The Post That Ended Us

I couldn't tear my gaze from the intertwined hands in the photo.

Their faces were not shown. Only their hands were.

The woman had a French manicure, while the man's fingers were long and slender.

On his pale wrist was a faint raised scar, almost unnoticeable, like a thin mark hidden beneath his skin.

Others might have missed it, but I never would. It was evidence that I saved him from death.

Luke and I grew up together.

We were in the same classes throughout elementary school and high school. Back then, he was nothing like the composed gentleman in a suit he was today.

He was a gloomy, withdrawn, and timid boy, as if he had always belonged in the dark corner.

His fringe covered his eyes. He never met anyone's gaze and almost never spoke.

The boys excluded him from their circle and even bullied him. I was the only person who talked to him.

I took his textbooks out of the bin after they threw them in; I shared half of my lunch with him during recess when he was starving.

During eighth grade, his parents divorced. His temperamental father made him the punching bag, venting out on him.

He experienced severe depression.

It was a stormy afternoon.

I climbed over the fence and snuck into his yard out of worry for him. I remembered witnessing a horrifying scene when I looked into the window of the first-floor bathroom.

Luke lay in the bathtub. His blood painted the bath water crimson.

He cut his wrist open right to the bone with a box cutter.

I broke the window and rushed inside. With shaking hands and tears blurring my vision, I called an ambulance and tried desperately to keep him alive.

Later, he lay in a hospital bed, pale as paper.

When his empty eyes met mine, he asked hoarsely, "Bianca, were you going to throw me away too?"

I wrapped him in my arms with tears rolling down my face and promised him, "No, it'll never happen, Luke. I'll never abandon you."

Since then, I had become the lighthouse guiding him in life.

I took him to the psychiatrist, reminded him to take his medication, and stayed by his side whenever the darkness closed in again.

That scar came from one of the worst moments of his life. But to me, it had also become proof that we had survived the hardest years together.

After high school, we started dating.

We studied different subjects at different colleges in the same city, but four years apart did nothing to fade our feelings. We got married after graduation, and it had been another four years since then.

He was a perfect husband. He prepared warm teas and heating pads for me during my period. A light frown on my face would make him panic.

I used to think I was the happiest woman in the world—until that familiar scar appeared in a trending post written by a woman who claimed she had given birth to her best friend's husband's child.

It felt so surreal that I could barely believe it, yet the truth sat there on my screen, cruelly crushing everything I once believed.