1 Nicknames littered my childhood. Clumsy. Space cadet. Social disaster. My best friend and girlfriend claimed they were affectionate, reserved for those who loved me most. During a quarterly presentation, my girlfriend called me “Clumsy” before the whole office. Laughter erupted; the director frowned. My face burned as I stumbled through the slides. My friend just ruffled my hair. “Don’t mind her. You are a bit slow.” On a retreat, she mocked my nervous stutter. He laughed hardest, adding, “Stop, she’s sensitive,” even as he saved a video of it to his favorites. Last week, I closed a million-dollar deal alone. At dinner, she toasted, “Our little space cadet!” The client’s expression soured. Later, they killed the deal. In my car, crying, my friend tapped the window with a tissue. “Don’t cry. Just don’t let her drink next time.” I wiped my eyes, submitted my resignation on Slack, and tossed the tissue back. Eight years, from high school to now. I once thought we’d go far. I rolled up the window and started the engine. Congratulations, Agnes. You finally learned to walk alone. … “Who approved your resignation?” Owen’s voice came through the receiver, calm and casual, as if he were asking what I wanted for lunch. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and my ear, continuing to pack clothes into my suitcase. “HR did. Standard procedure.” “I told you not to do anything rash.” He paused, his tone softening slightly. “I can help you talk to the client about the deal. I still have some leverage with their manager.” I zipped up the suitcase and looked at the one-way ticket to London sitting on the desk. “No need, Owen.” “What are you even doing?” A hint of impatience finally crept into his voice. “You’ve known Susan since high school. You know she speaks without thinking. Is it really worth all this drama?” Is it worth it? A million-dollar account, three months of follow-ups, forty-seven emails, eleven draft revisions. And he was asking me if it was worth it. “I’m not dramatic,” I said, sliding the passport and ticket into the side pocket of my backpack. “I just want a change of scenery.” “A change of scenery? Your college English was barely conversational. Where are you even going?” I didn’t answer. He let out another sigh, that familiar, patronizing sigh I had heard a thousand times. “Fine. Cool off for a couple of days. Susan and I will take you out for dinner this weekend so we can talk things through.” “I won’t be here this weekend.” A brief silence followed on the other end of the line. “What does that mean?” “My flight is the day after tomorrow.” This time, the silence lasted much longer. I could hear him rustling around, probably looking for his lighter. “Where?” “London. A friend’s company has an opening, and I’m going to try out for it.” “Are you…” He sounded choked up. “Are you serious?” I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were still slightly puffy, my lips dry, my entire face washed out and tired. “I am.” “Agnes.” He used my full name, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you just trying to get a rise out of me?” I almost laughed. For eight years, he had always assumed every decision I made was just an emotional tantrum. “No.” “Then explain it to me. Why are you suddenly packing up and leaving?” Why? Because you and Susan teamed up to turn me into a running joke, and you didn’t even realize how much it hurt. Because every milestone I reached was easily brushed away by her casual, demeaning remarks, while you always took her side, telling me “she didn’t mean anything by it.” Because I was finally exhausted. But I didn’t say any of that. “I just want to see the world.” “By yourself? You get lost taking the subway in Chicago…” “I have to go,” I cut him off. “I still have packing to do.” “Agnes…” I pressed the end call button. The moment my screen went dark, a message from Susan popped up. “Agnes! I heard you’re quitting? What a joke, haha! What are you going to do without me and Owen? Stop playing around. Let’s hang out this weekend. I’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, okay?” She followed it with a string of cute, pleading emojis. I stared at the words What are you going to do without me and Owen for a long time. I didn’t reply. I tossed my phone onto the bed and dragged my suitcase into the living room. On the coffee table lay a shiny butterfly hair clip that Susan had left behind last week. I picked it up and threw it straight into the trash can. The doorbell rang. I opened it, and there she was. Susan stood on the doormat, wearing a cream-colored knit dress, her hair styled in loose waves, holding a bag of fresh fruit. “You’re actually packing?” She peered past me into the apartment, her eyes widening in exaggerated shock. “Oh my god, Agnes. Are you seriously leaving?” I stepped aside to let her in. She placed the fruit on the coffee table, turned around, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Is this because of what happened at dinner? I told you I had too much to drink, Agnes. You wouldn’t really leave just because of that, would you?” Her voice trailed off as she looked down, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “What am I supposed to do if you leave?” That was Susan. She always knew exactly when to play the victim, making sure everyone else looked like the bully. “It has nothing to do