Author: Momo Chan

Chapter 1 When Julian got home from his night shift, I had just placed a bowl of garlic butter noodles—his favorite—on the table. I wanted to tell him that my mother had finally agreed to let us get married. Instead, he tossed his car keys onto the table and said exhaustedly, “I got married.” The noodles were still steaming, but my heart instantly turned to ice. “What?” “I married the new nurse from the ER.” “She’s young, and she’s completely devoted to me. I couldn’t just leave her without any security.” I gripped my chopsticks, my fingertips trembling. “Then what about the eight years I spent waiting for you?” Julian looked up at me, and actually gave a small smile. “You’re different. You’re the person I can never let go of.” “As long as you don’t make a big deal out of it, we’re still family.” … I didn’t cry. I didn’t smash the bowl. I simply picked up that bowl of garlic butter noodles, walked into the kitchen, and dumped it straight into the trash can. Julian frowned. “Harper, I just worked an entire night shift. The thing I hate most is when you give me this silent treatment.” I turned to look at him. “When did you sign the papers?” He rubbed his temples. “Yesterday at noon.” “Chloe got off her night shift, City Hall wasn’t busy, so we just went since it was on the way.” On the way. Yesterday at noon, I was at the hospital with my mom for her dialysis evaluation. She lay in the hospital bed, holding my hand, and said: “Harper, I’ve thought it over. If you’re really set on Julian, then marry him.” I almost cried right then and there. I texted Julian immediately. “My mom finally said yes.” He never replied. Turns out, he was at City Hall. Taking marriage certificate photos with another woman. I asked: “Does she know about me?” Julian was silent for two seconds. “She knows.” “And she doesn’t care?” “She’s young. She’s insecure.” He sounded so exhausted saying it. As if I were the one being unreasonable. “She cried and told me she didn’t want a ring, she didn’t want a wedding. She just wanted the legal right to stand by my side.” I laughed. “I’ve stood by your side for eight years. Where do I stand now?” Julian looked at me. “Harper, those eight years weren’t for nothing.” “You can keep living in this house, and your life doesn’t have to change.” “Don’t make this sound uglier than it is.” I finally understood. His so-called “compensation” was letting me continue to live here. To keep cleaning his house. To keep taking care of him when his stomach hurt, when he pulled all-nighters, when he was exhausted from his shifts. Except I was being demoted from his girlfriend to a dirty little secret hidden in the shadows. I walked into the bedroom to pack my things. When I opened the closet, my hand froze. A row of clothes belonging to a stranger was hanging inside. A pink sweater, a floral dress, a nursing jacket. There was a pair of small white sneakers in the shoe rack. A new bottle of face wash on the bathroom counter. A thin hair tie resting on the nightstand. I picked it up and asked him: “She’s been coming here for a while?” Julian stood in the doorway. He didn’t deny it. “Chloe gets scared easily. She couldn’t sleep alone in the dorms.” I nodded. “So you let her sleep in my bed?” His face darkened. “Do you have to frame it like that?” I took off the ring he had given me and set it on the table. It was a silver ring he bought the year he finished his residency. He promised me that once he became an attending physician, he would replace it with a diamond. When he finally became an attending, he said we needed to wait until we bought a house and settled down. After we bought the house, he said we needed to wait for my mother’s approval. Now my mother had finally approved. And he was a married man. I pulled out my suitcase. Julian suddenly panicked. He hugged me from behind. “Harper, I never wanted to lose you.” “I just needed to secure things for Chloe first.” “She can’t survive without me. You’re different. You’re mature. You understand me.” Being held by him, I only felt a wave of absolute nausea. The doorbell rang. In the moment Julian let go of me, I actually wondered if he’d be too much of a coward to open the door. He opened it. Chloe stood in the doorway. Her face was small, her eyes red from crying. She was wearing a men’s jacket. It was the jacket I had waited in line for two hours in the freezing cold to buy for Julian last winter. She was holding a box of wedding favors. “Julian, I came to get my marriage certificate.” After she said that, she finally noticed me. She gave a timid, nervous smile. “Oh, Harper. You’re here too.” I didn’t say a word. She took off her shoes and slipped on some house slippers. They were the spare slippers I had bought for guests. She wore them naturally. Walking with complete familiarity, she went straight into the bedroom and opened the drawer of my nightstand. The marriage certificate was right there inside. Resting on top of an old photo album. Underneath the marriage certificate was a letter. A letter my mother had written to Julian. She had just finished writing it yesterday and asked me to hand-deliver it to him. The very first line on the page read:”Julian, I am entrusting Harper to you for the rest of her life.” Chloe picked up the letter and blinked innocently. “Is this a letter your mom wrote to you guys?” “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I not supposed to read this?” I reached out to grab it back. But Julian snatched it away first. The corner of the stationary tore. He said: “Don’t scare her.” Watching him stand protectively in front of Chloe, I suddenly felt like this apartment was completely foreign to me. I had lived here for five years. But standing here right now, I felt like a trespasser. I forcefully snatched the letter back. Chloe shrank behind Julian. Julian’s expression turned ugly. “Harper, you’re emotionally unstable right now. Don’t go to work at the hospital tomorrow.” I looked at him. “I am a supervisor in the Pathology Lab. I don’t answer to an ER doctor.” Chloe’s tears started falling on command. “Harper, I really didn’t want to steal anything from you.” “I just love Julian too much.” I laughed out loud. “You’re certainly good at loving someone. So good you loved your way right into someone else’s house.” Julian lowered his voice. “Don’t make this uglier than it needs to be.” My phone rang. It was the Dialysis Center. “Ms. Miller, your mother is experiencing sudden chest pain and her blood pressure is unstable. Please come immediately.” I grabbed my bag and rushed out. Julian instinctively followed me. For a split second, I actually felt a tiny wave of relief. But the very next second, Chloe clutched her stomach and crouched down. “Julian… I feel dizzy…” “I didn’t eat dinner last night. It might be my blood sugar.” Julian stopped dead in his tracks. He glanced at me. “You take an Uber.” “I’m going to take her to the ER. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I didn’t say a word. As the elevator doors closed, I saw him scoop Chloe up into his arms. In the back of the taxi, I called him three times. He didn’t answer. When I got to the hospital, my mom’s face was an ashen grey. The nurse slid a risk consent form across the counter to me. “Sign this. She might need to be put on life support, or we might need to resuscitate.” My hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t write my own name. For eight years, Julian had always promised: “Your mom is my mom.” He told me I never had to be afraid. He told me that if anything ever happened at the hospital, he would handle it. But when that day finally came, I was still the one holding the pen. Sitting outside the resuscitation room, I opened my phone. The very first post on my Instagram feed was from Julian. In the photo, he and Chloe were holding up their marriage certificates. The caption read: For the rest of our lives. Please guide me. It had been posted exactly when I was calling him for the third time. A bunch of his coworkers from the ER had liked it. Chloe had replied in the comments: “Thank you everyone! Julian said he’s bringing wedding candy for the whole department tonight.” I stared at those words, my hands slowly going ice cold. When my mom finally woke up, the first thing she asked was: “Where’s Julian?” I hid my phone in my palm. “He’s in the ER saving a patient.” “Doctors are busy. I know.” The family member of the patient in the next bed suddenly leaned over. “Wait, isn’t your son-in-law Dr. Vance?” “Oh man… he posted on his Instagram that he got married, but the bride isn’t your daughter!” She shoved her phone screen right in front of my mom’s face. I couldn’t stop her in time. The second my mom saw the photo, her breathing became violent and erratic. The heart monitor immediately started screaming. I sprinted out to scream for a doctor. As I ran past the nurses’ station, I saw Julian. He was holding Chloe’s hand, handing out boxes of wedding candy to the ER staff. Stacks of little red boxes covered the desk. Someone teased him: “Dr. Vance, you kept this a secret for a long time!” Chloe leaned against him, her face flushed red. When Julian saw me, his immediate reaction was to frown. The very first words out of his mouth were: “What did you do to make your mom this upset?” I stood frozen. I was still gripping my mother’s critical condition notice in my hand. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to slap that piece of paper directly across his face. But my mom was still fighting for her life in that room. So all I could ask was: “Julian, where do you get the nerve?” The ER went dead silent. Chloe’s tears started falling again. She whispered, “Harper, please don’t blame Julian. It’s all my fault.” Julian stepped protectively in front of her. “We are in a hospital. Do not cause a scene.” I looked at the wedding candy in his hands. Suddenly, I found the whole thing incredibly hilarious. In a place dedicated to saving lives, he was throwing a funeral for my eight years of devotion. I didn’t cause a scene. I simply looked at him in front of his entire department and asked: “What gives you the right to blame me?” No one in the ER made a sound. Chloe hid behind Julian, sobbing softly. Julian lowered his voice. “Harper, stop interfering with our work.” “The only one interfering with work is you.” “My mother is fighting for her life in the observation ward, and you are standing here handing out candy.” A few nurses looked down, awkwardly pretending to organize charts. Suddenly, Chloe clamped a hand over her mouth. “I feel like I’m going to throw up…” The ER staff immediately started hooting. “Wow, good news already?” “Dr. Vance works fast!” Julian’s face changed. He immediately wrapped an arm around Chloe. “Let’s get some blood drawn. We’ll run a test.” My mother was still in critical observation. But Julian didn’t leave Chloe’s side for a single second while she got her blood drawn. Standing by the lab window, I watched him personally attach the label to her blood vial. The meticulous care in his movements was blindingly painful to watch. The results came back. Chloe just had gastritis. She rubbed her stomach, smiling bashfully. “I wish there really was a baby.” In front of all his coworkers, Julian told her: “When we have a baby, I’ll give you a proper home.” I thought that sentence had nothing to do with me. Until I went back to that apartment that night and saw a document sitting on the coffee table.Housing Arrangement Agreement. It read:In order to facilitate Chloe’s pregnancy preparation and future recovery, Harper Miller voluntarily agrees to vacate the master bedroom. Holding that piece of paper, I laughed for a long time. The twenty-thousand-dollar down payment for this apartment? I paid it. The renovation costs? I put them on my credit cards. For years, I had transferred three thousand dollars to Julian every single month to cover the mortgage. But the deed only had his name on it. Because he said getting the loan approved was easier for a doctor. He said, “Harper, what’s mine is yours. There’s no difference between us.” Now, he was making the difference very clear. The master bedroom was for Chloe. I had to give up my own bed. I asked: “What is the meaning of this?” Julian sat on the sofa. “Chloe and I are legally married now. It’s ridiculous for her to keep living in the dorms.” “The master bedroom gets the best sunlight. It’s better for her while we’re trying for a baby.” I slammed the agreement down in front of him. “Where is my twenty thousand?” “Where is the mortgage money I paid you?” He frowned. “We were together for eight years. Let’s not make this transactional and ugly.” Chloe walked out of the kitchen carrying two glasses of water. She was wearing an apron, looking like the perfect lady of the house. “Don’t worry, Harper. I won’t stay here for free.” “I’ll pay you eight hundred dollars a month in rent, is that okay?” I almost laughed in her face. “Eight hundred?” “Are you making a joke right now?” I picked up the agreement and ripped it into pieces. Julian violently grabbed my wrist. “If you keep acting like this, I’m going to have to transfer your mom to a regular ward.” I looked up at him. He continued: “And coordinating her dialysis schedule… I’m not the only one who can do that, you know.” The room went dead silent. Chloe had stopped crying. She stood behind Julian, looking down at me. Her expression was so innocent. And so incredibly smug. I slowly pulled my wrist out of his grip. “Julian… are you threatening me with my mother’s life?” He avoided my eyes. “I just want you to calm down.” I nodded. “Okay.” “I’ll calm down. I’ll be so calm that you’ll regret you ever met me.” The next day, I went to work at the Pathology Lab as usual. The very first thing I did when I walked into my office was export every single bank transfer I had ever sent to Julian. The down payment. The mortgage. The renovations. The medical bills I paid when his father was hospitalized. And the chat logs proving he had taken possession of my mother’s medical files. I uploaded every single document to the cloud. Julian texted me. “Don’t blow this out of proportion. We’ll talk when we get home tonight.” I didn’t reply. At 10:00 AM, Chloe showed up at the lab window. She slid a blood requisition form across the counter. “Harper, I think I might be pregnant. Can you expedite this for me?” The entire office went dead silent. Someone pretended to take a sip of water. Someone stared aggressively at their keyboard. I stuck to protocol. “Register, pay the fee, and wait in line.” Chloe’s eyes filled with tears. “Are you still mad at me?” I slid the form back to her. “This is a hospital, not your living room.” She bit her lip and walked away. To avoid any accusations of a conflict of interest, I personally handed her sample to a coworker and documented the entire chain of custody on video. The results came back at noon. HCG levels normal. Not pregnant. When Chloe saw the results, her face went completely pale. Half an hour later, news swept through the ER. Chloe was experiencing severe abdominal pain and bleeding. A suspected miscarriage. Julian stormed into the Pathology Lab. He was clutching a different lab report in his hand. That report showed Chloe’s HCG levels were elevated, consistent with early pregnancy. And the name of the authorizing technician at the bottom was mine. I glanced at the ID number on the report. “I didn’t authorize that.” “My login credentials weren’t used on this terminal at noon.” Julian wasn’t listening. He interrogated me in front of everyone: “Harper, why did you alter her lab results?!” Chloe appeared, supported by a nurse. She was pale, clutching her stomach. “Harper, it’s fine if you hate me.” “But the baby is innocent.” The way my coworkers looked at me instantly changed. The Department Director rushed in. “Harper, you are suspended pending an investigation.” I said: “Pull the security footage. Check the login IP logs.” Julian cut me off. “Now is not the time to argue over protocol!” “Chloe lost the baby because she was so stressed by your fake report!” I looked at him. “How can someone miscarry a baby they never had?” Chloe sobbed hysterically. Julian slammed a stack of papers down on the counter in front of me. The papers scattered everywhere. It was my mother’s dialysis deposit notice. And a hospital bed transfer request. He stared at me coldly. “Get on your knees and apologize to Chloe right now.” “And I promise your mother will still be on a dialysis machine tonight.” The entire department was staring at me. My professional reputation. My mother’s life. My eight years of devotion. He was trying to crush all of it with a single apology. I bent down to pick up the papers. Not to kneel. Just to pick them up. At the very bottom of the pile was an ultrasound report from a different hospital. Chloe had done it last week. The conclusion read: No evidence of pregnancy. I looked up at him. For the first time, Julian looked genuinely panicked. Chloe screamed: “That’s not mine!” The next second, the Director’s office door was pushed open. Members of the hospital’s Disciplinary Committee stood in the doorway. “Harper Miller, regarding the allegations of tampering with medical reports, you are to be suspended immediately pending a formal investigation.” I looked at Julian. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was staring at that ultrasound report. He knew the entire time.

