Chapter 3: At The Beach
709 Words
I didn’t stay in the house to watch Micheal leave for his board meeting. In the past, I would have spent the morning worrying if his tie was straight, forcing him to hug me long enough to keep the scent of his cologne on my skin even after he left, or checking if he had remembered his briefcase. Today, I walked out the door twenty minutes before him, wearing a dress he always said was "too bright" and a shade of lipstick that made me feel like a woman who didn't need permission to exist.
The city felt different today. For three years, I had viewed every street and shop through the lens of what Micheal liked. Today, the air felt crisp, and the sun didn't feel like an intruder.
I turned my phone to "Do Not Disturb" and tucked it into the bottom of my bag. It was a small act of rebellion, but it felt like oxygen.
I spent the afternoon at a small, sun-drenched art gallery—a place Micheal had always called a "waste of time." I lingered in front of a painting of a lone woman standing at the edge of an ocean. She looked peaceful, not lonely. I felt a lump form in my throat, but for the first time, it wasn't a lump of sadness. It was recognition.
When I finally pulled my phone out at 4:00 PM, the screen was a graveyard of notifications.
Micheal (10:15 AM): Where are the files for the Sinclair account? I can’t find them in the study.
Micheal (11:30 AM): Maya, answer your phone. My mother is calling about dinner tonight. Tell her we’re busy.
Micheal (1:45 PM): I’m at the cafe. Why aren’t you here? We always have lunch on Tuesdays.
Micheal (3:10 PM): Are you still doing this? This "protest" is getting old. Pick up.
I scrolled through the messages with a detached curiosity. In the past, the 11:30 AM text would have sent me into a panic, desperately trying to smooth things over with his difficult mother. The 1:45 PM text would have made me feel guilty for "failing" him. Now, they just felt like noise.
I was sitting in a park with a paper cup of coffee when the phone started vibrating in my hand. Micheal.
I let it ring until it went to voicemail. Then, I typed a short response.
Me: I’m busy, Micheal. And as you reminded me last night, we aren’t dating. I don’t owe you an itinerary of my day or a secretarial service for your files. Handle your mother yourself.
The reply came back almost instantly. The three dots danced on the screen for a long time before his text appeared.
Micheal: Maya, this has gone far enough. I had to apologize to the board because I didn't have the data you usually prep. This is my career you’re playing with.
I felt a sharp laugh bubble up.
Me: No, Micheal. That was your career you were neglecting. I was just the one doing the work for you. Since I’m just a "statue on a shelf," I’ve decided to stay on my shelf today. It’s very quiet here. You should try it.
I didn't wait for his response. I blocked his notifications for the rest of the evening.
For the first time in years, I went to the beach alone. I just sat there, staring into nothingness. Deep down, I felt sorry for myself. How do I navigate through this pain? How else do I tell myself “sorry” for letting Micheal dictate my happiness? I've reduced myself enough; it's high time I live outside Micheal's shadow!
When I finally walked back to the apartment that evening, I expected to feel afraid. I expected the familiar weight of his disapproval to crush me the moment I stepped through the door. But as I turned the key, I realized the only thing I felt was a cold, sharp clarity.
The woman who begged for a glance was dead. And the man waiting inside was about to find out that a "statue" doesn't care if you're angry.
- Writer