with you,” I said. “I just wanted to go.” She looked up, her teary eyes wide. “Really? You’re not mad at me?” “No.” “Then… can you stay?” She grabbed my hand, her nails painted a soft cherry blossom pink. “Or at least wait until Owen gets back? He can definitely help you find a way to…” “Susan,” I gently pulled my hand back. “My flight is at six o’clock the day after tomorrow.” She froze. Something flickered deep within those pretty eyes, vanishing so quickly I couldn’t catch it. Then, she smiled and reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Then I have to come to the airport to see you off.” “You don’t…” “I have to,” she insisted, looking at me with absolute sincerity. “You’re my best friend.” My best friend. As she said those words, I remembered her calling me “clumsy” in front of our key clients. I remembered her impression video being shared and laughed at hundreds of times. I remembered the exact moment Owen laughed the loudest. “Whatever,” I said. She gave me a tight hug, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Agnes, don’t you dare forget about me once you’re over there.” I kept quiet. As she let go, my phone buzzed on the bed. It was a message from Owen. “I don’t approve of this.” Five words. No punctuation. I stared at it for two seconds, then locked the screen. 2 After Susan left, I continued packing. I reached into the very back of my closet and pulled out a dusty metal tin. Inside were the scraps of the last eight years. A birthday card Owen had written for me in high school: Happy birthday, Agnes. I hope you grow braver and braver. A braided friendship bracelet Susan had made, a red cord with a tiny bead. She had told me it was a lifetime bond, something we’d never take off. And photos. Dozens of photos of the three of us. I was always standing on the very edge, smiling the hardest. I placed the metal box on the top shelf of the closet, a spot I could barely reach. I wouldn’t take it with me, but I wouldn’t throw it away either. At 11:00 PM, Owen called again. I didn’t pick up. He sent six messages, which I ignored. The seventh was a voice note. My finger brushed against the screen, and his voice filled the quiet room. “Agnes, you’ve ignored my calls six times now. Are you trying to start a fight? If you have something to say, just say it. Stop with the silent treatment.” Silent treatment. I let out a bitter laugh. Me quietly packing my bags was the “silent treatment.” But what did you call eight years of mocking me in public? Playful teasing? I turned off my phone and had the best night of sleep I’d had in months. The next day was my last day before the flight. I went to the office to finish my exit clearance. My desk was completely cleared, save for a sticky note left by the colleague sitting next to me. Agnes, wishing you the absolute best. Don’t look back (in a good way). I peeled it off, tucked it into my pocket, and headed to HR to sign the final papers. When I stepped out of the elevator, I ran right into Owen. He was standing in the lobby, dressed in a sharp suit, hands in his pockets, looking at me with a complicated expression. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I came to pick you up.” “I don’t need a ride.” He blocked my path, looking down at me. “Agnes, can you please talk to me like a normal person?” “I am talking to you normally.” He frowned, reaching out to pat my hair, just like he had done for the last eight years. I stepped back, avoiding his touch. His hand froze in midair. “You’re actually furious,” he said, slowly lowering his hand. “I already told you, I can talk to the client again…” “The deal is dead, Owen,” I interrupted. “And that’s worth quitting over?” “Yes.” He took a deep breath, his tone softening into something gentler. “Agnes…” “Don’t call me that.” He choked on his words. In eight years, I had never cut him off like this. He was used to my mild temper, my absolute compliance. He was used to me nodding along to whatever he said. “Fine,” he said, taking a step back. “Let’s go find a place to sit down and talk, Agnes.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” “You’re flying to London tomorrow. Who do you even know there? You can’t even navigate a new city without getting lost…” “I’ll learn.” He had that look on his face again. Like he was dealing with an unreasonable child, stubborn and immature, someone who constantly needed his guidance. “Susan was crying all day yesterday,” he said suddenly. “She feels like she’s the reason you’re leaving.” I remained quiet for a moment. “Good. She should.” Owen’s face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean? You won’t even accept her apology now?” I looked at him. He was always defending her. When the deal fell through, it was my fault for not keeping her sober. When she humiliated me, it was my fault for being too sensitive. When I quit to start fresh, it was me being dramatic. And now that she was crying, his first instinct was to come and scold me on her behalf. “Owen,” I asked quietly. “Have you ever thought about one thing?” “What?” “If Susan had been the one humiliated in front of the clients that night, would you have told her to just ‘make sure Agnes doesn’t drink as much next time’?” He froze. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. I stepped around him and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the lobby. The bright afternoon sun made my eyes water. Behind me, his footsteps hurried to catch up. “Agnes, what time is your flight tomorrow? I’ll drive you to the airport.” “Don’t worry about it.” “I’ll drive you,” he repeated, a touch of authority slipping into his tone. I didn’t turn back. “Just drive Susan instead.” The moment I left the office grounds, I let out a long breath. For the first time in eight years, the road ahead didn’t feel so daunting. When I got home, a bouquet of sunflowers sat on my kitchen counter. They were my favorite. The card was written in Susan’s neat, loopy handwriting: Agnes, let us take you to the airport tomorrow. No excuses! Promise me we’ll be best friends forever. I picked up the bouquet and threw it straight into the trash. Right on top of her butterfly hair clip. 3 My alarm went off three times at 4:00 AM before I finally dragged myself out of bed. After a quick shower, I rolled my suitcase out into the dark hallway. The elevator doors slid open, and Susan was already standing inside. She was wearing a pink hoodie, her hair thrown up in a messy bun, completely makeup-free, with dark circles under her eyes. “Oh, thank god. I thought you might sneak down the fire stairs to avoid us,” she said with a bright laugh, reaching out to grab my suitcase handle. “Come on, Owen is waiting downstairs.” I looked at her. “I told you guys I didn’t need a ride.” “Oh, stop being like that,” she said, dragging me along by the arm. “You’re leaving, and we don’t even know when you’ll be back. Let us do this for you.” Downstairs, Owen’s car was idling under a streetlamp, headlights cutting through the early morning fog. He got out, quietly loaded my suitcase into the trunk, and opened the door for us without saying much. The ride was incredibly quiet. Susan sat in the passenger seat, and I sat in the back. Ten minutes into the drive, she turned around to look at me. “Agnes, make sure you eat properly when you get there. Your stomach has always been sensitive.” “I will.” “And don’t overwork yourself. You get stressed easily, and too much pressure keeps you awake at night.” “I know.” “FaceTime me whenever you miss me. What’s the time difference again? Five hours? When you’re waking up, I’ll just be getting off work…” “Susan,” Owen interrupted quietly. “Let her rest.” Susan pouted slightly and turned back around. In the rearview mirror, I caught Owen’s gaze drifting back to me for a fraction of a second. I shifted my eyes toward the window, watching the streetlights blur past. When we reached O’Hare, Owen pushed my luggage cart while Susan kept her arm linked through mine. Just like old times, the three of us walking together. Only this time, I was in the middle, not trailing behind. Because this was the last time. At the check-in desk, I grabbed my boarding pass. Susan threw her arms around me, holding me tight. “You absolute idiot,” she mumbled, burying her face in my shoulder. “Who’s going to go shopping with me now?” I patted her back gently. “You have Owen.” She let go of me, wiping a tear from her eye. She shot a look at Owen, giving him a subtle nudge. Owen stepped forward, holding a brown paper bag in his hands. “Some snacks for the flight, and…” He hesitated for a second. “Text me when you land safely.” I took the bag and nodded. Then I turned around and walked toward security. “Agnes.” His voice called out from behind me. I stopped, but I didn’t turn back. “If things don’t work out over there, you can always come back.” There was a slight tremor in his voice, a faint hint of worry. But only a hint. Because deep down, he still believed I’d return. He still believed I couldn’t survive without them. He had believed that for eight years. I didn’t say a word. I just dragged my carry-on bag into the security line. As the line moved forward, I glanced back one last time. From a distance, I saw Susan talking animatedly to Owen, gesturing wildly with her hands. Owen was looking down at his phone, typing away. They didn’t look particularly sad. It was the relaxed posture of two people who had just sent a friend out to grab groceries, fully expecting her to return shortly. I turned around. Gate B12. I found my seat on the plane, buckled in, and opened the brown bag Owen had given me. A sandwich, a bottle of water, a pack of mints. And at the very bottom, a sticky note. Written in Susan’s rounded, bubbly handwriting: Hey space cadet! The world out there is pretty scary. We know you won’t last long before you start missing us, but don’t worry, Owen and I will be waiting to welcome you home! (ᵔᴥᵔ) I stared at the words for a long time. As the plane began taxiing down the runway, I ripped the note in half and stuffed it deep into the seatback trash bag. Twelve hours later, I touched down at Heathrow. I turned on my phone, and a barrage of thirty-seven notifications popped up, mostly Susan’s emojis and frantic voice messages. Owen had sent just one: Let me know when you arrive. I replied with a simple: Arrived. Then I closed the app. My college roommate, Naomi, was waiting for me at the arrivals gate, holding up a cardboard sign with a funny, terrible drawing of a stick figure. “Agnes, welcome to your brand new life!” I dragged my suitcase toward her, feeling the cool, damp London breeze on my face. I took a deep breath. New air. And absolutely no one here was going to call me a space cadet. 