"My childhood best friend, Leo, has depression. It’s the kind of depression that requires him to be coaxed into eating, held to fall asleep. The kind that made him slice at his own wrist with a penknife that one time he couldn't get hard. It wasn't until the arrival of the woman who was clearly meant to be his savior—the protagonist of his redemption story—that I realized I was just a supporting character. An insignificant extra. So, I quit. When Leo tried to cut his wrists, I sharpened the knife for him. When he threatened to jump from the balcony, I opened the window. And in the middle of hate-fueled sex, I called him a minute man. As I saw the heroine of his story nearing the completion of her quest, I took the initiative and asked for a divorce. That’s when Leo grabbed my waist, his voice a raw shout. ""How do you think my depression got better? Don't you have any clue at all?"" 1 I knew Leo was different from the time I was still running around in diapers. While I was climbing trees like a little monkey, he’d be in his room, silently shedding tears. When I was slinging a tiny backpack for my first day of preschool, barely able to recognize the letters of the alphabet, he had already written one hundred and eighty suicide notes. The reasons for wanting to end it all were always different. From accidentally stepping on an ant, to losing a single strand of hair, even wetting the bed in the middle of the night—they were all justifications for why he couldn't go on living. And at the end of every single note, he’d write the same line: 【Dear Mom and Dad, if I die, please leave everything I own to Clara.】 At seven, ""everything he owned"" was a small box of a thousand paper stars, painstakingly folded from candy wrappers. At ten, it was the Christmas money he’d saved up all year. At sixteen, it was a binder full of his perfect, straight-A report cards. That’s right. Even with his crippling depression, he was still a bona fide genius who aced every class. By the time we were twenty-two, his most precious asset had become me—his beautiful wife, Clara. That's why every time I looked at the listless, half-dead version of Leo, who sometimes lacked even the energy to properly tie a noose, I would erupt in helpless fury. ""What right do you even have to be depressed?"" I’d demand. ""Your family's company is practically a national chain, you're so ridiculously good-looking that talent scouts have tried to recruit you, and you sailed through school without ever getting less than an A+. What the hell do you have to be depressed about?"" Hearing me say that, his innocent, deer-like eyes would mist over, the corners turning red. He was one bitten lip away from whimpering, ""I want to die."" But instead, he’d say, ""You're right. Besides being handsome, rich, brilliant, and married to a perfect wife, what else do I have going for me?"" He’d sigh dramatically. ""My life is such a failure."" And then he’d reach for a penknife to drag across his thigh. It wasn't because his arms were too sensitive; it was because I’d been away on a business trip, and his forearms were already a latticework of pale, scarred lines, with no clean space left. 2 I snatched the penknife out of his hand. ""Don't die just yet,"" I said. Leo looked at me, surprised, his eyes wide with the expectation of some warm, comforting words. After all, since we were kids, I had practically been his designated therapist. In preschool, when he wouldn't eat, I’d feed him spoonful by spoonful, cooing, ""Good boy, Leo. Just one more bite."" In elementary school, my parents left for a research sabbatical in Antarctica, leaving me in the care of his family. From that point on, Leo's dad became my legal guardian, and I, in turn, became Leo's. That’s when I discovered he couldn't sleep at night without being soothed and told a bedtime story. His parents never had the time, so they handed that monumental task to me. And so, I spent my nights whispering tales of Snow White while holding him in my arms. To put it bluntly, we went from sharing a crib in diapers to sharing a bed in a wedding dress and a tuxedo. Leo's father knew his son was unreliable. At eighteen, Leo could barely string ten words together with anyone other than me, let alone be expected to inherit the family business. To ensure I could seamlessly take over the company, his parents pushed us to get married the moment Leo turned legal age. Before Leo could even process what I was doing, I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a brand-new chef's knife from the block. I started sharpening it right in front of him, the steel gleaming under the lights. ""If you're serious about this, use this one,"" I said, my voice flat. ""Stop trying to scare me with that little toy."" Leo froze. His eyes were a mixture of hurt and utter shock. ""Clara, if I died, what would you do?"" I let out a dry laugh. ""Find someone new, I guess."" Then I turned and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. 3 Inside the bathroom, the shelves were neatly lined with an array of... toys. Before my trip, they had been scattered about, but now Leo had cleaned them and organized them back into their box. My gaze, however, was drawn to a faded little pill bottle tucked away in a corner. I remembered when we were freshly eighteen, and I decided it was time to initiate him into the ways of the flesh. He was so nervous that, after several attempts, he still couldn't get it up. His face was flushed, sweat tracing the sharp line of his jaw and dripping onto my collarbone. He had whispered to me in that sexy, raspy voice of his, ""Clara, I'll try... I'll try one more time."" But after what felt like an eternity, all that teenage bravado wilted like a flower in the sun. It was over in less than three seconds. I tried to be encouraging. ""Don't be nervous. Just think about what we were watching earlier."" ""Or... you can just touch me, if that helps."" But Leo couldn't handle the failure. He rolled off me, pulled out the penknife he always carried, and said, ""Clara, I'm so useless."" He was about to bring the blade to his arm. I can swear on my life that was the most terrified and helpless I had ever felt. Dear God, who could have imagined that trying to seduce an innocent boy would end with him threatening to die on the bed? ""Wait,"" I said, stopping him. I pulled out the little pill bottle I’d brought just in case. I had only intended to give him one or two, and was worried he’d be too proud to take them. I never expected him to snatch the bottle and down nearly half of it. Three days later, we limped out of that hotel, our legs aching and our bodies sore. It was like a switch had been flipped in him; he never needed that bottle again. When I tried to throw it in the trash, Leo fished it out, cradling it like a treasure. ""Let's keep it,"" he'd said. ""As a souvenir."" 4 A loud crash echoed from outside the bathroom. I was determined not to get involved with whatever Leo was doing. I took my time, lingering in the steam, but then another, louder bang followed. ""Leo, what are you doing?"" I called out as I emerged, only to find he’d knocked over and shattered a pair of antique vases. ""Honestly,"" I snapped. Leo was taken aback by my tone, clearly confused as to why one business trip had caused such a seismic shift in my attitude. He asked tentatively, ""Clara… are you cheating on me?"" I stared at the two large words floating above his head: MAIN CHARACTER. My heart ached with a strange mix of grief and resignation. I don't know when it started, but one day I could suddenly see that label above him, a label no one else seemed to notice. I had thought it made me special, that I was destined to be his leading lady. But a few weeks ago, I had seen two different words floating over the head of Leo’s psychiatrist. FEMALE LEAD. I could even see another line of text materializing in the air around him. Leo's Depression Level: 100% That's when it all clicked. She was the heroine of the redemption story. And I was just the disposable side character. The starter wife. So, I quit. As for Leo, he could do whatever the hell he wanted."
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