People said that in a relationship, there is never fifty-fifty in terms of affections for each other. There is always one that loves more. But the question is, how do you tell who is the one who loves more? And, how much is the one who loves more willing to give?

I always believed that he loved me more, though.

I don’t remember what had been happening. Instinctively, I had my hands cover my ears and I crouched low, into a protective stance. I had hidden myself behind the dining table, and he had long forgotten what he had been angry for, just like I had. Broken furniture was scattered all about the place. Broken pieces of a pane of a window shimmered under light as silence finally settled over the house. A shadow loomed over me and I tucked myself under the table more.

“Krystal…”

He reached out and touched my face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he sobbed, when I flinched from the gesture.  “I’m sorry…”

Tears. I saw tears, tears running down his face.

“It’s okay. I know. It’s fine. I’m okay.”

Where I found my voice, I didn’t know. The next thing I knew, I had him wrapped in my arms, rocking him gently.

“I’m sorry, Krystal,” he murmured once again. “I really love you. I can never let you go.”

As he drifted off to sleep, tears ran down my cheeks.

“Let go, please.”

It had barely come out as a throaty whisper.

His fingers were digging into my skin, hands wrapped around my neck. I started to cough, gasping for whatever air that could go down my trachea, which he had hopefully not crushed yet. My throat burned as I dug my fingernails into his hands, in an attempt to make him let go.

“Let… Go…”

He only shook me harder as he questioned why I was talking to the staff at the supermarket. I couldn’t even choke out an answer at all.

Just when I thought that it would be all over and he would be branded a murder for killing his own wife, he let go and fell to the floor.

In normal circumstances, I should have ran out of the house immediately and leave him writhing on the floor, clutching his head in pain. Instead, I pulled myself towards him, still gasping for breath as I hugged him tightly.

“Don’t think about it, don’t think about it,” I chanted, rubbing circles on his back.

He let out a yell of pain and thrashed about, grabbing hold of my arms tightly, almost as tightly as he had been strangling me just a while ago. Bruises were sure to show in a couple of hours, but that hardly mattered. What he was experiencing was probably ten times worse than whatever pain he had inflicted on me. What mattered most was that he was all right.

“I… I… I’m sorry…” he choked, and finally he let go.

The creases on his forehead disappeared as he finally regained control of his conscious mind.

“Krystal, Krystal…” he sobbed as he traced the red prints on my neck. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Hush, I’m fine, we are both alive,” I hugged him and replied.

When he couldn’t see my face, I let the tears fall as they please, drying them with the back of my hand, careful not to make his cotton shirt damp. He mumbled more apologies, more words of affections and gratitude that I never gave him up, then more apologies again.

“It’s fine. I can cover the marks up with some foundation. We still have our movie date tomorrow, remember, hmm?”

I wondered, those words, were they to assure him that everything was fine, or to fool myself into believing that everything was going to be all right the next day?

When Baekhyun had been diagnosed with a frontal lobe tumor, I had long forgotten. I told him that I would never allow him to take the risk and take the operation. I assured him that whatever that came as a package deal with that tumor, we would face it together. It took some time to come to terms with it. He had lesser control of his emotions and grew more unpredictable than life could ever be. It soon became a pattern. He got agitated easily, he started disliking going out, and he would nitpick at what I wore. It was nothing, really, to simply let him have his way. Every time he lost control and threw things around, the dining table became my hideout. Once he was done venting his frustration and had brought his emotions under control, he would tell me the same things.

I’m sorry, Krystal. I love you. I really love you. I know I can never let you go.

It grew so repetitive, so repetitive that it wouldn’t seem like a day had passed without the flinging of furniture about, wouldn’t seem like the day was over without those words.

A lot of times, I asked myself, “For what are you doing this for?”

It was always the same answer I would give myself, “Because he loves you. Because he can’t live without you.”

And because he loved me more than I loved him.

"Don't you ever get sick of it?"

Sehun and I were seated in a corner of a quaint little coffee shop that served really delicious lemon meringue.

I looked at him straight in the eye. He had used a damp paper napkin to remove the concealer on my arm, revealing a purplish-blue bruise. I shook my head, pushing his hand away and reached out for the tube of concealer I always kept in my bag. He took it out of my hands, chuckling dryly.

"Sehun, give it back," I said, annoyed.

"You think this actually works? Do you even know what you're doing? You're just covering it up on the surface, you're not even applying proper medicine to those bruises."

I know what he had meant to say.

It was all just a cover up. Everyone saw only the good side of Baekhyun and my relationship. How he would buy me gifts, how we still went on dates every week despite being married for years, how we enjoyed each others' company so much. Not many knew of Baekhyun's tendencies to flip and cause physical harm to both of us.

But it hardly mattered. Everything done for Baekhyun was worth it. It didn’t matter how many long hours were spent each time to cover up these bruises. What mattered was that we were happy together.

"Sehun, it's not funny, give it back."

"You think I'm joking? You want to know a greater joke? You."

