I'm Second Place in My Own Marriage

In the fifth year of my marriage with Lionel Kruger, I suddenly develop an ability to see everyone's ranking system.

To my mom, I'm ranked first. To my best friend, I'm ranked second after her daughter.

Even the owner of the breakfast cart in the neighborhood views me as his sixth favorite person in his life.

Delighted, I rush off to see Lionel's ranking system.

His mom ranks first, whereas Natalie Cooper is ranked second.

That's me! I'm ranked second!

That piece of news makes me smile throughout the day.

That is, until I see an unfamiliar name taking up the sixth spot—Lindsay Sloan.

I tell myself that it's fine. I'm ranked second, while she's ranked sixth.

But the next few days, I witness Lindsey's name climbing slowly up the ranks to the point she's almost reaching my rank.

That evening, Lionel comes home and hugs me as usual. "I missed you."

As I stare at the ranking system above his head, I notice that Lindsay, who's now ranked third, is slowly climbing upward as he speaks.

"Lionel, who's Lindsey Sloan?"

At that moment, Lionel freezes up while hugging me.

That instant was too brief, so much so that it almost felt like my imagination.

Lionel Kruger quickly looked down at me, his expression perfectly natural.

"Oh, Lindsay's the new designer on the project team. She'll be working on a case with me soon, so I'm showing her the ropes."

As he said this, he ruffled my hair just like he always did.

"What's wrong? Don't tell me you're even jealous of my colleagues?"

I looked up at him. Above his head, Lindsay's name sat steadily in third place, not wavering in the slightest.

If she were just an ordinary colleague and I had asked him about her like that, there should have been at least some ripple of emotion in Lionel's heart.

Yet, there was none.

I simply hummed softly in response and lowered my head to drink some water. But the rim of the glass rested against my lips for a long time without me taking a sip.

The next morning, Lionel left the house 20 minutes earlier than usual. He said the morning rush hour was especially bad.

As usual, the table was set with warm milk and a fried egg. He had even cut the crusts off my toast for me.

He had done this every single day for the past five years.

I stood at the entryway with a smile, waving and telling him to drive safely.

After his taillights disappeared around the corner, I found myself opening the location-sharing app as if possessed.

His car didn't head to the office. Instead, it stopped in an unfamiliar residential complex for over ten minutes before starting up again.

As I stared at that red dot, I felt my heart sink.

The third day, same time, same route. By the fourth day, I no longer stood at the window to wave goodbye. Instead, I just watched as