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My older brother returned from his business trip in Paris with two shopping bags. One held an Hermès Birkin in classic gold togo leather. The other, a Chanel classic flap in black caviar. He went to my sister’s bedroom first. By the time he made it down the hall to my room, both shopping bags were gone. All that was left in his hands was a box of hazelnut chocolates you could buy at any corner drugstore. I wanted to tell my fiancé, Colin, about it. I needed to vent. But when I tracked his location to the boutiques on Fifth Avenue and walked in, I found him leaning against the glass display counters, agonizing over two necklaces. One was a Bulgari Divas’ Dream pendant. The other was a B.zero1 ceramic ring studded with diamonds. Which one should I give to your sister? He looked genuinely torn. My chest caved in. But I didn’t dare go home to cry. Instead, I hid in a quiet, marble-tiled alcove near the mall’s fitting rooms, pulling out my phone. I opened my messages and began typing through blurred vision to a guy I’d met in an online lobby six months ago. [My brother called me greedy, but I didn’t even ask for a bag. Am I really that greedy?] [Colin is supposed to be my fiancé, but he’s buying high jewelry for my sister. Am I just being petty?] The messages delivered. A moment later, a voice note popped up on my screen. “Why don’t you just be with me?” “However many bags, however many diamonds you want—I’ll give them all to you.” “I’d only ever give them to you. And I promise, no one would ever call you greedy or petty again.” 1 I froze. The sheer shock of it literally stopped my tears. For half a year, I had been chatting with this person whose screen name was simply “Gold,” their profile picture a blank white square. We had met through a co-op video game, and this was far from the first time I had cried to them. But usually, Gold only ever typed back, offering patient, quiet comfort. I had always assumed Gold was a gentle, soft-spoken girl. That was why I felt so safe pouring my heart out. But the voice that just played from my phone was undeniably male. It was a deep, unhurried baritone. Smooth and dangerously tender. A second voice note appeared. I pressed play. “More than that. If you were ever in danger, I’d save you. Only you. I can promise you that much,” the man’s voice murmured, a quiet gravity grounding every word. “Think about it.” I listened to it again. A sharp ache flared at the bridge of my nose. The tears I thought I had stopped suddenly spilled over my lashes, hot and heavy. 2 It wasn’t that I loved to cry. It was just that, most of the time, I didn’t know how to swallow the pain. When I was five, my parents divorced. To better care for my chronically ill older sister, Bella, my mother took her across the country to live in Los Angeles. My brother, Jon, and I were left in New York with my father. Three years ago, my father died in a multi-car pileup. Last year, my mother succumbed to breast cancer. But ever since Jon flew to California and brought Bella back to live with us in the New York townhouse, I realized I was no longer allowed to cry in my own home. “Mia, your sister’s heart condition acts up when she’s stressed. Are you trying to make her sick?” “What are you even sulking about? Crying like that—how do you think it makes Bella feel?” That was what Jon always said. After being scolded enough times, I didn’t even dare pull the covers over my head to weep in the dark. When the weight of it became too much, my only option was to flee the house and hide in the white noise of a crowded public space. Colin was the match my father had arranged for me before he passed. Our families moved in the same wealthy circles, and it was a quiet, understood agreement. In the beginning, Colin used to look out for me. When he found out Jon was bringing Bella gifts every single evening and ignoring me completely, he would hold my hand and say, “Why don’t we just get married the second you graduate?” “Once we’re married, whatever you want, I’ll buy it for you, okay?” When Bella took a liking to a wooden sculpture I had carved myself, and Jon screamed at me for refusing to give it to her, Colin had been furious on my behalf. “It’s your art. Why the hell should you have to give it up?” he had told me. “Mia, don’t you dare back down. You hear me?” That was how it was. Until four months ago, when Jon brought home a custom haute couture gown. I happened to be in the hallway when he handed the garment bag to Bella. I had only lingered for a second, my eyes catching on the intricate beadwork. Out of nowhere, Jon snapped. “Mia, have you ever lacked for anything in your entire life? Why do you always have to covet what belongs to your sister?” “Get out! Don’t come back until you figure out what you did wrong!” I sat on the limestone steps of our front porch for the entire night. The next morning, Colin came by to pick me up. Seeing me shivering in the autumn chill, he was immediately sympathetic. “It’s just a dress. How could Jon kick you out over that?” “Mia, are you crazy? Why didn’t you fight back?” But then, the heavy oak door opened, and Jon walked out—with Bella right behind him. Colin’s voice died in his throat. He stared. That was the very first time Colin ever laid eyes on my sister. He turned to me, blinking like a man waking from a dream. “Mia… is this your sister, Bella?” I gave a stiff, numb nod. And just like that, Colin’s tone completely shifted. “Oh. Well, then this is on you, Mia.” “You really should learn to compromise for her.” 3 I caught a terrible fever that day. My body ached so profoundly I had no choice but to hide in my room, quietly wiping away tears while texting “Gold” about how much it hurt. But crying didn’t change reality. Because after that day, the frequency of Colin’s visits to our townhouse suddenly spiked. His family was incredibly wealthy. Whenever he brought me a pastry or a gift, he suddenly started bringing a matching one for Bella. On my birthday, he gave me a pair of diamond studs. He bought a second box for her. He’d say, “Mia, I only get Bella things because she’s your sister. Don’t overthink it.” But last month, Jon took Bella and me up to a luxury cabin retreat in the Catskills. Colin tagged along. The entire drive up, Colin’s eyes were glued to the rearview mirror, checking on Bella. He asked her if she was cold, if she was hungry, if the winding roads were making her dizzy. He didn’t ask me a single question. Later that evening, everything went to hell. A group of heavily intoxicated locals crashed the resort, starting a brawl and smashing the outdoor patio heaters. Colin immediately shielded Bella with his body. “Don’t look, Bella. I’ve got you,” he kept whispering. Jon didn’t even hesitate. While physically holding back two aggressive drunks, he yelled over his shoulder, “Colin, get Bella to the SUV! Go!” They rushed her to the car. Just as the heavy door slammed shut, one of the drunks lunged, grabbing my arm so hard I felt the bruise blooming instantly. Jon saw it happen. But he put the car in drive anyway. He rolled down the window just enough to shout, “Mia, wait right there! Let me get your sister to safety and I’ll come right back for you!” They never came back. When the men started smashing glass and throwing punches at the staff, a good Samaritan finally called the cops. In the end, it was a police cruiser that drove me home. When the officer dropped me off, the townhouse was completely silent. I was too terrified to go inside. I stood on the sidewalk for a long, long time, texting Gold, letting the digital text ground me. When my breathing finally steadied, I limped my way up the steps and unlocked the door. I braced myself for the chaos. But the house was dead quiet. Bella was sick. The “shock” of the evening had triggered her palpitations. She had taken her medication and was fast asleep in her plush bed. Colin had just left half an hour ago. And Jon was sitting in a velvet chair by her bedside, keeping watch. No one was looking for me. When Jon stepped out into the hallway and saw me standing there, bruised and shivering, his expression barely shifted. “Glad you made it back safe,” he said, keeping his voice to a low whisper. “Keep it down, don’t wake your sister. Go wash up and go to sleep.” The tears I had fought so hard to keep back nearly shattered the dam right then and there. 4 When I went looking for Colin today, it wasn’t actually to complain about Jon not giving me a Chanel bag. I was fine without it. Lately, I had been fine with having nothing at all. But yesterday, Jon had called me into his study. “Mia, the Carmichaels are a powerful family. Colin isn’t the primary heir, but he holds his own in our circle,” Jon had said, swirling a glass of scotch. “You’re still young. There’s no rush for you. But your sister’s health is delicate, and I can tell Colin genuinely cares for her. I think it’s best if you step aside and let Bella take this marriage arrangement.” It wasn’t a discussion. It was an eviction notice from my own future. I went to the mall today to ask Colin a simple question: Was this Jon’s idea, or was it his? But Colin had been distracted from the second I found him. Even while holding the two luxury necklaces, he had asked: “Mia, which one do you think Bella would like more?” Standing under the harsh, brilliant lighting of the jewelry boutique, looking at his conflicted face, I suddenly had my answer. “Why don’t you just buy both?” I told him quietly. “Give them both to her.” And now, sitting in the shadowy corner of the mall, listening to the deep, steady voice of the man on the phone. I wiped the dampness from my cheeks. My heart settled into a strange, terrifying calm. I pressed the microphone button. “Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s be together.” 5 By the time I dried my eyes and took an Uber home, dusk had fallen. Colin and Bella were standing on the front porch. The amber glow of the gas lamps stretched their shadows long, blending them into one. I watched from the bottom of the steps as Colin, his face flushed, handed her the velvet Bulgari boxes. What was he saying to her? I was too far away to hear. Then Bella spotted me. Her face lit up with a practiced, radiant smile, and she practically glided down the steps toward me. “Colin, you bought these beautiful necklaces for me, but what about Mia?” she asked, her voice light and teasing. “Did you get anything for Mia?” Her cold, manicured hand reached out and grasped mine. She hadn’t taken the boxes from him yet. She was performing the role of the protective, generous older sister. Colin froze. A beat of awkward silence hung in the air before he awkwardly reached into his tailored coat pocket and pulled out a flimsy, velvet pouch. “Of course. I got something for Mia, too.” Bella’s smile deepened, as if she were genuinely thrilled for me. She took the pouch, pulled out a thin silver chain, and draped it over my wrist, fastening the clasp. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at me. “Isn’t it pretty? It suits Mia so perfectly. Do you love it, Mia?” “No.” A wave of intense, suffocating humiliation crashed over me. This bracelet. Three months ago, for my birthday, Colin had given me the exact same one. He had told me then that he had spent hours picking it out. But today, standing at the jewelry counter, I had seen the truth. It was a promotional gift-with-purchase. The boutique had a whole drawer of them. You got one if you bought a necklace. You got one if you bought a watch. You got one if you bought earrings. The $30,000 diamond bracelet Colin had gifted Bella on my birthday—the one she was currently wearing on her left wrist? That was fine jewelry. The identical promotional freebie now resting against my skin was an afterthought. Bella had to have known. She shopped at these boutiques constantly. Colin definitely knew. 6 I didn’t want the bracelet. I undid the clasp, pulled off the one I was already wearing from my birthday, and threw both of them into Colin’s chest. As I turned and ran up the steps into the house, I heard Bella’s soft, distressed sigh behind me. “I’m so sorry, Colin. Mia didn’t accept your gift. If I take these necklaces now, it’ll just upset her even more…” I wasn’t an idiot. I could hear the subtle, poisoned needle hidden in those words. But I just didn’t understand. If she wanted to play hard to get with Colin, why did she have to use me as the stepping stone? Even though our parents had divorced, whenever I spent my summer vacations in LA when we were little, she had been so sweet to me. When our mother scolded me for being messy, Bella used to hide me in her closet and read me stories. Why had everything changed the second she moved into my house? I slept with my head buried under the duvet that night. When I woke up, my eyes were swollen to the size of walnuts. I was sitting in the kitchen pressing cold spoons against my eyelids when our housekeeper, Martha, came rushing in. “Mia, there are guests here to discuss marriage arrangements. Mrs. Carmichael is here!” “Hurry, go take a look.” Mrs. Carmichael. Colin’s mother? I blinked, confused. Martha was already pulling me up from the stool. Martha knew about the unspoken engagement my father had arranged with the Carmichaels. But she didn’t know Jon was planning to swap Bella in my place. And she certainly didn’t know Colin had already shifted his affections. Sure enough, when I reached the top of the grand staircase and peered into the living room, Mrs. Carmichael was seated on the velvet sofa. But she wasn’t alone. Sitting opposite her was an incredibly elegant, strikingly beautiful woman I had never seen before. Seeing me on the landing, Mrs. Carmichael’s smile turned brittle and strained. “Oh. Mia is home, too.” At her words, the other woman’s eyes lit up. A warm, genuine smile broke across her face. “Are you Mia?” I nodded slowly, my eyes sliding past the two matriarchs to look at Jon. I had never seen my brother look this ecstatic. He was practically vibrating with excitement, though he was trying hard to maintain a veneer of corporate humility. “Well, we are in the twenty-first century now. We don’t believe in arranged marriages in the traditional sense,” Jon was saying, adjusting his cuffs. “An alliance of this magnitude… I really must consult with my sister first.” He turned to Martha. “Go upstairs and bring the eldest Miss Davis down.” The elegant stranger immediately held up a hand, halting him. “The eldest?