He threw the tube back into my lap, got up from his chair and left. As he walked out, both our warm cups of coffees; his a black coffee and mine a vanilla latte, were cooled, neither having being sipped from more than once. I stared at the two beverages, remembering those days back in university when Sehun and I would complete our projects together over cups and mugs of the bitter black coffee. We would argue over drinking saccharine drinks or awfully bitter coffee to keep ourselves awake. The arguments always ended the same way; he would give in and we would both get black coffees.

When did I start drinking the almost sickeningly sweet vanilla latte? I had forgotten, long forgotten. I only knew, that the day that I chose vanilla latte over black coffee, was the same day that I lost my best friend.

But it didn’t matter. Only Baekhyun mattered.

It was a regular day, most definitely. It was a week before Baekhyun’s birthday and I was humming to the tune of the song that was being played in the store. If anyone ever said that picking out a present for a woman was more difficult than picking out a present for a man, you could jolly well tell that person to screw himself.

I had browsed store after store, scouring for the perfect present for him. Watches, clothes, cologne; nothing seemed to be good enough. Jewelry was entirely out of the question; he didn’t like wearing anything around his neck, scarves included. Many times, he fell sick during the slightly more chilly days because of his adamant refusals to wrap a wooly scarf around his neck. He never learnt, anyway, but that was the adorable side of him.

Subconsciously, I found myself looking at scarves. It would be a funny sight when he opened his present and found a scarf he hated so much in the box. I pictured him whining, facial expression twisted into a scowl as he pushed the box away and demanded I give him a better present. I could care less that everyone was staring at me as I laughed, looking through the racks of winter wear for a nice-looking scarf. If he didn’t want it even if I threatened to bury him six feet deep into the snow, I could use it, at the very least.

The traffic in Seoul has always . It was an almost half an hour that I had been standing at the end of a street, trying to hail a cab. Tinkles of a bell were heard, and I fished my phone out to see a message from Baekhyun.

“Krystal, thank you. Please, take care of yourself.”

My first reaction? A loud, “Huh?”

Drawing attention from a few passers-by, I was thankful that a cab pulled up in front me at long last, and I bundled into it without hesitation. Reciting my address of three years to the driver, I read the text again.

Then, I got worried. What did he mean with those few words?

When the driver stopped in front of my apartment, I hastily paid him and ran up to my house.

It was quiet, frighteningly quiet.

“Baekhyun?” I called out, setting down the shopping bags at the door.

I made my way to our shared bedroom immediately, only to find a set of keys, his insurance policy and a few important documents lying on the dresser, papers that bore the word divorce lying right on top. He had signed at the bottom. All that was needed to validate the papers was my signature. Beside them was a note that read, “You deserve a lot better.”

What did I deserve better? What was going on? What was he trying to do?

I called his mobile phone but reached the voicemail inbox instead. Fearing the worst, I ran up to the rooftop, but didn’t see him. I ran around the vicinity, hoping to catch sight of him. I called up our family friends and asked them if they had seen Baekhyun, only to have to assure them that everything was fine, when I was the one who needed the assurance most.

I forgot for how many hours I had ran around the streets of Seoul and visited all the places we used to frequent. I went home extremely lethargic, but only silence greeted me once again. I had called him about thirty times to no avail. I sat on the edge of our bed, scared and at loss.

I don’t know what compelled me to do so, but I stood up and walked towards the wardrobe. My fingers were shaking as I reached out for it, fearing that an empty closet would greet me. When I finally did open it, all that was inside were a few clothes hangers. Everything was gone. He had packed up and left.

Why? Why would he do this to me? Didn’t he always say he loved me?

Sinking the parquet floor, my fingers found their way into my hair as I started to cry and kick my legs. Only one word kept repeating in my mind: why?

Where did it go wrong? What did I not do enough? Where was he? Is he all right now? Would he be fine without me? What if he suffered a relapse? Why is he doing this to the both of us? I told him we would face this together, no?

Tears still running down my face, I reached out for my phone again and search my contacts for the person I thought I would call last.

“Sehun,” I breathed as the call connected. “He left. I don’t know… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”

“What’s going on? Who—Baekhyun? You hang on.”

He cut the line.

I could only hug my knees to my chest and cry more.

Minutes, maybe an hour later, someone pulled me up and into his arms. But I didn’t recognize the scent of Baekhyun’s favorite strawberries and vanilla shampoo on him.

“What happened?” Sehun asked, threading his fingers through my hair.

“I don’t know…” I sobbed, tears beginning to fall again.

“Shh, it’s all right, it’s all right,” Sehun hushed me, rocking me gently in his arms.

The irony. It was usually me doing that for Baekhyun. It must have been the fatigue from running around and crying, for I soon fell asleep.

A year or so later, I found myself flipping through the divorce papers, reading each detail with extreme care, for the nth time, to the extent I could recite it word for word. I never signed them. I never took off my wedding ring. I never gave up waiting for him either.

I would never believe that he was gone. I continued to keep the faith that he would never leave just like that.

If you asked me now, who loved more in our relationship, I would smile and tell you I didn’t know. Baekhyun loved me enough to want me to live better without him. I loved Baekhyun enough to wait for him no matter what.

Maybe, just maybe, we would meet again and have a happier ending.

Maybe, just maybe, there can be fifty-fifty in terms of affections in a relationship after all.

But it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that we loved each other.