He Hates Shrimp

My boyfriend never peels shrimp for me. He always says it smells too fishy and grosses him out. I never complained about it.

Until tonight, at a party with our friends, when he peeled an entire plate of shrimp for his childhood friend, Harper. He quickly tried to explain to me, "She hurt her hand, Chloe.

I had to help her." Harper also smiled and added, "He’s been peeling my shrimp since we were kids. It’s been our thing for over twenty years." I stood there, frozen.

Over twenty years. If that was the case, what were all the excuses he gave me before?

I looked him dead in the eye and asked directly, "I thought you hated peeling shrimp." "I guess you just hated doing it for me." After saying that, I turned around and walked straight toward the exit.

Harper stood up immediately, looking anxious to explain. "Chloe, please don't overthink this! Really, my hand is just hurt, and it's inconvenient.

That's the only reason Ethan helped.

If you mind, he doesn't have to do it anymore." Ethan stood up too, grabbing my wrist with a hint of impatience in his voice. "Chloe, can you not do this? Everyone is watching.

What are you making a scene for?" I looked down at his hand gripping my wrist. Those same hands had just been peeling shrimp for another woman.

There were still tiny bits of shell and juice on his fingertips, and now they were tightly clutching my skin.

I tried to pull away, but his grip was too tight. "What do you mean, making a scene?" I looked up at him. "I just asked a simple question.

You said you didn't like peeling shrimp, right? Just answer me." Ethan's face stiffened for a second.

He opened his mouth, his eyes darting to the side before he let out a heavy sigh. "Fine, let me explain. Harper and I grew up together.

Peeling shrimp is just a habit between us, a promise we made since we were kids. We’ve been doing it for over twenty years." "It’s literally just a habit. It doesn't mean anything.

Don't overthink it." Harper nodded frantically beside him, her tone carrying a careful, apologetic sweetness. "Yes, exactly, Chloe!

It was just a silly game we played when we were little. Don't misunderstand Ethan. He cares about you so much.

Whenever he talks to me, it's always about you." While she was talking, I quietly observed her hand. There was a bandaid on her right index finger.

The bandaid looked brand new, its edges perfectly clean, clearly applied just today. Was a tiny cut really so bad that she needed someone to peel an entire plate of shrimp for her?

I pulled my wrist out of his grip. "You guys enjoy your night. I'm leaving." I turned, pushed open the private dining room door, and walked out.

Behind me, Ethan's voice echoed. "Chloe!" I didn't look back. Before the door swung shut, I heard Ethan tell the rest of the table, "It’s fine, it’s fine. She just has a temper.

She’ll cool down in a bit. Let's keep eating." Then came a few scattered, awkward chuckles. I walked along the sidewalk toward the subway station.

Only one sentence kept playing on a loop in my head. "He’s been peeling my shrimp since we were kids. It’s been our thing for over twenty years." Over twenty years.

How long had Ethan and I been together? Two years. A little over seven hundred days. During those seven hundred days, we had eaten seafood together more times than I could count.

I absolutely loved shrimp. Ethan knew that. Every year from May to October, when seafood was at its best, I would buy pounds of shrimp to cook at home.

Ethan always complained that peeling them was a massive pain, that there was barely any meat inside, and that it wasn't worth the effort.

He said he couldn't stand the fishy smell on his fingers. So, he never peeled a single one for me. Not even once. I never thought it was an issue before.

Everyone has their own habits and preferences. If he didn't like peeling shrimp, that was fine. I never forced him.

In fact, whenever we ate shrimp after that, I would purposely sit further away from him, worried that the smell or the juice would splatter on him and make him unhappy.

But today, this same man—who claimed to despise the fishy smell and hated the hassle of peeling shrimp—had peeled an entire plate for his childhood friend.

I wrapped my thin cardigan tighter around myself and quickened my pace. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a Snapchat notification. I pulled it out.

It was from Ethan. "Let me know when you get home. Stay safe." I stared at the words for a few seconds. I didn't reply and shoved the phone back into my pocket.

He didn't even run out to chase after me. To him, what just happened was probably just me throwing a tantrum, losing control of my emotions.

And he was being the bigger person, generously checking in on me. I kept walking. The subway entrance was finally in sight. My phone buzzed again.

Another Snapchat message from Ethan. "The guys rarely get together like this, so we're heading to a club next. I'll probably be back late. Don't wait up for me.

Go to sleep." My thumb hovered over the screen for a few seconds. In the end, I didn't type a single word. I swiped left on the chat and deleted the conversation.

Out of sight, out of mind. When we first started dating, we had talked about marriage. I was serious back then; I wanted a future with him.

He had brought it up to his parents, but they told him their finances were tight and they couldn't help with a down payment on a house.

If we wanted to get married, we had to figure it out ourselves. Since then, I had worked even harder.

I cut my expenses to the bare minimum, putting away a fixed amount of money every month, thinking that if we both worked hard, we could save up for a down payment.

But Ethan didn't seem to be in any rush. He had hopped through several jobs since graduation, none of them lasting long.

It was always either the boss was bad, the coworkers were toxic, or the pay was too low for the amount of work.

He lived paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes I even had to help cover his bills.

I had tried to talk to him a few times, asking him to settle down, work hard while we were still young, and plan for our future.

He would always say, "I know, I know," but he never actually did anything about it. Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. During a phone call with my mom, I vented a bit.

My mom was immediately against him, saying a man like that wasn't reliable, and urged me to break up with him. I actually argued with her, defending Ethan.

I said he was just young and needed time to mature, and that I was willing to wait for him. Looking back, my mom had lived twice as long as me. She saw right through him.

