Not Anymore

Not my Size

The silence between them wasn't just uncomfortable—it was suffocating, a living thing that threatened to crush them both. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked the tension like breaking glass.

"I don't understand. I thought we were okay?" The words barely escaped her lips.

"I thought the same, Irene." Bitterness dripped from every syllable.

She clutched at him desperately, her body trembling. "You will never leave me, right?"

The question hung there, unanswered. Chris couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. When he finally spoke, the words came out dead.

"I'm tired of this, Irene."

"How long has it been?"

"Almost five years. I'm overwhelmed with grief and loneliness." His voice shattered on the last word, raw and exposed.

"But I'm here. You're not alone." Her fingers dug into his arm.

"Yes, you are. But not with your heart."

"I love you, Chris." Desperation bled through every word.

"No, Irene, you don't. You just need me—like a necessity, a responsibility of sorts."

"Don't say that. You're my husband, and I love you." Panic rose in her voice, sharp and defensive."I never feel like it, Irene, but—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. The words he'd buried for months clawed their way to the surface, refusing to stay hidden any longer.

"Our contract ended almost a year ago. I thought I could build something real with you. I was wrong. We need to end this."

"No. No, Chris, you can't—" Her voice broke, panic ripping through. "Are you mad I didn't remarry you? Fine. New Year's Eve. I'll marry you then. Is that what you want?" The offer came out frantic, grasping, a lifeline thrown in desperation.Chris exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. Whatever he said next would end this—one way or another.

"I don't know, honey. I don't know if I can do this anymore." The words came slowly, each one weighted with finality. Years of sacrifice. Years of clinging to hope that had rotted into something unbearable.

The silence that followed was crushing, thick with everything they'd never said and everything they could never take back."Okay, off with the bad air. I brought you something." She pulled her body from the bed and jumped down with forced cheerfulness, clearly desperate to change the subject and lighten the oppressive atmosphere.Like a magician unveiling their next trick, she produced a gift box from somewhere behind the dresser, holding it up with an almost theatrical flourish.Chris raised his eyebrows, surprised by the sudden shift in her demeanor."It's for you." She spread out her hands as she pushed the box toward him, her eyes bright with an enthusiasm that felt almost manic in its intensity.He stared at the wrapped package like it might explode.

"Come on, honey, take it." She practically shoved it at him, her enthusiasm manic.

Chris took the box. It felt wrong in his hands.

"Open it." She watched him like a hawk, desperate for his reaction.

He unwrapped it slowly, revealing a white shirt—expensive-looking, classy. He tried to force appreciation onto his face.

"Do you like it?"

He nodded. The lie sat heavy on his tongue.

"Put it on."

"Right now?"

"Of course right now. I want to see how it looks on you."

His gut screamed warning. This was going to go wrong.

"Are you being coy with me right now, Chris? There isn't a part of you I don't know." She stepped forward and started unbuttoning his shirt, her fingers moving fast. Too fast. The intimacy felt like a performance, hollow and forced.

"Okay?" he mumbled, trapped.As he peeled off his shirt, anticipation and irritation battled inside him. Maybe this would be different. Maybe this would mean something.

He slipped the new shirt on.

It didn't fit.

"I think... it's too small for me." He struggled to force the sleeve down, the fabric strangling his forearm, cutting into his shoulders.

"What? How is that possible?" She rushed forward, yanking at the fabric like that would fix it.

"It's not my size." The fabric crushed his biceps, restricting every movement.

"I don't understand. I clearly remembered your size is L 32. How..." Her voice died.

Confusion. Embarrassment. And then—realization. The kind she couldn't hide. The kind that revealed everything.Chris shook his head, frustration washing over him in waves. "I'm not a large. I usually prefer XL. It's just more comfortable," he explained, disappointment creeping into his tone. The words carried more weight than just a discussion about shirt sizes—they represented yet another way she didn't truly know him, despite her earlier claims.She took a step back, her brow furrowing as the implications settled over her. "Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't... I don't know how I got that wrong." With an embarrassed swirl, she turned and walked away, leaving Chris to grapple with his thoughts and the too-tight shirt that felt like a metaphor for their entire relationship.

After a moment of heavy silence, Chris let out another deep sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on his shoulders. He attempted to flex his muscles, trying to adjust the shirt, but the fabric seemed to resist, straining against him with an almost audible protest.

With a sudden pop, three buttons flew off, careening across the room like tiny projectiles as the shirt tore at the biceps area, the sound of ripping fabric loud in the quiet room.Frustrated beyond words, he ripped the shirt off his body completely, the remnants falling away like shreds of his pride and the last vestiges of hope he'd been clinging to. Throwing the pieces onto the bed with more force than necessary, he shook his head, disbelief mingling with irritation and a deeper, more profound sadness. How had he let this happen? How had he allowed himself to become so invisible to someone he'd devoted years of his life to?He turned toward the door, desperate to escape.

"That was Marlin's size." The words came out flat, certain. She hadn't bought the shirt for him at all. She'd bought it for Marlin—for her dead husband—and tried to pass it off as a gift for the man she claimed to love.

The betrayal wasn't small. It was everything.

He slammed the door behind him, the sound cracking through the hallway like a gunshot. Bare-chested, jaw locked, fists clenched—he barely felt the cold air against his skin.

He'd just wasted his fourth chance.

Only six left before he walked away from Irene Walters forever.

And for the first time, he wasn't sure he'd make it that far.