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly. “No, no, there’s been a misunderstanding. The girl our family is here to propose to is Mia.” Mrs. Carmichael sat frozen, staring into her teacup, a humiliated flush creeping up her neck. A sharp prick of shock hit my chest. I instinctively looked at Jon. Jon’s triumphant smile faltered. He looked incredibly displeased that Bella wasn’t getting to choose between two elite suitors. He frowned at the elegant woman. “Mrs. Astor, are you absolutely certain you mean… Mia, and not Bella?” Before she could answer, a cold, authoritative voice drifted in from the grand entryway. “We are certain.” I whipped my head around. A man stood in the foyer. Dressed in a sharp black overcoat and tailored trousers, his features were strikingly handsome, his eyes dark and unreadable. “The woman I want,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “is Mia.” 7 Theo Astor. The sole heir to the Astor dynasty. There wasn’t a single person in New York high society who didn’t know his name. His father was the Chairman of Astor Holdings. His mother was old-money New England royalty, a direct descendant of the Vanderbilt line. They were, without question, one of the top three most powerful families on the East Coast. Gold… was him? I stared blankly at the man walking into my living room. He was breathtaking. Broad shoulders, narrow waist—he looked like he had stepped straight out of a Tom Ford campaign. He stopped at the base of the stairs, looked up at me, and offered a soft, private smile. “We meet again, Mia.” The breath finally caught in my lungs. It was him. The voice was exactly the same. I lowered my eyes, my fingers gripping the mahogany banister to hide my trembling. “We meet again…” Theo’s dark gaze flicked to my swollen, red eyelids. For a fraction of a second, his jaw tightened. When he turned to look at my brother, the smile remained on his lips, but the warmth in his voice was completely gone. “Mr. Davis, do you have a problem with my judgment?” Jon offered a sycophantic, nervous laugh. “No, no, of course not.” “Then why did I just hear you question whether Mia was the one I wanted? Did you assume I’m incapable of recognizing the woman I have feelings for?” His tone was sharp, laced with a double meaning that cut through the room like glass. Jon’s laugh turned stiff. He shot me a dark, covert glare—I couldn’t tell if it was a warning or an accusation. “How could I ever assume that?” Jon muttered. Theo dismissed him entirely. He turned his attention back to me, and the ice in his voice melted instantly into something akin to a spring breeze. “So, Mia,” he asked gently. “This arrangement. Do you accept?” It felt like he was holding up the sky for me. Like he was coaxing me out of a dark corner. For some inexplicable reason, an ache rose in my throat. “I—” I wanted to say yes. We had agreed to it last night. But the moment I opened my mouth, a frantic voice interrupted from the top of the stairs. “Is that you? Theo?” It was Bella. She had slipped out of her room and was now standing on the landing above me, staring down at Theo with a mixture of breathless joy and engineered shyness. Theo? Why was she speaking to him so informally? My chest tightened. My fingers gripped the banister harder. Bella had already composed her features into a picture of elegant grace as she descended the stairs, bypassing me entirely. “Five years ago, at the Ivy League debate tournament in Boston. I was the second speaker for the opposition. Do you remember me?” 8 Did Theo remember her? Was he going to be just like Colin? Was he going to see Bella shining in the spotlight and immediately forget I existed? Was he going to be like Jon—the second Bella entered the room, all the gravity shifted to her? I stared at Theo, my stomach tying itself into a sickening knot. But Theo just looked at her. His gaze swept over Bella’s perfectly made-up face without a flicker of recognition. Without missing a beat, he asked in a voice made of absolute frost, “Who are you? And why on earth would I remember you?” Bella’s radiant smile shattered. Seeing her shock, Jon desperately tried to salvage the situation. “Oh, so Bella and Mr. Astor are old acquaintances! Well, looking at it that way, it must be destiny that you two reunited in my home today.” Destiny? But Theo came here for me. It felt like someone had poured battery acid straight into my chest. The sour, burning sting rushed right behind my eyes. Terrified that Jon would notice and reprimand me again, I ducked my head, trying to blink away the blurriness. Then, Theo’s voice sliced through the tension. “Mr. Davis, it was a collegiate debate tournament. By your logic, I’m ‘destined’ to marry half the corporate litigators in Manhattan.” He paused, and I heard his footsteps move closer to the stairs. “Mia.” His voice was back to that soft, steady rhythm. I looked up, straight into eyes that held absolutely no doubt. “You haven’t answered my question yet. Will you marry me?” It was as if a warm gust of wind had swept through the suffocating house, blowing away the dust and leaving nothing but sunlight. In that moment, I didn’t care about Jon’s suddenly furious expression. I didn’t care about Bella, who was standing there pale and trembling on the verge of tears. All I saw was Theo Astor, waiting for me with a patient, reassuring smile. “Yes,” I breathed out. “I will.”

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On the first day of our sophomore year, Cassidy—who had just been voted the department’s “it-girl”—stopped me in my tracks. “Maeve, is it true that you and Lucas are childhood sweethearts?” “If I get selected as the freshman representative at convocation, would you mind… letting me have him?” Under the white orientation tents, the bustling campus suddenly went dead silent. I opened my mouth to speak. But Lucas, who had been holding the umbrella over my head, suddenly pulled his hand back. His voice was cool, his eyes heavy with an impatience and exhaustion that cut straight through me. “You don’t have to wait for convocation. You can have him now.” He turned his gaze to me, cold and distant. “Maeve, you’re an adult. Can you stop clinging to me all the time?” Cassidy blinked, caught off guard, before a smug, triumphant smile spread across her face. “Well, I guess twelve years of history doesn’t mean much after all.” Lucas didn’t defend me. Instead, he nudged my heavy suitcase aside and took Cassidy’s lightweight backpack from her hands. Watching him walk away without a single backward glance, a wave of nausea washed over me. Twelve years of devotion suddenly felt like ash in my mouth. If the falling leaves belong to the wind, then it was time for me to find my own path. … I dragged my suitcase up to the fourth floor by myself. The bag was heavy, the wheels clattering loudly against the edge of each concrete step, echoing in the stairwell. My roommate, Abby, heard the commotion and ran down to help me lift the last flight. “Where’s your family? Why are you hauling all of this alone?” I forced a small smile. “They’re busy.” But they weren’t. My mom had called Lucas first thing this morning, reminding him that I had a weak constitution and asking him to look out for me. Even Aunt Susan had laughed on the phone, saying, “Don’t you worry, Helen. With Lucas there, Maeve is in good hands. He’s been protecting her since they were in diapers.” But today, the person Lucas was protecting wasn’t me. As I finished making my bed, my phone buzzed on the mattress. A text from Lucas. “Where’s your dorm? I’ll have my mom send over a desk lamp for you.” I stared at the screen and didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, another text arrived. “Maeve, how long are you going to keep throwing this tantrum?” I flipped the phone face-down on the sheets. Abby leaned over, curiosity in her eyes. “Boyfriend?” “No,” I said quietly, my voice entirely flat. “Just a guy from back home.” Before she could ask more, Abby pointed out the window. “Whoa, look at that guy down there. He’s gorgeous.” I followed her gaze. Down in the courtyard, Lucas was bending over to pick up Cassidy’s luggage. He slung two massive duffel bags effortlessly over his shoulders and carried them up the steps. Cassidy stood beside him, smiling as she handed him a bottle of water. Lucas took it, twisted the cap, and drank. Watching them, my throat tightened, a sharp, familiar ache blooming behind my eyes. Throughout our three years of high school, I had handed Lucas water countless times. After basketball games, after late-night academic decathlons, after grueling study sessions. He had never accepted a single bottle from me. He used to say, “Maeve, don’t do this. Take care of your own things.” It wasn’t that he refused to drink water handed to him by others. It was just that the person offering it couldn’t be me. I turned toward the wall and lay down. Thinking I was exhausted, Abby quietly pulled the bed curtains shut to give me some privacy. In the dimness of my bunk, I kept my eyes wide open. The tears burned, but I didn’t let them fall. Suddenly, those twelve years felt like a solo performance, a play where I was the only actor on stage, and the audience had left long ago. In the afternoon, I walked over to the Study Abroad Office. The advisor scrolled through the database for a long time, looking apologetic. “Maeve, you voluntarily withdrew from the Paris exchange program last semester. That slot was already passed on to the runner-up.” “If you want to reapply, you’ll need signatures from both the department chair and your faculty advisor.” “There’s only one spot left, and the deadline is the fifteenth of next month.” I nodded slowly. “I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Abernathy.” Walking out of the building, I stopped in front of the glass display board. The list of last year’s selected exchange students was still pinned there. Behind my name, someone had drawn a thick, red line. Next to it, a single word was written in sharp print: “Withdrawn.” Six months ago, I had secured the department’s sole fully-funded exchange spot. I had worked on that research proposal since my freshman year, pulling countless all-nighters to perfect it. The day I received the acceptance letter, Lucas was the very first person I called. He was silent for a long time over the receiver, before saying quietly: “If you go to Paris for a year, who’s going to organize my competition materials?” He didn’t say he would miss me. He didn’t say he couldn’t bear to let me go. Yet, I had still withdrawn my application. Because back then, I foolishly believed he needed me. I stood in front of the board, staring at the red line for a long time. Finally, I pulled out my phone and took a photo. Not to remember what I lost. But to remind myself. This time, there would be no turning back. That evening, Abby dragged me to the campus diner. We had just sat down when she nudged my elbow. “Hey, that guy from your hometown is here.” I looked up. Lucas and Cassidy were sitting at a booth directly across from us. Cassidy was hovering over the menu, looking indecisive. “Lucas, is this good? Is that one too spicy?” Lucas took the menu from her hand, patiently explaining each dish. “This one is a bit sweet; you’ll like it. Avoid that one, it’s too greasy.” Cassidy giggled, her eyes shining. “How do you know everything?” A faint smile actually touched the corners of Lucas’s mouth. I remembered my first week as a freshman. I had dragged Lucas to this very diner, vibrating with excitement. “Let’s try every single thing on the menu this year, okay?” His face had remained entirely blank. “Maeve, you need someone to hold your hand just to eat a meal? Grow up.” Back then, I made excuses for him. “He’s just reserved. He doesn’t know how to express his feelings.” But now, watching him, his patience was laid out before Cassidy, soft and meticulous, like a finely woven safety net. I lowered my head and took a bite of my food. The soup tasted incredibly salty. So salty it made my throat ache. “Are you okay?” Abby asked gently. I put down my fork. “Yeah. I’m just not very hungry.” Around nine that night, I had just walked out of the shower when Abby poked her head into the room. “Maeve, someone’s downstairs for you. Looks like your hometown friend.” I threw a cardigan over my shoulders, my damp hair clinging to my neck, and went downstairs. Lucas was standing beneath the amber glow of the streetlight, holding a paper shopping bag. “Your mom asked me to bring you some of your fall sweaters.” I took the bag from him. “Thanks.” I turned to walk back inside. Lucas frowned, calling out to stop me. “Maeve, how long is this cold shoulder routine going to last?” I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. His voice carried that familiar edge of irritation. “Fine, I’m sorry about what happened today. Is that what you want to hear?” “Cassidy is a freshman, and she was overwhelmed. It’s normal for me to help her. We’ve known each other for over a decade—do you really have to throw a fit over something so trivial?” I slowly turned to face him. “I’m not mad, Lucas.” He froze, clearly not expecting that. “Then what is this attitude?” “Since we were kids, when have you ever said ‘thanks’ to me like a stranger?” “Are you treating me like an outsider now?” I looked at him, and for the first time, a small, genuine smile touched my lips. “Lucas, we “are” outsiders.” With that, I walked back into the lobby. Lucas stood under the light, motionless. After a long moment, I heard him let out a soft, mocking scoff. “There she goes again.” The next day was the official campus tour for the incoming freshmen. As the vice president of the Student Union, Lucas was leading the main group. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but Abby was volunteering and practically dragged me along for company. I lingered at the very back of the crowd. Lucas walked at the front, with Cassidy glued to his side. “Lucas, what time does the library close?” “Are there any tricks to getting into the high-demand seminars?” “Is the club fair really as crazy as they say?” Her questions were endless and trivial. Yet Lucas answered every single one. As we walked up the stone steps of the quad, Cassidy took a misstep and slipped. Lucas instantly reached out, catching her by the waist. “Careful,” he murmured. “These steps are uneven.” I stared at his hand. A memory from our freshman year flashed through my mind. It was the same campus tour. Lucas was leading the group then, too. I had followed closely behind him, whispering, “Lucas, which club should I sign up for?” He hadn’t even looked back. “Look at the board yourself, Maeve. This is college, not high school. Stop asking me everything.” I had pressed on. “What about course registration?” He let out a sharp, impatient sigh. “Do you have any independent judgment at all, Maeve?” The questions Cassidy was asking now were far more trivial than mine had ever been. Yet Lucas hadn’t frowned once. When the tour wrapped up, Cassidy walked over to me, a sweet smile plastered on her face. “Maeve, Lucas is honestly so sweet.” She tilted her head, her voice pitched just loud enough for the surrounding freshmen to hear. “Do you think I asked him too many questions? I hope I didn’t steal all his time away from you.” A few freshmen nearby glanced over, whispering among themselves. “Gosh, is she always this sensitive?” one whispered. I looked at the bright, flawless smile on Cassidy’s face. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion crashed over me. “No,” I said quietly. I turned and walked away from the crowd. The afternoon sun felt blindingly bright. Not because of the heat, but because the sting in my eyes was becoming too much to bear. I hurried into the nearest academic hall and splashed cold water on my face in the restroom. The girl in the mirror looked calm, almost hollow. But I knew that inside, some fragile, beautiful thing had shattered so completely that no amount of glue could ever put it back together. Leaving the restroom, I walked straight to the department chair’s office. She reviewed my file, letting out a soft sigh. “Maeve, if you want to reapply now, I will sign off on it. But you’ll have to explain this to Professor Kingsley yourself.” She paused, looking at me over her glasses. “He fought the committee tooth and nail to secure that funding for you last year. When you walked away from it, he was deeply disappointed.” I lowered my head, the guilt heavy in my chest. “I know. I’m so sorry to have let him down.” By the time I secured the first signature, a torrential downpour had started. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I stood in the lobby of the academic building, waiting for the storm to blow over. In the distance, I saw Lucas running toward the entrance. In that split second, my body reacted before my brain did. My heart leaped, foolishly thinking he had come for me. For twelve years, whenever it rained, he was always there. Through elementary school, middle school, high school. Even when his mouth was full of complaints—”Maeve, can’t you check the weather forecast for once?”—his umbrella would always tilt drastically to my side. His right shoulder was always soaked by the time we got home. Lucas ran up the steps, stopping just a few feet away from me. Then, his phone buzzed. Cassidy’s tearful voice echoed through the receiver. “Lucas, I’m stuck outside the Humanities building. My shoes are completely soaked…” Lucas glanced at me, a brief flash of hesitation crossing his face. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll go bring her an umbrella first. She doesn’t have anyone else here.” Without waiting for my reply, he turned and sprinted back into the sheets of gray rain. I stood in the doorway, watching the downpour for fifteen minutes, completely numb. Eventually, Abby arrived with a spare umbrella to rescue me. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asked, her voice tight with worry. I wiped a stray drop of rain from my cheek. “I forgot.” But I hadn’t forgotten. I just realized, in that quiet fifteen minutes, that I no longer knew who I was supposed to call. At ten that night, I was sitting at my desk, filling out the online exchange application. A shout from below the window broke the silence of the courtyard. “Maeve!” It was Lucas. He was standing beneath the ginkgo tree, holding a thermal cup of warm lemon-ginger tea. “Wyatt told me you got caught in the rain.” I walked down, took the cup, and gave him a polite nod. “Thank you.” Lucas stood there, looking uncharacteristically awkward. “About this afternoon… it wasn’t that I didn’t care about you.” “Cassidy is new here. She doesn’t know her way around. I couldn’t just leave her stranded.” I nodded calmly. “I know.” Lucas’s brow furrowed. “Can you stop saying ‘I know’ like that?” “You’re not acting like yourself.” I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “Then how should I act, Lucas?” The question seemed to catch him off guard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his damp hair. “Maeve, can you just stop this?” “We’ve known each other for so long. We’ve been through everything together.” His voice softened, dropping an octave. “Besides… didn’t we have a deal?” “We agreed we’d finally make it official sophomore year.” My fingers tightened around the warm thermal cup. Those words. I had waited years to hear them. Through the longing of seventeen, through the stress of college admissions, through my freshman year. I had survived on the hope of them. But hearing them now, they felt entirely hollow. “Let’s talk about that later,” I said softly. Lucas’s face darkened instantly. “Later?” “Maeve, you chased me for over a decade. Now that I’m finally saying yes, you want to wait?” “Are you messing with me?” I didn’t try to explain. “If there’s nothing else, I’m going back up.” As I walked up the stairs, the warmth of the tea seeped into my palms. If he had brought this to me this afternoon, I probably would have been overjoyed, just like I used to be. But it was six hours too late. Just like all of Lucas’s gestures of care. They were always late. And they were never meant for me first. The next day was the annual student club recruitment fair. It was also the day Lucas had promised to help me promote the Photography Club. Our booth was tucked away at the very end of the tree-lined path. I had founded this club during my freshman year. We had started with just three members, and by the end of the year, we had been named one of the top ten student organizations on campus. I had poured my soul into it. Lucas had once told me: “Next fall, I’ll stand at your booth. The Vice President of the Student Union has to have some pulling power, right?” I had stopped expecting him to keep his word, but I had still set up an empty chair behind our table. The entire morning passed. The chair remained empty. At noon, I went to grab a bottle of water, passing by the Debate Club’s booth on my way. Lucas was standing in front of Cassidy’s table, lifting a heavy crate of promotional flyers for her. Cassidy was beaming up at him. “Lucas, you’re the absolute best! Our club is definitely going to win Best Organization this year.” Lucas set the box down, a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Just helping out.” I stood across the pathway, watching them for a few silent seconds. Then, I walked back to the Photography Club’s booth and quietly folded up the empty chair. Abby glanced at me, her voice soft. “Wasn’t that seat for Lucas?” I cut her off gently. “No. It was just an extra.” As my fingers brushed the cold plastic of the chair, a memory from freshman year bubbled up. Our very first recruitment drive. We had only managed to sign up two people the entire afternoon. Lucas had sat beside me playing games on his phone, muttering his usual cynical remarks: “This little club of yours is going nowhere.” But when it was time to pack up, he had silently carried the heavy folding tables back to the storage room for me. That evening, he had looked at me and said, “Next year, I’ll help you draw a crowd.” I had been so happy I couldn’t sleep that night. It turned out that some promises are entirely sincere when they are spoken. And just as sincere when they are forgotten. That afternoon, I went to get Professor Kingsley’s signature. He stared at my application, a long, heavy silence stretching between us. “Maeve, do you have any idea how many arguments I had with the board to secure this spot for you?” His voice dropped, laced with a quiet disappointment. “The day you got accepted, I was more thrilled than you were.” “And then you walked in here and told me you couldn’t go.” My knuckles turned white against my notebook. Professor Kingsley looked at me. “You told me back then that there was someone very important who needed you here.” “What about now? Does he not need you anymore?” The question felt like a dull blade, slicing open the humiliation I had kept buried deep inside. I whispered, “Professor, I just… I finally figured things out for myself.” He let out a long sigh, unscrewing his pen, and signed his name at the bottom of the page. “If you back out this time, Maeve, I won’t help you again.” I took the paper with both hands and bowed slightly. “I won’t. I promise.” As I left his office, a cool autumn breeze swept through the hallway. I carefully folded the application and slipped it into my bag. My eyes stung. I had let down so many people for Lucas. Not just myself. But those who had truly believed in me. At nine-thirty that night, my phone rang. It was Lucas. I picked up. His voice sounded utterly exhausted. “Come downstairs.” When I walked out, golden ginkgo leaves littered the pavement. Lucas was standing beneath the branches. Seeing how thinly dressed I was, he frowned. Instinctively, he began to slide his jacket off his shoulders to drape it over me. But halfway through the motion, he froze. Slowly, he pulled the jacket back on. We stood in silence for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Lucas broke the quiet. “Maeve, how long do you want to keep punishing me?” “My patience has its limits.” “If you really don’t want to be with me anymore, just say it. Stop torturing us like this.” I looked up into his eyes, feeling a strange, hollow clarity. “Okay.” “I’ll say it.” “Lucas, I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

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Every single month since I moved into Lewis’s apartment, he collected rent from me like clockwork. This month, after draining my account to pay for my mother’s hospital admission fees, I swallowed my pride and asked Lewis for a temporary break. Just a few weeks. But his face remained set, unyielding. “Cara, I charge you rent to foster your financial independence. You wouldn’t want people thinking you’re freeloading off your boyfriend, would you?” “Besides, I’ve told you a thousand times—I’m just putting this money aside for you. It’s a rainy-day fund. You can use it when there’s an actual emergency.” I bit my lip, staring at the screen of my banking app, and transferred the last $631.60 of my balance to him. Lewis accepted the payment instantly, sending a quick follow-up text reminding me to pay the remaining balance as soon as possible. The very next day, I walked into the apartment after a brutal shift to find all my belongings piled in cardboard boxes in the living room. “Cara, since you couldn’t clear your rent this month, I figured you wouldn’t mind moving your things into the utility room for now. We need the guest bedroom for Isabel.” Isabel peeked out from behind him, her eyes bright with a childish, irritating excitement. “Lewis, are you sure? I can really stay here rent-free?” Lewis smiled at her, a warm, gentle expression I hadn’t seen directed at me in months, and immediately reached for her suitcase to help her unpack. I slipped my hand into my coat pocket, feeling the crumpled, hard-earned bills from my side-hustle. In that silent second, something snapped. I was done paying rent here. And I was done with him. … When I first moved in, Lewis’s contribution ended at carrying my suitcases to the door. He didn’t lift a finger to help me unpack or organize. “It’s good for you,” he’d said, wrapping his arms around me with a rehearsed sincerity. “Women need to be independent. I’m helping you build character.” But for Isabel, he was a different man. He was carrying her bags, hanging her coats, setting up her vanity while she stood by, cheering him on like a helpless princess. I glanced at the utility room—a cramped space barely large enough for the cheap air mattress he’d thrown on the floor. I turned around and approached Lewis, my hand outstretched. “That utility room is tiny, and it’s half-filled with your old sports gear. You owe me a two-hundred-dollar discount on this month’s rent.” Lewis’s face tightened. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the hallway, and lowered his voice to a sharp whisper. “What is wrong with you? Why are you bringing up money right now? What if Isabel hears you? Do you know how hard it was to convince her to move in here?” Not only was he giving his college junior a free place to crash, but I was also expected to walk on eggshells to preserve her delicate feelings. “What about me, Lewis? When you threw my life into a utility room, did you stop to think about how I would feel? I’m your girlfr—” His hand clapped over my mouth. He glanced nervously toward the living room where Isabel was unpacking. Seeing she hadn’t noticed, he let out a slow, irritated breath, turning back to me with eyes full of resentment. “Keep your voice down, will you? If you had paid your rent on time, would we even be having this conversation? I wouldn’t have had to reorganize the rooms.” It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours. I had woken up at four in the morning to pull an extra shift. I had dragged my exhausted body home, clutching the cash I needed to make things right, only to find my life shoved into a corner. As his girlfriend, I didn’t just have to pay rent; a single day’s delay was treated as an evictable offense. “Lewis, can you come with me to buy some groceries and apartment stuff?” Isabel called out, walking toward us. Lewis quickly let go of me, pulling out his phone to Venmo me two hundred dollars. “I sent it. Don’t mention rent in front of Isabel. Make sure dinner is ready by the time we get back. I’ll bring you those warm cinnamon donuts you like.” It wasn’t a request; it was an order. Before I could even respond, he was out the door with Isabel, her laughter echoing down the hallway. I stared at the notification on my screen. Two hundred dollars. A drop in the bucket, but money was tight enough that I couldn’t afford to be proud. I accepted it. They were gone for over three hours. When they returned, laden with shopping bags, the first thing Lewis did was toss his old, worn-out slippers into the trash. Those slippers were a pair I had bought for us with my very first paycheck. They were matching couple’s slippers. The soles had started to peel months ago, but Lewis had insisted on gluing them back together, claiming they still had life in them. “Mine are still fine, Lewis. If we’re replacing them, let’s get a new matching set. Otherwise, I’m keeping these,” I had said back then. But now, the moment Isabel moved in, he threw them away. In their place was a pair of plush, pastel pink slippers—a color he notoriously loathed. They matched Isabel’s perfectly. Feeling the weight of my gaze, Lewis cleared his throat, offering a weak defense. “They were buy-one-get-one-free. I figured since my old ones were falling apart, it made sense.” I nodded slowly, my voice flat. “Where are my cinnamon donuts?” Lewis froze. He reached into Isabel’s shopping bag and pulled out a container of fried shrimp tacos, handing them to me. I recognized the packaging. The taco truck was right next to the bakery that sold the cinnamon donuts. He had stood right there, in front of the bakery, and completely forgotten about me. I didn’t reach for the box. Lewis sighed, pulling out a plastic fork and offering me a bite. “Cara, come on. Donuts are just empty carbs anyway. They ruin your appetite. These tacos are savory and actually filling. It’s a win-win, right?” “I’m allergic to shellfish,” I said, tilting my head back to avoid his hand. The irritation on his face instantly dissolved into a flicker of panic. “Oh… Cara, I’m so sorry. It just slipped my mind.” I picked up a knit scarf draping over the back of the sofa. Lewis had knitted it for me during our sophomore year—one of his rare romantic gestures. “It’s fine. I forgot to make dinner, too. Let’s call it even.” Lewis’s hand clamped down on the other end of the scarf. “What? You didn’t make dinner?” I tried to pull the scarf toward me, but he tightened his grip, pulling back. The loosely