Why Did Gerard Way Leave My Chemical Romance?

My CEO wife, Vivian Lynch, suffers from chronic insomnia and can only fall asleep with the pillow mists I make. At our seventh wedding anniversary dinner, her male best friend, Earl Cain, pours a basin of hot water onto the old cypress tree in the backyard. I rush to save the tree in tears. Earl gets on his knees and apologizes, "I'm sorry, Allen. I did not know that you use this tree's leaves to make the pillow mists." Vivian comforts him gently and orders her men to tie me to the trunk of the tree. She says with a scoff, "If this tree is so precious, then you can spend your life guarding it!" After I hurt my hands from this ordeal, the first thing I do is to demand a divorce. On one night a month later, Vivian, who is unable to sleep, goes to the backyard and sees the withered old cypress tree there.

The seventh time Claire Fisher bailed on our marriage license appointment, I finally cut her out of my life—for good. From then on, if she was at a party, I wasn't. When she was scheduled to perform at our college's anniversary celebration, I made sure to leave early. The moment my company announced a collaboration with hers, I resigned without a second thought. Even on Christmas Eve, when she showed up at my parents' house with gifts, I slipped out with a half-hearted excuse about "visiting a friend." I blocked her number. Deleted her from my contacts. Burned every bridge and salted the earth behind me. No calls. No texts. No social media. I didn't reach out. She couldn't reach me. Simple as that. For the better part of my life, I was hopelessly in love with her—waiting on her, caring for her, putting her first in every way that mattered. I gave her all of me without ever holding back. But after the seventh time she left me sitting alone at the City Hall, something inside me broke. I was done. If that meant spending the rest of my life alone, so be it. Better that than sitting in an empty apartment, listening to the silence, holding on to hope for someone who never planned to show up.

When my wife's childhood friend's depression flared up again, she handed me divorce papers. I signed them without a fuss and told her I was leaving the country. She looked surprised, then seemed to figure it out. "So you're finally behaving? Realized your little tantrums won't work, so now you're trying something new to get me back? Fine. Go abroad. Stay out of Asher's sight so you don't trigger him. When he gets better, I'll come get you." I slipped off my wedding ring and handed it to her. My gaze fell to the jagged scar on my wrist. "No need," I said. "Let's just let each other go. Stop holding on."

After I announced my exit from the music industry, the public response was overwhelmingly positive. The only person who voiced his objection was my girlfriend's rumored lover, the up-and-coming songwriter Lucas Zacker. He put on a show of sincerity in front of a crowd of reporters. "It's all a misunderstanding. Matthew is an irreplaceable talent in the music industry. I sincerely hope he returns to the stage." I shut off my phone and turned a blind eye to his public plea. In my past life, one of my songs had been identical to his supposedly original single. As such, netizens accused me of plagiarism, cursing me and wishing death upon my family. Frustrated, I posted the entire creation process online, but it couldn't stand up to the timeline. His new song had been released ten minutes ahead of mine. Just because of the ten-minute difference, netizens sent me photoshopped mourning portraits of myself and even went so far as to come to my house and vandalize it with paint. The relentless cyberbullying went on for years, and it drove me into a deep depression. My parents exhausted their life savings trying to clear my name, only for crazed fans to set our house on fire, causing my parents to burn to death. In the end, when his song won an award, I jumped off a building. But who would have guessed that when I opened my eyes again, I was reborn on the very day the new song was set to release.

The day after Sean Ford proposed to Nikki Sanders, he dumped her. “Vivian is pregnant,” he had told her flatly. “I have to take responsibility.” Nikki slit her wrists, filling the entire bathtub with blood. When told the news, he sounded like he couldn’t care less. “If she wants to die, let her.” Four years later, they met again. She was an ER doctor who had buried herself in work. He was the youngest captain in Air Costina’s history. But when it came to Nikki, every bit of his pride was gone. Every time she tried to start over, Sean found his way back into her life. He was falling apart over the woman he had once let go. Meanwhile, Nikki wanted nothing more than to kick him out of her life for good. “Get lost. You’ve got a wife and kid, so stop pretending you still care about me.” The usually calm and collected Sean finally snapped. “We never got married. We never even got a marriage license. Just look at the paternity test.” Piece by piece, the truth about what happened back then came to light. “So what?” Nikki said coldly. “To me, an ex is as good as dead.” “Then let me start over. Let me win you back.” “Get in line.”

I died in the year my husband hated me most. Unable to endure his endless silent treatment any longer, I swallowed a bottle of pills and ended my life. At the crematorium, watching the flames roar inside the furnace, he allowed himself a rare smile. “Someone as vile as her doesn’t deserve to be laid to rest whole.” So when the staff handed him the urn, he flipped it over. My ashes scattered across the floor in an instant. All this time, he had believed I was responsible for the death of his first love. That belief was why he had schemed and plotted for years, all for this precise moment of final desecration. When it was over, he stepped over my ashes and walked away without looking back. Though not long after that, he fell to his knees and begged the crematorium to give my ashes back to him.