But now, I didn't have to stress about any of it anymore. Neither the house nor the man mattered to me now. My thumb mindlessly scrolled through my phone and opened Instagram.

I scrolled down. The latest post was from Ethan, posted ten minutes ago. It was a photo of Harper sitting on a couch, smiling with her head tilted.

The caption read: Happy Birthday to my favorite dummy! Another year older.

Sleep early from now on, make more money, and find someone who can actually handle you so you can stop driving me crazy. The comment section was already lively.

Our mutual friend, Zach, was the first to comment: Whoa, Ethan, what's going on here? Who is this? Ethan replied to him: My childhood bestie. We grew up together.

Don't get any ideas. Lucas commented right after: A guy and a girl alone together... where's Chloe? Isn't she going to be mad?

Ethan didn't reply to that one. Instead, Harper herself left a comment to play it off: Chloe was there too!

We all get along great, don't try to stir up drama! followed by a laughing emoji. There were a few more comments teasing them. I read them one by one.

Finally, my finger hovered over the "heart" button. And then, I liked the post. He had never allowed me to appear on his Instagram.

In our two years together, he posted plenty of things—gaming setups, sports matches, latenight complaints about work, drinking with his friends. But never me.

Once, I halfjokingly asked him why he never posted anything about us on Instagram. His answer was dismissive: "Flexing your relationship online just ruins it. What's the point?

As long as we're happy in real life, that's what matters." And I believed him.

Yet today, for his childhood friend's birthday, he not only posted a tribute, but he also handpicked a beautiful photo and used such an intimate, teasing tone.

When I got home, I went straight to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on my face. Then, I pulled out my suitcase and started packing.

As I packed, I mentally figured out how to break the news to Ethan. Fighting, questioning, screaming—none of it made sense anymore.

By the time I finished packing, it was almost 1 AM. I changed into my pajamas and lay down on the bed. The next morning, I was woken up by the sound of the front door opening.

The key turned in the lock, followed by heavy, stumbling footsteps. The bedroom door was pushed open, and a strong smell of alcohol rushed in, instantly filling the entire room.

Ethan was back. His hair was a messy nest, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face was pale. It was obvious he had stayed up all night drinking.

He was only wearing a black tshirt, his bare arms covered in goosebumps from the chilly morning air. His coat was gone.

It was the charcoalgrey wool blend coat I had bought for him last month, saving up and treating him to it so he’d have something nice and warm for the winter.

It was nowhere to be seen. He stumbled toward the bed.

Seeing my open eyes, he froze for a second, then forced a goofy, hungover smile to appease me. "Chloe, I'm home." I didn't say anything, just looked at him calmly.

My gaze drifted from his face down to the collar of his black tshirt. On the dark fabric, there was a small, barely noticeable smudge.

The color was slightly lighter than the shirt, looking suspiciously like liquid foundation. He took another step forward, seemingly wanting to hug me.

But perhaps smelling the foul alcohol on his own breath, or intimidated by my cold gaze, he stopped. Remembering something, he turned and went to the living room.

When he came back, he was holding a plastic bag. He carefully placed the bag on the nightstand.

The takeout container inside was slightly squished. "I went out of my way to get this from your favorite spot on my way back. Your favorite garlic shrimp."

He rubbed his hands together, his tone filled with a needy desire to be praised. "It was a bit far, and I had to wait in line for a while, so it’s cold now.

Hold on, let me go heat it up in the kitchen for you." He reached for the bag. "Don't bother." Ethan's hand froze in midair. He turned to look at me.

I sat up, propping myself against the headboard, pulling the duvet up to my chest. "Why didn't you reply to any of my messages last night?

I was worried sick about you," he frowned. "I already explained it to you. Harper is literally just my childhood friend. We grew up together; she's like a sister to me.

She was hurt, so I helped her out.

Isn't that normal?" "Can you please stop making a mountain out of a molehill?" "A mountain out of a molehill." I repeated the words, tasting the bitterness in them. "Okay, okay, I'll stop," Ethan said, realizing his choice of words might have been too harsh.

He quickly changed his tone. "It’s my fault. I messed up. I should have explained it to you beforehand so you wouldn't misunderstand." "I'm apologizing to you.

Sincerest apology, okay?" "The Instagram post was just a joke. I deleted it first thing this morning.

See?" He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and held it up to my face as if this was the ultimate proof of his sincerity and compromise.

I didn't even blink. "Ethan, in your eyes, am I really just a dramatic, unreasonable girlfriend?" He froze, his hand holding the phone hovering in the air. "That's not what I meant..." "Then what did you mean?" I cut him off. "Where is your coat?" Suddenly, he became incredibly restless.

His eyes darted around, and he scratched the back of his neck. "Oh, that... last night, when we went to the karaoke bar, Harper didn't wear enough layers and said she was freezing.

So I let her borrow it. It's just a coat, Chloe. Are you seriously going to pick a fight over this?" Just a coat.

To buy him that coat, I had given up on buying the perfume I had been eyeing for months.

I had compared prices at three different department stores, begged the sales associate for a discount, and bought it with excitement, just wanting him to look nice and stay warm this winter. "No," I shook my head gently. "It's not worth picking a fight over." "Nothing is worth it anymore." Ethan's frown deepened.

He seemed to detect something unusual in my quiet tone. "Chloe, don't talk like that.

It makes me feel uneasy." His voice even carried a hint of desperate pleading. "I really know I messed up.

I promise, I won't meet up with Harper alone anymore, and I'll never peel shrimp for her again." "I'll ask for my coat back right now. From now on, I'll listen to you.

Whatever you say, goes. Can we please just be okay?" I looked into his eyes, my heart surprisingly peaceful. "Ethan, let's break up."