knitted yarn, already fragile with age, snapped right down the middle. Isabel chose that moment to slide into the room. “Lewis, don’t be mad! Since you’re letting me stay here for free, it’s only right that I treat you and Cara to dinner. Let’s get hot pot!” Hot pot. Again. I couldn’t handle spicy food. But whenever the three of us went out, they always ordered the spiciest broth. Even a split-pot was out of the question because Isabel claimed the steam from the spicy side “ruined” the non-spicy broth. Every single time, while they ate happily, I sat there with a bowl of plain hot water, washing the chili oil off my vegetables just to have something to swallow. I tossed my half of the torn scarf onto the table and turned back toward the utility room. “I’m not going. I’m not hungry.” Lewis shouted something after me, but I didn’t care to listen. A moment later, the front door clicked shut. They were gone. I looked at the leftovers in the fridge—dishes I had reheated twice already. I pulled them out and ate alone in the quiet apartment. They were cold, but I was too tired to care. When I woke up the next morning, Lewis had already made breakfast. It was the fancy avocado and lox bagels that Isabel loved. Isabel offered me one with a sweet, pitying smile. “Cara, do you want to carpool with us to the office?” Lewis answered before I could open my mouth. “Her office is in the opposite direction. She can take the bus.” I caught the emphasis on “our” office. Lewis looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “What’s with that look, Cara? Isabel has her Master’s degree. You can’t honestly compare your bachelor’s degree to her credentials.” I squeezed the bagel in my hand until the avocado paste oozed out onto my fingers. I hadn’t asked Lewis to hand me a job at his firm. I had only asked for a simple internal referral—a chance to sit down for an interview. He had refused, claiming it would look like nepotism. But he had handed that referral to Isabel on a silver platter. I wasn’t a graduate student, yes. But I had been offered a fully funded Master’s fellowship back in college. I had turned it down because Lewis begged me not to leave, pleading that he couldn’t handle a long-distance relationship. And now, he was using the sacrifice I made for him as a weapon to make me feel small. I left the breakfast unfinished to catch my bus. Shortly after I reached the bus stop, the sky opened up into a torrential downpour. Lewis’s sedan pulled up to the curb. Just as I reached for the door handle, he rolled down the window and thrust an umbrella into my hands. “Keep yourself dry so you don’t catch a cold. Isabel and I have to run, we can’t be late.” Before I could speak, he stepped on the gas. The tires kicked up a massive puddle, splashing dirty rainwater all over my legs and coat. The tiny spark of warmth I had felt seeing his car pull up died instantly. The storm hadn’t wet me, but my boyfriend’s attempt to keep me dry had left me soaked. I pulled the damp, clinging fabric of my trousers away from my skin, swallowed my tears, and boarded the crowded bus. No sooner had I sat down at my desk than my phone buzzed. It was Lewis. Not asking if I had made it to work dry, but forwarding a massive folder of data. “Isabel is still adjusting to the workflow. Help her organize these spreadsheets.” I remembered my first week at my own job. I was drowning in paperwork, staying at the office until one in the morning. Lewis had driven over to pick me up, bringing my favorite takeout. But when I broke down and asked him to help me sort through some of the data, his face had hardened. “Cara, this is your job. You need to learn how to handle this independently. You can’t rely on me for everything.” Now, when Isabel faced the exact same hurdle, his immediate solution was to dump her work on me. I ignored the message and focused on my own tasks. Less than an hour later, my phone rang. Lewis’s voice was tight with impatience. “Cara, did you see my text? You’re the best at data organizing. Isabel is completely overwhelmed. Just do this for her.” If I recalled correctly, Lewis’s job was incredibly demanding. For four years, he was always “too busy” to reply to my texts during work hours. Yet, he suddenly had all the time in the world to call me on Isabel’s behalf. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. “Lewis, you’re the one who taught me that women need to be independent. That applies to Isabel, too.” I hung up before he could argue. After work, I went straight to the hospital to see my mother. When I pushed the door open, her eyes immediately darted to the space behind me. She was looking for Lewis. Last week, Lewis had promised he would come visit her. He had even bought a gift basket of premium supplements, leaving them by our doorway. I had texted him earlier to see if he was still coming, but he hadn’t replied. He was likely too busy keeping Isabel company. I set the takeout container on her overbed table. “Lewis isn’t coming, Mom. His college junior moved into the apartment.” Back in college, everyone praised our “inseparable trio.” Only I knew the quiet misery of being the third wheel in my own relationship. Isabel always came first. Even on our anniversary, Isabel had tagged along because she “didn’t want to be lonely.” I had no one to turn to but my mother. But after graduation, Isabel went off to grad school. I thought Lewis and I would finally have a normal life together. And now, she was back. My mother patted the back of my hand, her eyes soft with worry. “Cara, sometimes letting go is the lighter path.” I blinked hard, forcing the tears back. “I know, Mom. But I paid my rent. I need to get my money’s worth first.” My entire paycheck had gone toward her medical bills. I had to endure that utility room a little longer. When I got back to the apartment, it was pitch black and empty. I didn’t text Lewis. Instead, I opened Isabel’s Instagram out of habit. “First day on the job was crazy, but thank God for my favorite mentor pulling an all-nighter with me! You’re the absolute best, Lewis!” The photo showed Lewis hunched over a laptop, meticulously organizing her files, while Isabel sat beside him, smiling brightly with a box of fried chicken. The comment section was filled with friends praising Lewis’s work ethic and envying Isabel’s luck. To be honest, I envied her too. Back in college, Lewis spent finals week tutoring Isabel. When she wanted to apply to grad school, Lewis gave her all my old study guides and begged his graduate friends to coach her. Now that she had graduated, he secured her a job and did her work for her. And she didn’t even have to worry about rent, because Lewis wouldn’t dream of charging her. Sometimes I couldn’t tell which of us was actually his girlfriend. It was three in the morning when Lewis and Isabel finally came home. Lewis shook me awake. “Cara, my stomach is killing me. Where did you put the antacids?” I turned over, facing the wall. “Third shelf of the pantry, in the white bin.” He stood there for a moment. “Aren’t you going to get them for me?” I didn’t move or reply. He lingered a bit longer before sighing and walking away. The next morning, there was no breakfast waiting for me. When I walked into the kitchen, Lewis reflexively shielded Isabel’s plate as if afraid I would take it. I filled my water bottle, never once looking at him. “Cara!” Lewis’s voice cracked with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. I played dumb, looking up calmly. “What?” He stared at me for a few seconds, but then Isabel walked in, and his attention instantly shifted. He was busy pulling out her chair, cutting her bagel, pouring her orange juice. By the time he looked up to find me, I was already gone. Maybe he wanted to ask why I wasn’t angry about breakfast, or why I hadn’t interrogated him about coming home so late. But the truth was, from the moment Isabel carried her bags through our door, I knew that in any choice between us, Lewis would always choose her. Anger was exhausting, and questions were pointless. Lewis and I weren’t partners anymore. We were just a landlord and a tenant. Halfway through my workday, the hospital called. My mother’s condition had relapsed. She needed a second surgery, and she needed it immediately. Though I had been working for four years, high rent and living expenses had eaten away at my savings. Her previous treatments had already drained over ten thousand dollars from my account. My savings were completely wiped out. The second surgery would cost close to two thousand dollars. It wasn’t a fortune to some, but to me, it was a mountain. I tried asking my manager for an advance on my salary, but corporate policy was unyielding. Desperate, I thought of Lewis. That evening, I cooked a full dinner and waited for him to come home. When I saw his mood was lighter, even offering to plate some food for me, I pulled him into the kitchen corner. “Lewis, you remember how you said you were charging me rent just to teach me independence, but you were actually saving it for me?” Lewis nodded, and a wave of relief washed over me. Over the past four years, my rent payments to him had totaled nearly eight thousand dollars. My voice grew lighter with hope. “Could I have that money back now? My mom needs a second surgery, and I’m completely short on—” “No,” Lewis said, his rejection instant and cold. I quickly swallowed my panic, trying a different angle. “Just consider it a loan, okay? I swear I’ll pay you back every cent as soon as I can!” Lewis still shook his head. My heart hammered against my ribs. “Why not even as a loan? Lewis, what do I have to do for you to give me my own money?” “Lewis, I think I should return this card to you now,” Isabel’s voice cut through the air. I turned and saw the silver debit card in her hand. It was the account Lewis had opened specifically for my rent deposits. “My brother’s down payment on his new car was six thousand dollars,” Isabel said smoothly. “You can check the bank statement. I promise I’ll pay you back as soon as I start earning more.” Lewis took the card from her, his lips curving into a warm smile. “Take your time. I’ve got plenty of savings.” I stared at the silver plastic. So that was why he couldn’t lend me my own money. He had already lent it to Isabel’s brother for a car. For four years, whenever I suggested buying a cheap electric scooter to save on bus fare, Lewis had shut me down. “Why waste the money when I have a car?” he’d say. But I barely ever rode in his car. I still took the bus to work every single day. “Cara, I know you’re just acting out because Isabel moved in,” Lewis said, his voice dropping into a patronizing, scolding tone. “You’re trying to claw back the rent money just to prove some point, to show you’re not inferior to her.” “But I’ve told you a thousand times—this money is safe with me. There’s no need to compete with Isabel. And you certainly don’t need to make up stories about your mother’s health just to get your hands on it.” He was lecturing me, his face grave with moral superiority. My jaw tightened. “Lewis, if you would just call the hospital—” “Lewis, I have a quick question about this client report,” Isabel interrupted, stepping between us and pulling Lewis away by the arm. A question that could have waited. But Lewis didn’t even give me the seconds I needed to finish my sentence. I watched their retreating backs, completely in sync. Then, I walked into the utility room and pulled out my suitcase. Over the past few days, I had been quietly moving my things out, piece by piece. This suitcase was the very last of it. Lewis saw me wheeling it out, but he simply turned back to Isabel’s laptop. “Lewis, Cara looks really upset. She’s leaving with her bags. Aren’t you going to stop her?” Isabel murmured. Lewis let out a cold, dismissive snort. “Let her go. She plays this card every time she wants attention. She’ll be back in forty-eight hours.” “No, I won’t,” I answered silently. My mother’s surgery couldn’t wait. I swallowed my pride and called every contact in my phone, borrowing small amounts from friends and former classmates until I scraped the medical fees together. The surgery was a success. The doctor assured me the threat was gone. By a stroke of luck, my company was looking for a volunteer to manage a new branch in my hometown. I took the transfer immediately, packed up my mother, and we went home. It took Lewis nearly two weeks to realize I was actually gone. Unable to swallow his pride and search for me, and realizing he didn’t even know my new office address or my current contact info, he finally picked up the dusty supplement basket he had bought weeks ago and drove to the hospital. The nurse at the desk looked at him in surprise. “Oh, Mrs. Morgan was discharged two days ago. Her daughter took her back to their hometown.”

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When my parents boarded a flight for the tenth time, traveling thousands of miles across the country to finally meet the man I was supposed to marry, Zachary chose to vanish. He wouldn’t pick up my calls. He didn’t reply to my texts. I sat at a corner table in the diner, ordering cup after cup of black coffee until my stomach burned, watching my screen. Then, a notification popped up. It was a post from Naomi, my best friend. It was a photo of a snow-dusted trail in Aspen, capturing two hands tightly clasped together. Her caption read: “Tenth trip to the mountains. Double digits of pure perfection.” My fingers curled around my phone, squeezing until my knuckles turned white. On my twenty-seventh call, Zachary finally picked up. “Where are you?” I asked. The howling wind of a ski slope roared through the receiver, followed by his deeply indifferent voice. “Just out. What’s up?” “What’s up? Zachary, this is the tenth time! My parents are at their age, they flew all this way, and you—” A beat of silence on his end, followed by a sigh of pure impatience. “Look, Naomi and I are having a blast in Aspen, and I lost track of time. Tell your parents to wait another three days. I’ll come back and see them once I’ve had my fun.” Before I could demand an explanation, the line went dead. My trembling lips reflected in the dark screen of my phone. I forced a small, hollow smile and looked up at my parents. “Since he’s not coming,” I said quietly, “let’s find someone else to meet.” … Three days later. Zachary dragged his suitcase through the front door, with Naomi trailing closely behind him. “Naomi is absolutely parched. Get her some water, quick!” Neither of them bothered to take off their shoes. They collapsed onto the living room sofa, their legs tangled together with an easy, shameless familiarity. “Babe, I want the peach yogurt,” Naomi called out. “And Isla, my usual,” Zachary chimed in. I didn’t say a word. I went to the kitchen, retrieved a peach yogurt and a sparkling water, and placed them on the coffee table. Without thinking, Zachary reached for the yogurt, twisted off the lid, and handed it to Naomi. Only then did he grab his sparkling water, chugging it down in massive gulps. As he drank, Naomi reached over with a tissue, naturally wiping the condensation and sweat from his jawline, his lips, and his neck. I stood by the kitchen island, completely ignored, like a hired waitress who had outlived her usefulness. Once he finished the bottle, Zachary finally looked at me. “We’re almost out of the peach yogurt in the fridge, aren’t we? Make sure you order another case. Otherwise, she won’t have anything to drink next time she comes over.” He had been home for ten minutes. He had spoken exactly three sentences. Two of them were about Naomi. As for my parents? Whether they were still in town, whether they were furious, how I had sent them off—he hadn’t asked a single question. He only cared about the yogurt Naomi liked. He had completely forgotten to ask if I still had enough of my favorite blueberry ones. I pulled out my phone, tapped the screen a few times, and cancelled my monthly subscription for the blueberry yogurt, swapping it entirely to peach. I held the screen up to his face. “Satisfied?” Perhaps noticing the coldness in my eyes, Naomi smiled, trying to soften the tension. “He’s only being this attentive because I’m your best friend—he basically treats me like his favorite bridesmaid. You don’t mind, do you, Isla?” A laugh threatened to bubble up from my throat, bitter and sharp. My actual parents had traveled across the country ten times, and he couldn’t even bother to show his face. Yet here he was, playing the doting brother-in-law to her. He really thought I was a fool. “Isla is actually mad! Say something!” Naomi nudged Zachary’s shoulder, feigning disapproval. Zachary leaned back lazily. “Don’t worry. Compared to you, she’s easy to deal with. Just give her a cold shoulder for a couple of days, and she’ll come crawling back on her own.” He tilted his chin at me, his smile dripping with absolute certainty. “Right, Isla?” “Zacharyary!” Naomi bolted upright, kicking his shin. “I won’t let you talk to Isla like that. Apologize right now!” “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.” “That’s better…” Their playful banter echoed in my ears, making my chest tighten with a dull, suffocating ache. It looked like she was defending me, but only now did I realize I was merely an extra in their little game. Once Naomi finally left, Zachary finally remembered my parents. “Where are they, anyway?” Even as he asked, his eyes remained glued to his phone, a faint, private smile playing on his lips. “They went home.” I dragged my suitcase out from the closet, laid it flat in front of my desk, and began packing my belongings, piece by piece. There was silence from the living room. Then, a quiet, indifferent sound. “Oh.” Oh. My parents had braved their severe fear of flying to come here ten times. When I met them at the gate, their hands were shaking from the anxiety of the flight. But they never complained. They only wanted to see the man I was building a life with. And he had stood them up. No apology, no explanation. Just a casual, weightless “Oh.” Like this crowded, suffocating relationship we shared, everything looked sparkling on the surface, but there was no longer any room for me. Thankfully, I didn’t plan on waiting anymore. By the time my suitcase was half-full, my phone chimed. It was an email from HR, formally approving my resignation. Zachary finally looked up from his screen. Seeing the open suitcase, he shook his head without a second thought. “Isla, I used up all my PTO for the Aspen trip. I don’t have time to go on vacation with you right now. Let’s do it next time.” He stood up, walking toward me. “We have plenty of time down the road. There’s no need to rush into this right now, is there?” For Naomi, he had all the time in the world. For her, he could take his PTO. But when it came to me, he was out of time. My hand hovered over a stack of sweaters, suddenly lacking the strength to pick them up. My mouth tasted like ash. In our eight years of living together, the words he said to me most often were never “I love you.” They were “next time” and “there’s no rush.” Every time he vanished when my parents arrived, his excuses were never elaborate. But they always, without fail, involved Naomi. Helping Naomi move, driving Naomi to a conference, taking Naomi to the clinic for a sprained ankle… Whenever I dared to question it, he would sneer. “Isla, you’re not as smart or career-driven as Naomi. Being easygoing is your only real saving grace. She’s your best friend. Don’t lose your only good trait over petty jealousy.” The one who loves more is always the one who compromises. So, I stopped asking, and he stopped explaining. Naomi became like the air we breathed—invisible, yet occupying every corner of our lives. Until this Aspen trip. I was completely done. I raised my head and looked directly into his eyes. “Zachary, let’s break up.” He froze, finally putting his phone down. “What nonsense are you talking about now?” I zipped the suitcase, stood it upright, and let out a quiet breath. “I’m serious.” He frowned, looking at me as if I had just told a bad joke. “Break up? Because Naomi and I went to Aspen? Because of your parents? Didn’t I just say we’d go next time?” He stood under the warm light of the hallway, his face suddenly looking entirely unfamiliar. “Naomi and I are software engineers at the same firm. We work on the same projects. Of course we’re going to be close. But she’s your best friend. You shouldn’t be jealous of her.” I kept my eyes lowered. “Actually, you two make a great couple. High achievers in college, both working at a big tech giant now.” “Isla! Cut the crap! If I had met her first, maybe things would be different. But I didn’t.” Frustrated, Zachary ripped off his button-down shirt, tossing it carelessly near my feet, and turned toward the bathroom. The light in the hallway was dim, but it couldn’t hide the angry, fresh red scratch marks trailing down his shoulder blades. I stared at them for what felt like an eternity. And then I remembered yesterday, while ordering my third cup of coffee. My phone had buzzed with a shared account notification: Room 909 checked in. Guests: Zacharyary, Naomi. In that exact moment, I didn’t even have the energy to wonder why my best friend was sleeping with the man I loved. I had only stood there, hands shaking violently, tearing open sugar packet after sugar packet, dumping them into my mug. Even with all that sweetness, every breath I drew tasted bitter. “Let’s break up,” I called out to his retreating back. “I’m getting—” The deafening slam of the bathroom door cut me off, drowning out the word “married.” The next morning, back at the office to finish my transition paperwork, my colleague Katie leaned over my desk. “Isla, did you really break up with Zachary?” I nodded. A look of pure fury crossed her face. “Good. Honestly, he’s a piece of work. Just an hour ago, Naomi from Tech gagged a few times in the breakroom, and Zachary went completely pale. He literally scooped her up in his arms and rushed her to the hospital.” My fingers froze over the keyboard. “Gagged?” Katie nodded rapidly. “Yeah. Everyone’s whispering that she’s pregnant.” She glanced around, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Isla, I know she’s your best friend, but she’s no friend to you. She and Zachary have been messy for a long time. Naomi didn’t even meet the hiring criteria for this place; Zachary actually took a pay cut just to negotiate her entry onto his team. But when you applied years ago? He didn’t lift a finger to help you.” I felt a sharp, heavy ache in my chest. “So… she didn’t get the standard campus recruitment offer?” Katie shook her head, her eyes filled with pity. “Of course not. The HR director told me himself. You’re an award-winning designer, Isla, and you’ve been stuck working the front desk here. It’s a joke. Get out of here.” Katie’s eyes welled with tears as she helped me pack my desk into a single cardboard box. I had never wanted to move to San Francisco. But Zachary and Naomi had begged me, saying we all had job offers here and could look out for one another. And they certainly looked out for each other—all the way into the same bed. I had spent eight years at this company, yet my belongings didn’t even fill a small cardboard box. Just like the eight years I spent in that apartment, my entire life fit into a single twenty-inch suitcase. Zachary was right. I was stupid. Everyone else saw what was happening, yet I had to see a hotel booking with my own eyes before I finally let go. Because back in college, Naomi was the one who bought me heating pads when my cramps were unbearable. She was the one who grabbed my shoulders when I was too terrified to enter design competitions, declaring, “Our Isla is going to be a star!” She was the one who promised, “Zachary and I are going to build a shield around you. No one will ever hurt you.” She had looked at me with such fierce sincerity. I never imagined the person who would drive the knife deepest into my back would be her. But ten years of shared history don’t vanish overnight, no matter how much you want them to. When I walked into the hospital room with my box of belongings, I saw them through the glass, hugging tightly. Naomi was weeping, her voice trembling. “Zachary, let’s just terminate it. Isla has already planned the wedding. We can’t do this to her…” Zachary cut her off, his voice urgent. “No! I’m only going through the motions with her. You’re the one I actually love. I wanted to tell her parents the first time they came to visit, but you kept stopping me. This baby is a sign. We should—” I pushed the door open, the wood scraping loudly against the floor. I stood at the threshold, my face entirely drained of color. “Did you keep me in the dark because you assumed I was too stupid to ever find out?” Zachary spun around, freezing as if he had been pinned to the spot. His mouth hung slightly open, his eyes wide. Naomi frantically grabbed his arm. “Explain to her! Zachary, tell her it’s not what it looks like!” But Zachary only stared at me. “You know. Good. Keeping this from you was exhausting anyway.” “Zacharyary, shut up!” Naomi grabbed his sleeve, tears streaming down her face as she looked at me. “Isla, please, it was an accident. I swear. I’ll get an abortion and move far away. I’ll never show my face near you guys again. Please don’t hate me.” Seeing her cry, Zachary panicked. He pulled her tightly against his chest, cooing softly, “Naomi, don’t do this to yourself. It’s not your fault I don’t love her. Your tears are breaking my heart.” One crying, one comforting. I had never seen my boyfriend of ten years be so gentle. In all our years together, that tenderness, that soft surrender, had never been offered to me. It was always reserved for my best friend. A tear slipped down my cheek, but I wiped it away before they could see. I took a step back into the hallway. “Naomi, Zachary and I are done. Whatever you two do now has absolutely nothing to do with me.” With that, I shut the door, picked up my box, and walked away. Zachary didn’t come home that night. Instead, my phone lit up with endless texts from Naomi. Isla, please don’t blame me. You and Zachary were never a match. Since we’re best friends, it’s better he’s with me than some stranger. I grew up without a father, Isla. I can’t let my baby grow up without one too. I blocked her number without replying. Then I walked over to the refrigerator, pulled open the bottom drawer, and threw every single bottle of blueberry yogurt into the trash. Each dull thud against the bottom of the bin felt like a heavy blow to my chest. When we first moved in together, Zachary was just an intern. He had spent his very first paycheck to buy me yogurt, meticulously organizing them on the middle shelves so I wouldn’t have to bend down. He told me I was a space cadet outside of my drawings and needed someone to look after me. Back then, he could be fierce too. He would scold me as he threw away my instant ramen, pulling me against his chest and murmuring, “Isla, did you move in with me just to slowly poison yourself with trash?” When did he change? The tears blurred my vision again. I wiped them away and kept purging the apartment. The lucky clover sitting on my desk, the handwritten letters from our college days, the little clay figurines he had molded for me… every single piece went into the trash. When the sun broke through the curtains, the front door unlocked. Zachary stood in the entryway, his face set in a hard, cold line. He didn’t bother taking off his shoes. He marched straight up to me, pulling his keys from his pocket. But before he could even hand them over— Slap! A sharp, ringing blow struck my cheek, forcing my head to the side. I cradled my face, my fingers immediately coming away wet with a cold smear of blood. Zachary stared down at me, his eyes bloodshot and filled with pure, unadulterated disgust. “Because of you, Naomi terminated the pregnancy. Are you happy now?” “It was barely an embryo. It didn’t even have a heartbeat yet, and you had to go and attack her with your words? Now she’s hemorrhaging on an operating table, and we don’t even know if she’s going to make it! Is this what you wanted?” He screamed, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing rage. There were no questions. No attempt to find the truth. Only a savage, absolute accusation. As if every tragedy in Naomi’s life was entirely my fault. I lifted my head and unlocked my phone, holding it out to him with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. “Did I say a single cruel word to her? Look at the texts yourself!” With a violent swipe of his hand, Zachary knocked the phone from my grip. It soared across the room, smashing against the far wall and shattering into pieces. That phone was the first gift he had ever bought me with his intern salary. Now it was broken. Completely. Just like the hollow remains of our relationship. I remembered how his face had flushed red when he gave it to me, shifting awkwardly before speaking. “We have the same phone now, just different colors. Like a couple’s set.” But over the years, he had changed his phone repeatedly, and every single time, he miraculously ended up with the exact color Naomi preferred. “Isla, I had a plan,” Zachary said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. “I was going to wait until the baby was born, and then I was going to cut Naomi out of my life completely. I was going to marry you. We were going to register our license. I was going to give you everything.” “But your malice ruined it all. You wanted a breakup? Fine. We’re done. Get the hell out of my sight.” He pointed toward the front door, his eyes swimming with a deep, bitter disappointment. Then, he turned and slammed the door behind him. His heavy footsteps faded down the hallway. The distant chime of the elevator echoed through the quiet. Once the building fell into a absolute silence, I placed my bloody keys on the entryway table. As the door clicked shut behind me, the tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. But I didn’t hesitate. I felt nothing but a profound, quiet relief. Naomi. Zachary. My life would never cross paths with either of them again.

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With only seven days left until the wedding, the coordinator asked Larry and me to finalize our procession playlist. I had chosen the indie track that played during the credits of the very first movie we ever watched together. Larry looked at the screen, frowned, and deleted it. “It’s too obscure, Carol. No one is going to get it.” A second later, he dragged and dropped Sasha’s favorite song into the slot for our main theme. As I froze, Sasha offered a soft, apologetic smile. “Oh, Carol, please don’t be mad. I only mentioned that song once in passing. I had no idea he’d actually remember.” Larry took the iPad from my hands, his tone dismissive yet gentle. “You’ve never cared about these little details anyway, right?” But I did care. I cared deeply. To find that specific track, I had dug through an old memory box to find our ticket stub from seven years ago, spending hours hunting down the original vinyl rip. Later, when I went to the study to retrieve the ring box, I overheard Larry on the phone. “It’s just a wedding,” he was saying, his voice low. “She isn’t going to make a fuss over a song. But if you’re unhappy that day… that’s what I’m worried about.” Standing outside the half-open door, I suddenly felt the song lose all its meaning. I realized that when a relationship finally falls apart, the first thing to go quiet isn’t the music. It’s the silent accumulation of your own unspoken hurts. … I put the ring box back into the drawer just as Larry pushed the door open. He was holding the printed music cue sheet—the one with my song crossed out. “Why are you still up? You have your makeup trial tomorrow.” My eyes drifted to the black ink slashing through my choice. Larry followed my gaze and sighed softly. “It’s just a song, Carol. Don’t overthink it.” “Do you even remember it?” I asked. He paused, searching his memory. “Sure I do. That rainy afternoon at the indie theater. You cried so hard during the credits.” “You told me that day,” I murmured, “that we’d play it at our wedding.” Larry’s phone buzzed. A voice note from Sasha. Before tapping play, he shot me a warning look—a silent plea not to make a scene. Sasha’s bright, airy voice filled the quiet study: “Larry, I listened to the theme again. It really is perfect for you guys! Tell me if I’m being a total busybody, okay?” He typed back immediately: “Not at all. You’ve always had the best taste.” Watching him, my mind drifted back seven years to that tiny, run-down theater. When the credits rolled, he had pushed his half-eaten popcorn into my lap, teasing me for crying like my dog had died. He had laughed, wrapping an arm around me. “We’re playing this at our wedding. That way, everyone will know how easy you are to make happy.” Now, he didn’t remember the song’s name, let alone his promise. He only remembered that Sasha had good taste. “Carol, you know Sasha’s health has been delicate since we were kids. She’s sensitive. Don’t take things so personally.” I stared at him. “Is she really just your sister, Larry?” His brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “In every way that matters, yes. My parents took her in when she was ten. You know this.” Of course I knew. Sasha was the daughter of his father’s late business partner. She moved into the Fletcher estate at ten, followed Larry to college in Boston at eighteen, and returned home at twenty-three to become the fragile girl who constantly needed his protection. In our seven years together, the phrases I heard most were “Sasha has had it hard”, “Sasha will be upset”, or “Sasha didn’t mean anything by it”. His phone lit up again. Sasha had sent a photo. In it, she was wearing a pair of vintage pearl earrings—the exact ones I had admired but ultimately decided not to buy when I picked out my wedding dress. “Larry, do you think these are too much for a bridesmaid? I don’t want to upstage the bride!” He gave a soft chuckle. “She’s just playing around. Don’t take it to heart.” I stared at the pearls. “Did you buy those for her?” Larry’s patience finally snapped. “She’s spending her whole day helping you with your fitting tomorrow. I picked them up as a small thank-you. Carol, stop overcomplicating everything.” I nodded slowly, sealing my lips. Satisfied with my silence, he reached out and gently stroked my hair. “That’s my girl. We only have seven days left. Let’s not make this harder on everyone than it needs to be.” I looked up into his eyes. “What if I told you I still want our song?” His hand froze. “The playlist has already been sent to the DJ, Carol. It looks unprofessional to keep changing things last minute.” A soft knock sounded at the door. Sasha peeked through the gap, her face bright with a helpful smile. “Am I interrupting? Larry, your parents said there’s a slight issue with the rehearsal seating chart. They wanted me to double-check with Carol.” She walked in carrying a printed seating layout. One glance at the head table made my chest tighten. Under “Mother of the Bride”, my late mother’s name had been neatly crossed out. Sasha placed the paper on the desk, her smile fading into a look of delicate concern. “Carol, please don’t take this the wrong way. I just thought… since your mom passed, leaving an empty seat at the front might feel a bit somber for the guests. People might whisper.” Standing behind her, Larry murmured his agreement. “Sasha makes a fair point. There will be a lot of people there. We don’t need guests whispering about an empty chair during the ceremony.” My throat burned. Before my mother passed away, her deepest regret was knowing she wouldn’t see me walk down the aisle. I had designed a quiet tribute: a reserved seat at the front, draped with a simple white ribbon, holding a single bouquet of her favorite yellow tulips. It was the only detail in this over-commercialized, heavily-altered wedding that still belonged entirely to me. I looked up at Larry. “You want to delete this, too?” He sighed, adjusting his cufflinks. “It’s not deleting, Carol. It’s about keeping things elegant. We have to design this for the living, too.” Sasha’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Larry, please don’t argue with Carol because of me. I can sit at the back. It’s fine. I know I don’t really matter in this.” Larry turned to her, his voice softening. “Don’t say that.” A dry laugh escaped my throat. Larry shot me a warning look. “What’s funny?” I pushed the seating chart back toward them. “Nothing. Just realizing that I’m the one who doesn’t matter here.” The study fell dead silent. Larry picked up a pen and drew a circle next to my mother’s designated seat. “Let’s leave it like this for tonight. I’ll have the wedding planner adjust it before the rehearsal tomorrow.” I stared at the black ink. “Did you even think to ask me?” Larry paused, looking up. “Carol, you never used to be like this.” I wanted to ask him what “like this” meant. Did he mean the version of me who silently agreed when he changed the florist? The one who nodded when he swapped out the color scheme? The one who kept quiet as Sasha’s name crept into every single aspect of our wedding planning? Sasha gently tugged at Larry’s sleeve. “Larry, forget it. Carol is probably just feeling pre-wedding anxiety. I’m sure she isn’t targeting me on purpose.” She played the peacemaker beautifully, taking a step back with every word—while standing firmly on my ground. The next afternoon at the makeup trial, the stylist praised how a clean, low bun suited my features. Sasha sat nearby, resting her chin in her hands. “Don’t you think that’s a little too plain, Carol? Wedding cameras wash you out. Something bolder and brighter would look much better.” Larry didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Listen to Sasha. She’s helped coordinate charity galas before.” The stylist looked between us, clearing her throat. “Carol, what do you think?” I stared at my reflection, looking at the pale, heavily powdered face in the mirror. “I want to go with my original plan,” I said quietly. Sasha’s polite smile faltered. Larry finally put down his tablet and walked over, placing his hands on the back of my chair. “Let’s not make things difficult, Carol. There’s a whole crew waiting on the schedule today. If you change one detail, it affects the entire timeline.” Near the door, a few assistants paused their whispering and looked our way. Sasha stepped in with her usual gentle tone. “Larry, let’s just do what Carol wants. Even if it doesn’t photograph as well, her happiness is what matters.” In the mirror, I watched Larry’s expression turn ice-cold. He leaned down, whispering in my ear. “Do you really have to embarrass me in front of the staff?” My hands clenched into fists on my lap. The words were quiet, but they stung worse than the pen scratching out my mother’s seat. When the trial wrapped up, the stylist handed me a small, faded slip of paper. “Carol, this fell out of your folder when we were reviewing the playlist.” It was the movie ticket stub from seven years ago. The edges were yellowed, and on the back, in Larry’s messy, youthful handwriting, were the words: “We play this at our wedding. No excuses.” Sasha leaned over to read it, letting out a soft laugh. “Oh, that’s cute. Larry, your handwriting was so childish back then.” Larry stared at the ink, his face freezing for a fraction of a second. But just as quickly, he snatched the stub from my fingers and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “That was a lifetime ago. Keeping things like this is pointless.” I reached for the bin, but an assistant had already picked it up, tossing it into a large heavy-duty bag filled with discarded mockups and trash. By the time I caught up with them at the end of the hallway, the bag was being handed over to the venue coordinator. The coordinator looked at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, Carol. That load is going straight to the incinerator. Mr. Fletcher told us earlier to clear out all the old, unnecessary clutter before tomorrow’s setup.” I turned to look at Larry. He was standing a few feet away, his tone exasperated. “It’s just a scrap of paper, Carol. Don’t make the entire staff stop their work to search for trash.” Sasha draped her bridesmaid shawl over her shoulders and stepped beside him. “Carol, I get that you’re sentimental, but a wedding is a public celebration. Things that are too private just don’t translate well to a crowd.” I felt a sudden, chilling admiration for her. She never had to grab anything with her own hands. She only had to whisper that something was “unsuitable,” and Larry would gladly tear it away from me for her. That evening, both of our families gathered for dinner. A long table was filled with Larry’s extended family. His mother, reviewing the itinerary, smiled warmly at Sasha. “Sasha, you’ve put so much effort into this. You’ve handled the music, the seating… honestly, anyone walking in would think you were the one getting married.” Laughter rippled across the table. Sasha lowered her head, blushing perfectly on cue. “Please don’t tease me, Mrs. Fletcher. I was just worried Larry would be overwhelmed with all the planning.” Larry placed a piece of roasted duck onto her plate. “You’ve been a lifesaver.” I sat next to him, watching the water in my glass go from warm to room temperature. His mother turned her gaze to me, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet reprimand. “Carol, dear, don’t stress yourself out too much. When it comes to weddings, it’s best to let the groom handle the heavy lifting. A woman who overthinks every detail only ends up exhausted.” “I only wanted to keep the seat for my mother,” I said softly. A sudden silence fell over the table. The smile on Mrs. Fletcher’s face withered. “Well, dear, she’s gone. It’s the thought that counts. A wedding is supposed to be a joyous occasion. Let’s not bring a somber note that makes the older relatives uncomfortable.” Larry gripped his water glass, his voice warning. “Carol.” Those two syllables weren’t comfort. They were a command to shut down. Sasha immediately stood up, holding her glass as she walked over to my side. “Carol, I’m so sorry. This is entirely my fault. If it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to sit at the head table. I can sit anywhere, really.” Her voice trembled with fragile grace, making it look as though I were publicly bullying her. Larry’s aunt frowned. “Sasha is such a sweet girl. Carol, you shouldn’t make a mountain out of a molehill. If you’re going to be this difficult before the wedding, how are you two going to survive a marriage?” I looked at Larry, waiting for him to say something. Anything. Just a simple acknowledgement that this was a tribute we had agreed on months ago. But he merely slid my water glass closer to me. “Take a sip of water. Let’s not make a scene.” At that moment, I realized I was done waiting. After dinner, I went to the restroom to touch up my lipstick. From inside the stall, I heard the door open, followed by Sasha’s voice and one of her friends. “Aren’t you worried Carol is going to snap?” the friend asked with a giggle. The sound of running water started. “Let her,” Sasha replied, her voice light and careless. “What’s she going to do? Larry can’t stand seeing me upset. Besides, she’s been putting up with it for seven years. She isn’t going to start fighting now.” The friend lowered her voice. “But he is actually marrying her.” There was a brief pause, then a soft chuckle from Sasha. “A wedding is just a show. People are what matter. The playlist is mine, the head table is mine. All she’s getting is a piece of paper.” The faucet clicked shut. “By the way, did you manage to grab that old ticket stub for me?” Sasha asked. “Yeah, it’s in your bag,” her friend replied, sounding curious. “Why do you even want it?” Sasha murmured, “Larry wrote something on the back years ago. I just wanted to see exactly how pathetic and childish he used to be for her.” Standing in the stall, my fingers trembled, the cap of my lipstick scraping against the red balm, smearing it across my palm. After their footsteps faded, I stepped out. There, sitting on the marble vanity, was Sasha’s designer clutch. The zipper was half-open, and the unmistakable yellowed corner of my ticket stub was peeking out. I pulled it out and slipped it behind my phone case. When I returned to the private dining room, Larry was finalizing the cue sheets with the coordinator. “Mr. Fletcher, we’ve updated the procession track to the version Sasha provided,” the coordinator said with a polite nod. “We’ll run the new track at tomorrow’s rehearsal.” I pulled out my chair and sat down. “What new version?” Larry glanced at me, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes at my interruption, though his voice remained measured. “Sasha found a modern arrangement that works better with the sound system. Your version is too old, and the audio quality isn’t great.” My fingers brushed the edge of my phone case. “Did you even listen to the original track I found?” The hand flipping through his itinerary paused. “It doesn’t matter, Carol. The guests want an atmosphere, not a soundtrack to your private memories.” Sasha slid a glass of warm water toward me. “Carol, please don’t be upset. I was just trying to polish things up. I’m not trying to take anything from you.” I looked directly into her eyes. “Was stealing my ticket stub part of your polishing process?” Sasha’s face drained of color. Larry frowned. “What ticket stub?” I placed my phone face down on the table. “The one from seven years ago. The one she had her friend salvage from the trash.” Sasha’s eyes filled with tears instantly. “Larry, I didn’t! I just knew how much it meant to Carol, so I wanted to find it for her.” She fumbled with her bag, pulling out a creased ticket slip. But it wasn’t mine. The seat numbers were wrong, and the handwriting on the back wasn’t Larry’s. Larry barely glanced at it before sliding it over to me. “See? She found it. Are you satisfied now?” I stared at the fake ticket stub. The energy to argue drained out of me completely. It didn’t matter what the truth was; the moment Sasha shed a tear, reality rearranged itself to protect her. During the rehearsal that night, the house lights dimmed, and the music swelled through the venue’s speakers. Within the first second of the intro, my chest tightened. The track used the sample from my original version, but they had edited out the quiet monologue at the end, weaving in the synth melodies Sasha preferred. It felt like someone had dismantled a sacred memory I’d kept safe for seven years, reconstructing it to spell out her name. “Bride, you may begin your procession!” the coordinator called out over the microphone. I held the mock bouquet and started walking down the aisle. The giant projector screens on either side of the altar were supposed to play a slideshow of Larry and me over the years. Instead, a video package Sasha had “curated” began to play. There she was with Larry on his college campus in Boston, standing together in the gardens of the Fletcher estate—reclaiming years I had never been a part of. A few wedding assistants whispered near the back. “Is this a tribute to the bridesmaid?” Sasha sprang up from her seat, looking horrified. “Oh my god, did they play the wrong file? Larry, I told them to delete that folder!” Larry strode quickly to the AV booth, his voice sharp and low. “Cut it. Now.” The screen froze on a single image: Larry’s twentieth birthday. Sasha was wearing a paper crown, leaning her head against his shoulder. In the corner of the wooden table in the background lay a movie ticket stub. The exact duplicate of the one behind my phone case. Finally, the pieces clicked together. Seven years ago, we hadn’t been alone in that theater. Sasha had been there, too. She hadn’t stumbled onto our song years later. She had known about it from the very beginning. The coordinator held the mic awkwardly. “Mr. Fletcher, which media package are we running for tomorrow?” Larry turned to look at me, his jaw tight. “Carol, let’s just get through the rehearsal first. Don’t stand there.” Sasha suddenly pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing turning shallow. “Larry… my chest feels tight. Did I ruin everything again?” Larry rushed to her side, catching her before she could stumble. He didn’t even look back at me as he instructed the coordinator, “Run