4 During my first week in London, jet lag kept me awake at odd hours. Awake at 3:00 AM, I sat on the window sill of my rented room, staring at the streetlamps outside. My phone screen lit up. Susan had updated her social media, posting a gallery of nine photos, all of her and Owen. At a diner, a movie theater, a shopping mall. The caption read: Agnes leaving has made life so boring. Had to drag this guy out to keep me company. You’re responsible for my entertainment now, Owen! In the comments, mutual friends from back home were teasing: “Are these two finally going to make it official?” “The childhood sweethearts are over, is the best friend stepping in?” “Did Agnes leaving finally clear the path? lol.” Owen had replied to one comment: Don’t talk nonsense. Susan had reacted with a blushing emoji. I stared at the screen, trying to process the feeling. It wasn’t jealousy. It was a cold, quiet sense of finality. My departure hadn’t left a void in their lives; it had completed them. Without the clumsy third wheel hovering around, they could finally slide into place next to each other. Naomi walked in, holding two mugs of hot chocolate. “Why are you awake staring at your phone…” She glanced at the screen. “Is that your ex-friend and the childhood sweetheart?” “Yeah.” Naomi handed me a mug. “Turn it off. Tomorrow is your first day of work.” I took a sip of the sweet, warm drink, letting the heat burn the tip of my tongue. I put Susan’s notifications on mute. And Owen’s too. My first day at the new office was a blur of unfamiliarity. The fast-paced environment, new faces, and a completely different workflow. During the meetings, I took frantic notes, trying my best to keep up. But nobody laughed. Nobody imitated my nervous stutter. Nobody looked at a successful task I completed and said, “Wow, she actually pulled it off.” At lunch, a colleague complimented a specific detail in my marketing proposal. It was a simple, normal piece of professional feedback. But it almost made me tear up. I worked late that night, leaving the office around 9:00 PM. On the tube home, I received a message from Owen. “It’s been a week. How are you settling in? Is the work okay?” I replied: “It’s fine.” He quickly typed back: “Susan said you muted her posts. She’s really hurt by that.” I didn’t reply. He sent another: “Agnes, what are you still mad about? She already apologized.” Always the same script. She was hurt, so I had to be the one to soften. She apologized, so I had to be the one to forgive. But what about the million-dollar account I lost? What about the dignity I stripped away in front of my peers? What about the eight years of quiet humiliation? None of that mattered. Because I was Agnes. Agnes was slow, Agnes was sensitive, Agnes was easy to appease. Agnes would never stay mad. I closed the chat, opened my work email, and began preparing for the next morning’s presentation. Two weeks passed, then three, then four. I slowly found my rhythm in London. The work became second nature, and my turnaround time for strategy drafts cut in half. Naomi pointed out that I was smiling a lot more. Owen’s messaging patterns began to shift too. It went from once a day, to three times a day, to constant updates morning, noon, and night. It started as casual check-ins, but quickly grew invasive. “Who did you have lunch with today?” “Is your new teammate a guy or a girl?” “It’s the weekend. Why aren’t you replying to my texts?” I kept my replies brief, or ignored them altogether. By the fifth week, at 4:00 AM London time, my phone began to buzz with an incoming FaceTime call from him. 5 I let it ring, refusing to answer. Then came a text message: “Agnes, I need to talk to you.” “Talk tomorrow. I’m asleep.” “Now.” I let out a slow sigh, sat up in bed, and accepted the call. On screen, Owen was sitting on his balcony, the city lights of Chicago sparkling behind him. He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes. His collar was unbuttoned, his hair messy, as if he had been running his hands through it all night. “Agnes.” “Yeah.” He stared at his screen for several seconds, just looking at me. “Are you ever coming back?” “I like it here.” “I didn’t ask if you liked it,” his voice dropped, turning sharp. “I asked if you’re coming back.” “Not anytime soon.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, he said something I completely didn’t expect. “Susan confessed to me.” The air in my room seemed to freeze. “Last week,” he continued, his tone flat. “She said she’s always had feelings for me.” My fingers gripped the edge of my blanket tightly. “And… did you accept?” He didn’t say anything. And that silence was all the answer I needed. I felt a sudden wave of self-deprecation wash over me. The last lingering, foolish hope I had carried in my heart for years shattered completely. He wasn’t calling because he missed me. He was calling to tell me this, expecting me to play the role of the mature, supportive childhood friend who would offer her blessing. “Congratulations,” I said, forcing a small smile. Across the screen, he seemed to let out a breath he’d been holding. “You’re not upset?” I shook my head. “Agnes—” “Agnes,” I corrected him. He froze again. “Right. Well, Susan wanted me to apologize to you again. She hopes that when you come back, the three of us can still…” “I’m not coming back.” His expression hardened. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means I’m not coming back, Owen.” Outside my window, the London sky was beginning to pale. I looked at the face that had been the center of my world for eight years, and smiled softly. “Goodbye.” I ended the call. His stunned expression was the last thing I saw before the screen went black. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t indifference. It was the look of a man who had suddenly realized that something he took entirely for granted was actually, truly gone. I couldn’t fall back asleep after that. The next morning, I dragged myself into the office with heavy eyes. Naomi noticed immediately and quietly handed me a double espresso. “The dynamic duo again?” “For the last time,” I promised. She nodded, letting the subject drop. The work week flew by in a blur of meetings and tight deadlines. My role in the cross-border e-commerce division required me to negotiate directly with international clients. My spoken English, hesitant at first, grew sharper and more confident with every call. During our weekly review, the director singled out my latest project proposal, praising its clear data and unique perspective. Nobody chimed in to say, “Wow, she actually managed to do that.” It was just normal, professional recognition. When I stood up to thank the team, my voice was steady and completely clear. Later that afternoon, I received an unexpected message. It wasn’t from Owen, and it wasn’t from Susan. It was from Tristan, our high school class president. “Agnes? I heard you’re in London. I’m heading there next week for a business trip. Free for dinner?” Tristan. He had sat behind me in high school before heading off to Cambridge for his master’s degree, eventually landing a job in the financial district. We weren’t incredibly close back then, but we weren’t strangers either. It was a refreshing, uncomplicated connection. No nicknames, no teasing, just a polite “thanks” whenever we shared study notes. “Sure,” I replied. On Friday night, he took me to a quiet restaurant overlooking the Thames. Dressed in a sharp suit, he was a head taller than he had been in high school, but his warm smile was exactly the same. “You’ve changed a lot,” he said, handing me the menu. “You seem much more confident.” “Do I?” “In high school, you barely made eye contact when you spoke. Now, you hold your head high.” I looked down at the menu, feeling my ears warm slightly. “I think it’s just the environment.” “What kind of environment?” “One where nobody calls me space cadet.” He paused, his fork hovering. “Who called you that?” “Nobody important,” I smiled. “Just old history.” The dinner was effortless. We talked about our careers, life in London, and old school memories. Not a single word made me feel small or self-conscious. When the bill came, he reached for it. “Let me know if you ever need anything while you’re here. You don’t have to carry everything on your own.” “Thanks, Tristan.” On the way back, I posted my very first photo of London on social media. It was a shot of the Thames at night, captioned: Dinner with an old friend. London nights are beautiful. Five minutes later, Susan’s comment appeared. “Oh wow, Agnes has a new friend! Is it a guy? Make sure you don’t get scammed over there, you’ve always been so terrible at reading people…” I stared at the comment for two seconds, then deleted it. Three minutes later, Owen called. I let it ring out. Then came his text: “Who did you have dinner with?” “A former classmate.” “A guy or a girl?” “How is that any of your business?” The chat remained silent for several minutes. Then he sent: “Agnes, Susan and I aren’t together.” I blinked. “Didn’t you say she confessed to you?” “She did, but I didn’t say yes.” “…You didn’t say anything when I asked last time.” “You asked if I accepted, and before I could explain, you hung up,” his text read, sounding slightly defensive. I leaned back against the taxi seat, watching the city lights blur outside the window. How typical. His silence was a “no” in his head, but to me, it was a default “yes.” Because he never bothered to explain himself. Because he always assumed I would just wait and understand. “What’s the point of telling me this now?” I typed back. He didn’t reply immediately. After a long pause, he sent: “Agnes, there are things I hadn’t figured out before.” “And have you figured them out now?” “I’m trying to.” “Take your time then.” I locked my phone. The taxi pulled up to my apartment building. It was 11:00 PM. The night wind was cold, but my mind was remarkably clear. It wasn’t that I didn’t care anymore. It was just that I no longer needed his answers. When I walked upstairs, Naomi was curled up on the couch watching a show. “Back from your date?” “It wasn’t a date.” “Right, right, not a date,” she said without looking up. “Your phone has been buzzing off the hook, by the way.” I checked my phone. Susan had sent a long voice message. I clicked play, listened to the first second, and paused it. “Agnes, did you seriously block me? What is your problem with deleting my comments? I was just trying to look out for you…” I marked the message as read and closed the app. That night, I slept peacefully, without a single dream.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “527596”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply