"I'm at the hospital entrance," she lowered her eyes.
"Oh." The reply came lightly, followed by a click as the call ended.
Why didn't he ask? Why didn't he inquire why she was at the hospital? If she was sick? If she needed a ride?
He didn't. He didn't ask any of those.
Zoe's eyes welled up with tears, suppressing the bitter taste in her heart, she continued to hail a cab.
The driver was a bespectacled middle-aged man, appearing refined and courteous. Nevertheless, she remained cautious, snapping a photo of the license plate as the car approached.
News of women encountering danger while taking late-night taxis surfaced online frequently, making it hard not to be vigilant.
Fortunately, luck seemed to be on her side tonight; the driver was a chatterbox, engaging her in conversation throughout the journey. Zoe listened mostly, occasionally responding.
Noticing her somber mood, he even tried telling jokes to cheer her up.
She did laugh, but it was forced.
The elevator was out of service for repairs, forcing her to take the stairs.
After stamping her foot several times with no lights turning on, she realized they were out.
Zoe, who usually ventured out during the day, was unaware.
She whipped out her phone, turned on the flashlight, took several deep breaths, and ventured into the pitch-black stairwell.
Her stomach was much better, but discomfort lingered. Fear of the dark compelled her to walk swiftly, arriving at the door slightly winded.
Navigating the darkness with her phone as a torch was inconvenient, and it took her several attempts to retrieve her keys.
Opening the door, she was greeted by darkness.
Zoe frowned. Evan was supposed to be home, had he gone out again?
Without dwelling on it, she changed her shoes and switched on the lights.
It wasn't until she neared the bedroom that she heard his distinctive deep voice, confirming Evan was indeed at home.
Her eyes dimmed further, disregarding her shivering body, she stood by the door listening.
He appeared to be flirting with someone, using terms of endearment like 'baby', his tone reminiscent of their early romantic days.
Yes, exactly the same.
Zoe's breath hitched, and she raised her hand to knock, attempting to interrupt their conversation.
The wife returns from a hospital trip in the middle of the night, and the husband doesn't inquire, instead comfortably flirting with his mistress at home?
A colossal joke.
She didn't wait for Evan's response, knocking and pushing the door open.
Evan, seeing her enter like this, looked displeased.
He had changed into his pajamas, fresh and clean, in stark contrast to Zoe, whose hair was tousled by the wind and figure appeared frail. Moreover, her complexion was alarmingly pale.
"What's wrong with you now?"
After years together, he knew Zoe's health was fragile, her immunity significantly lower than average.
When they first started dating and she fell ill, Evan would always look at her with pity, wishing he could bear her illness instead.
What about now?
Pathetic.
"Nothing." She dismissed him lightly, not even glancing at him, and headed straight for the wardrobe.
Seeing her unwilling to engage, Evan instantly frowned unhappily, "Can you not wear that sour face? It's annoying to look at."
Zoe dropped her eyelids, swallowing her grievances, ultimately saying nothing.
"It's nothing, baby…" Evan ignored her, resuming his previous demeanor, cooing into the phone.
A tremor ran through her shoulders, and she hastily grabbed her pajamas, rushing into the bathroom.
All exhaustion vanished as she submerged herself in the warm water.
Zoe lay in the bathtub with her eyes closed, her pale face the only thing visible above the waterline.
