth of this month, after handling urgent matters, he stepped into Aurelia's study for the first time outside of "sleeping hours." He pushed the document across the desk, his fingertips tapping the edge of the paper in irritation. "What does this mean?" His tall figure loomed over her, brows slightly furrowed, his voice cold and heavy. Aurelia slowly looked up at him—the man she had once chosen over an art academy acceptance letter. Five years of marriage, and aside from the monthly fifteenth—an impersonal, silent ritual of "marital duty"—all he ever left her was his back. She'd spent years waiting beside untouched dinners that always went cold, sleeping alone more nights than not, and memorizing the signs of his absence so well that one glance at the dust on his uniform was enough to tell her where he'd been. And yet after five years, she had never warmed even a fraction of his heart. "This is exactly what you see. A divorce." Aurelia's gaze fell on the dust-covered vintage enamel tin mug in the corner of the desk, her tone calm. Lucien paused. Meeting his scrutinizing gaze, she curled her lips slightly. "Ambassador Hawthorn, are you here today to remind me of my 'wifely duties,' or have you finally... remembered my name?" His expression stiffened abruptly. Aurelia did not wait for his response and continued, "You return home precisely on the fifteenth of every month to perform your marital duty. Every day at eight, without fail, you call Port Haven Refugee Zone. For five years, the porridge at home has gone cold and been reheated again and again. Have you ever even looked at it? Or is it—" She met his suddenly constricting pupils directly. "To you, am I just like those two cats and dogs you carefully look after for someone else? Just another item on your 'responsibility list'? The only difference is that I require you to personally 'comfort' me once a month?" The words were too blunt, too humiliating. Lucien's expression darkened completely. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Aurelia's thoughts had already drifted to a news broadcast from a week earlier. On a black-and-white television, the host announced excitedly, "After five years of relentless effort, Ambassador Lucien has successfully rescued the final hostage of our side from the Port Haven crisis!" On screen, Lucien and a woman named Cynthia Winsor were locked in a tight embrace. Tears and a smile mixed on Cynthia's face as she choked into the microphone, "Thank you to the organization... and thank you, Lucien... For the past five years, his overseas calls every night were my emotional support. Knowing he was carefully taking care of my cats and dogs is what kept me going..." At that moment, Aurelia's hand holding the spatula had shaken uncontrollably. She had rushed into his study like a madwoman and found, in the lowest drawer beneath a dictionary, a yellowed photograph. In it, a teenage Lucien stood beside a teenage Cynthia under the sunlight, both smiling brightly. On the back, written in sharp youthful handwriting, were just three words: "I love you." Only then did she understand. His daily unwavering "courtesy calls" had been directed through a private line to her. The cats and dogs he so gently cared for were links to memories he shared with someone else. He was not incapable of love, nor was he inherently cold. His love, his tenderness—had simply never belonged to Aurelia. "I don't want to waste any more time either." Aurelia snapped the Russian dictionary shut and stood up. "Lucien, sign it. From now on, you don't have to keep performing your 'duties as a husband.' You must be exhausted acting them out, and I'm tired of watching." She turned to leave. A hand suddenly seized her wrist. Lucien stared at her, a flash of aggression and panic in his eyes. "Aurelia, it's not what you think! Those calls were work-related, and the cats and dogs were entrusted to me by an old acquaintance... Don't listen to outsiders' nonsense—" His Adam's apple bobbed as he lowered his voice. "Her situation is... complicated. I'll explain it to you later." Aurelia smiled faintly and gently pulled her hand free. "No need to explain, Ambassador Hawthorn. Keep your time for the nation, your tenderness for those 'old obligations,' and for the cats and dogs tied to your memories. And me—" She lifted her eyes, meeting his deep gaze for the last time. "I just want to give the rest of my life back to myself." Lucien looked at his empty hand, then at the cold determination in her eyes, and his chest tightened for no reason. He quickly took out an exquisite paper bag from his briefcase. Inside was an expensive satin dress from a department store—something that, in the 1980s, would make any woman's eyes light up. "There's a celebration banquet at Crownia Embassy tonight. Come with me." He pushed the bag toward her again. "I was negligent before. It won't happen again." If it had been before, such a rare "gift" might have briefly soothed her, making her believe he still cared. But now, Aurelia only felt overwhelming irony. That dress looked exactly like the monthly fifteenth—an occasional, condescending "reward" for a wife to be dismissed. "I'm not going." Aurelia did not even glance at it, her eyes returning to the divorce papers. "Ambassador Hawthorn, the person you should take to your banquet isn't me. You should bring the one you've been thinking about for five years and talking to for five years." Without waiting for his reaction, she walked toward the door. Behind her, Lucien stood frozen in place. The edge of the divorce papers in his hand had already been crushed into deep creases.