Sasha’s cut tomorrow. I’ll handle Carol.” I looked down at my phone. The chat with the wedding planner was still open. Her last message read: “Carol, if you want to officially cancel the venue and vendors, I need your final confirmation.” Larry guided Sasha past me toward the exit, his voice low with exhaustion. “It’s just a rehearsal, Carol. Don’t start a fight now.” I tapped and held the microphone icon. “I confirm…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “526587”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Every Father’s Day, my husband’s old college flame, Caitlin, found a new emergency to lure him away. This year was no exception. He glanced at his phone, his face instantly tightening, and stood up from the dinner table. “Caitlin says Toby won’t stop crying,” Patrick said, already grabbing his coat. “She’s overwhelmed and can’t calm him down. I need to go talk to him.” “She doesn’t know how to cook, so I’m going to pack up the dinner you made and take it over. You and Lucy can just order takeout.” The bright, hopeful smile on Lucy’s face vanished. She reached out, tugging at the hem of his shirt with small, trembling fingers. “Daddy, please. You promised today would be just for us. Can’t you stay? Just this once?” Patrick’s expression hardened. He looked down at her, his voice clipped and dry. “Lucy, how many times do we have to go over this? You’re a big girl now. You need to start being more understanding.” Seeing the tears welling in her eyes, his expression softened slightly, and he gave her head a dismissive pat. “You and Toby are classmates. He doesn’t have a father, Lucy. It’s hard on him. You should be lifting him up, not dragging him down.” “I’m his teacher, and looking after my students is my job. Now, you and your mother wait for me to come home. Be good.” He didn’t wait for an answer. The heavy front door clicked shut behind him, leaving nothing but the cold drafts of our quiet apartment and a table full of untouched, rapidly cooling food. Lucy stared down at the small, crumpled sketchbook in her hands. “This is the sixth Father’s Day Toby has taken Daddy away,” she whispered. A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. I pulled her into my lap, burying her small head against my shoulder. She wrapped her thin arms tightly around my neck, her voice muffled against my collarbone. “Mommy… he’s always playing dad to someone else’s kid. We don’t need him anymore, do we?” “No,” I whispered back, my voice cracking. “We don’t.” … Lucy slowly tore the crumpled sketchbook into tiny, jagged pieces and dropped them into the trash can. She had spent every afternoon for the last two weeks working on it, meticulously drawing the three of us together, filling the pages with her quiet wishes for her father. Now, it was just trash. I carried the serving plates to the sink. My hands moved on autopilot, reaching for the sponge and the dish soap. It was a muscle memory born of seven years of domesticity. Looking down at my hands, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. This tiny, suffocating kitchen had been my entire world for seven years. My phone buzzed on the counter. It was a notification from Facebook. Caitlin had just posted. “Thank you, Patrick, for making Toby’s wish come true today, even if it was just for a little while. I wish we never had to wake up from this beautiful dream.” The post featured a photo of Patrick’s large hand cradling Toby’s small one, alongside a child’s crayon drawing of three figures holding hands. In the background was the elaborate dinner I had spent four hours preparing. Patrick had liked the post immediately. His comment sat right at the top: “Once a teacher, always a father. Toby is as good as my own.” My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned stark white. “His own.” If Toby was his own, what did that make Lucy? What did that make me? He had taken the food I slaved over to play happy family with the woman he had spent his youth pining after, leaving his actual daughter with nothing. My eyes began to sting. I told myself it was just the fumes of the dish soap, but the tears came anyway, blurring my vision. For the first time in seven years, I threw the wet sponge into the sink, grabbed Lucy’s coat, and took her to McDonald’s. She had asked to go so many times, but every single plan had been canceled because Caitlin had an “emergency” or Toby needed Patrick’s attention. Our plans were always expendable. Watching her eat her chicken nuggets with frantic, eager bites, a wave of sorrow hit me. I had to look away to keep from sobbing. “Eat slow, sweetheart,” I managed, smoothing her hair. “We can come here whenever you want from now on.” By the time we got back, night had fallen. Patrick was sitting on the living room sofa, calmly reading a book. “Where have you two been?” he asked. It sounded like concern, but his voice carried that flat, accusatory tone I had grown to dread. The anger I had spent the evening bottling up boiled over. “Where? You walked out of here with the dinner I cooked to feed another woman’s family. What were we supposed to eat, Patrick? Air?” Patrick frowned, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before his defensive walls went right back up. “It was just a meal, Giselle. Why do you always have to be so incredibly petty? I’m his teacher. You’re his teacher’s wife. It was just a nice gesture.” “You’re a grown woman. Honestly, you could learn a thing or two from Toby about being supportive.” Supportive. Mature. Understanding. No matter what I did, those were the words he threw at me like weapons. “Look, I brought back the leftovers Caitlin packed for you guys. Stop making a scene and just eat.” I looked at the greasy paper bag he placed on the table. The torn logo on the side matched the exact takeout boxes from Caitlin’s social media post. Leftovers. Scraps from another woman’s table. The coldness in my chest solidified. “We’re full. Give them to Toby since you care so much about his feelings.” “If you don’t want them, Lucy can have them,” Patrick snapped, his patience wearing thin. “Toby specifically insisted on saving this for her. He was trying to be sweet.” Before I could speak, Lucy stepped forward and swatted the bag off the table. “I’m not hungry. I want to go to bed.” She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward her room. Patrick’s face darkened. “Lucy! Toby went out of his way to save that for you, and you throw it on the floor? Is this the kind of behavior your mother is teaching you?” He turned his glare onto me. “Are you happy? Teaching our daughter to be this bitter? If everyone acted as small-minded as you, how am I supposed to run my classroom?” I kept my voice flat, empty of emotion. “I have never said a single negative thing about you to Lucy. If she’s pulling away, you need to look at your own actions.” Patrick’s jaw clenched. Realizing he was losing ground, he knelt down to Lucy’s eye level, his tone softening into a patronizing plea. “Lucy, Daddy is sorry he couldn’t play with you today. I had school work. But didn’t you say you made something for me?” Before Lucy could answer, Patrick’s phone rang. The screen lit up with Caitlin’s name. He answered it immediately, putting it on speaker as if to prove his innocence. Caitlin’s soft, trembling voice filled the quiet room. “Patrick… I hope Giselle isn’t upset. Toby was just so emotional today, and I felt so terrible dragging you away on Father’s Day. I just wanted to explain…” Patrick looked up at me, his eyes pleading for validation. “See? If there was anything going on between us, would she be calling like this? We have nothing to hide.” I didn’t say a word. Lucy reached into her pocket, pulled out a stark, blank white envelope, and dropped it into Patrick’s hand. Patrick stared at the blank card, his brief attempt at patience vanishing. “Are you serious, Lucy? A blank card? What is this supposed to mean? Are you trying to punish me?” Lucy threw herself in front of me, her small, thin arms outstretched to shield me. “Don’t yell at my mommy! You’re Toby’s dad, not mine! Go live with him!” Patrick stood up, looking at us both with absolute disgust. “I sacrifice so much for this family, and neither of you has an ounce of appreciation.” Seven years of marriage. Six of them spent arguing over Caitlin. And the script was always the same: he was the saintly, selfless mentor, and I was the bitter, insecure housewife. “Today was Father’s Day,” I said, my voice barely a whisper but cutting through his anger. “Lucy spent two weeks making something for you, and you threw her aside for another woman’s child. Tonight, Lucy and I are sleeping in her room. Take the guest bed.” “She’s a child, Giselle, but what’s your excuse?” Patrick sighed, his voice thick with exhaustion. “They are a single-parent family. Caitlin is doing this completely alone. You grew up in a bubble, Giselle. You have no idea what real hardship looks like. You just have to twist everything into something ugly and cheap.” “Ugly and cheap.” I squeezed Lucy’s hand. The sheer volume of buried resentment in my chest began to rise, choking me. I was done keeping his secrets. “Last year, during the flash flood, you insisted on driving Caitlin and Toby home. You left Lucy stranded at school in the dark. She was terrified of closed spaces for months after that. And when it rained for three days straight, Caitlin called because her lightbulb broke, and you flew out the door in the middle of the night. You left me to climb a ladder alone to patch our leaking roof. I fell, Patrick. I broke my ankle, and the neighbor had to drive me to the emergency room because you wouldn’t answer your phone.” “You’ve spent six Father’s Days with them, and not a single one with your own daughter.” The silence in the room was heavy. I looked him dead in the eye. “She has it hard, Patrick. So my daughter and I are just supposed to bleed for her?” Patrick’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I led Lucy into her room and shut the door, locking out the sound of his breathing. In the middle of the night, I woke up to Lucy’s skin burning hot against mine. Her fever was dangerously high. Panicking, I threw on a coat, lifted her in my arms, and ran to the guest room to find Patrick. But before I could knock, the door opened. Patrick was fully dressed, coat already on, car keys in hand. He froze when he saw me. “Giselle? What are you doing up?” For a fraction of a second, I thought he had heard Lucy coughing and was coming to help. But his next words shattered that illusion completely. “Caitlin called. She’s hysterical. She says there’s some creep lingering in her building’s hallway. I need to go make sure she’s safe. Why are you holding Lucy?” I grabbed his sleeve, my fingers digging into the fabric. “Lucy has a high fever, Patrick. Look at her. We need to go to the hospital right now. Please drive us.” Patrick hesitated, looking between his keys and our daughter. But then his phone began to vibrate in his palm. He answered it on the first ring. Caitlin’s weeping voice broke through the speaker. “Patrick, he’s knocking on my door… please… I’m so scared…” “I’m coming. I’m right down the street, Caitlin. Hang up and keep the chain on.” He hung up, his eyes darting away from mine in a flash of shame. “Caitlin’s life is in danger, Giselle. Call an Uber and take Lucy. I’ll meet you at the ER as soon as I make sure she’s safe. I promise.” He pulled his arm from my grip and ran down the stairs. I sat in the sterile hospital hallway all night, holding my feverish child. Lucy’s fever finally broke at dawn. Patrick never showed up. No calls, no texts, nothing. When I finally brought my exhausted, pale daughter back to the apartment, we walked in to find Toby sitting in the middle of our living room floor. He was systematically tearing apart the elaborate Lego castle Lucy had spent months building, scattering the pieces across the hardwood. A primal, protective rage took over. I marched over and shoved Toby away from the toys. Toby let out a loud, dramatic wail, which immediately brought Patrick rushing out of our bedroom. “Toby! What happened? Who hurt you?” Patrick stopped mid-sentence when he saw me standing there. His eyes flickered with unease. “You’re back… is Lucy’s fever down?” Before I could answer, a woman’s voice called out from the hallway behind him. “Patrick, where do you keep the hair dryer?” Caitlin walked out of our bathroom, wearing my favorite silk bathrobe. Patrick stiffened. He began rubbing his thumb against his index finger—the nervous tick he only did when he was caught in a lie. “Giselle… look,” he stammered. “Caitlin’s neighborhood isn’t safe right now. I thought it would be best if they stayed here for a few days until things blow over.” He couldn’t find five seconds to check if his daughter was alive, but he had all night to move another woman into my home. My heart felt completely numb, cold as ice. “No.” Caitlin’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Giselle, please don’t be mad. We left in such a hurry last night, I didn’t even pack clothes. Patrick was just trying to help. Maybe Toby and I should leave… I don’t want to cause any trouble.” “Toby is my student,” Patrick intervened, his voice rising defensively. “If a student is in danger, it’s my duty to protect them.” “But Patrick…” Caitlin sniffled, looking up at him. “If I’m coming between you and Giselle, I’ll never forgive myself.” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “If you were so worried about causing trouble, Caitlin, why didn’t you call the police last night instead of another woman’s husband?” “Giselle!” Patrick roared, his face flushing red. “That’s enough. You’ve crossed the line. Go into the kitchen, make some lunch, and apologize to Caitlin right now.” I looked at the two of them standing in my home. “Apologize? She’s wearing my clothes in my house, and you want me to play maid?” Patrick grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the kitchen away from them. “I know you’re angry about last night, okay? But be reasonable. I’ll make it up to you and Lucy, I promise. Just drop it for now.” A slap, then a promise of a sweet. The same endless cycle. I was finally done. “Let’s get a divorce, Patrick. Lucy and I will pack our things so the three of you can have the space.” Patrick stared at me, a condescending sneer creeping onto his lips. “Divorce? What kind of childish game is this? You’re a stay-at-home mom, Giselle. You have no career, no income. How do you plan on supporting Lucy? On wishful thinking?” He sighed, softening his tone slightly, as if dealing with a difficult child. “Stop acting out. I’m giving you a way out of this argument. Don’t ruin it.” I looked at him, feeling absolutely nothing. “I’ll see you at the courthouse on Tuesday morning.” He flinched at the finality in my voice, but quickly recovered, muttering, “Go cool down. I’m not playing this game with you,” before walking away. That weekend, the school organized a community charity drive. It was a big volunteer event, and Lucy had worked tirelessly all day. By the end of the afternoon, she was awarded the “Young Humanitarian Star.” But as she went up to accept her medal, Caitlin sighed loudly, looking down at Toby. “Lucy is so lucky. Toby’s always been so insecure because he doesn’t have a dad. He’s never won anything in his life. Lucy, sweetie, could you maybe let Toby have this one? Just to make him feel special?” Lucy held her medal tight and shook her head. “No.” The volunteer coordinator looked incredibly uncomfortable and turned to Patrick. “Mr. Vance… what do you think?” Patrick didn’t hesitate. He looked at Lucy, his expression stern. “Lucy, you did a great job today, but you have plenty of trophies at home. Toby needs this encouragement more than you do. Let Toby have the medal.” With one casual sentence, he crushed all her hard work. Tears spilled over Lucy’s cheeks. “Why? I earned it!” Caitlin stepped in, looking remorseful. “It’s fine, Patrick. I shouldn’t have said anything.” “No, it’s fine,” Patrick snapped. “We’ll get you another one next time, Lucy. You’re older than Toby. Be the bigger person.” “Be the bigger person.” My fists clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms. I stepped forward to confront him, but Lucy grabbed my hand and gently shook her head. The light in her eyes had completely gone out. After the event, Patrick walked over to us, patting Lucy on the shoulder. “That’s my good girl. Showing kindness and sharing with those less fortunate—that’s what real character is.” I smacked his hand away from my daughter. “From this moment on, save your lessons on virtue and charity for Caitlin and her son,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “My daughter and I don’t want them anymore.” That afternoon, worried about Lucy’s sudden silence, I decided to go back to the school to check on her. But as I reached her classroom, I heard Caitlin’s tearful voice coming from inside. “Patrick, it’s all my fault! I didn’t raise Toby well! He was so happy about the medal, but the other kids all side with Lucy. They told Toby he stole it and started leaving him out. Toby is so sensitive… he just acted out because he was hurt…” I stood outside the door, waiting to see what Patrick would do. He walked into the room, and without even looking at Lucy—who had a fresh scratch on her forearm—he immediately went on the attack. “Lucy, who taught you to turn your classmates against each other? I am deeply disappointed in you.” “I thought you were mature, but you’re still throwing a tantrum over a piece of plastic.” “Did your mother teach you to be this vindictive?” Lucy looked up, her lower lip trembling. “I didn’t do anything! Don’t talk about my mommy like that!” “Don’t talk back to me,” Patrick snapped, completely ignoring her tears. “Apologize to Toby right now.” “I didn’t do anything…” “I said, apologize!” The room fell into a suffocating silence. Lucy kept her head down, refusing to move. Caitlin stepped in with her usual faux-sweetness, gently pushing Toby forward. “Toby made a mistake too. He shouldn’t have pushed you. Toby, apologize to Lucy first.” This display of “generosity” only fueled Patrick’s anger. He grabbed Lucy by the shoulder, forcing her down in front of Toby. “Apologize. Now.” Lucy gritted her teeth, silent. Suddenly, Toby shoved her with all his might. “You’re just jealous! Mr. Patrick gave this to me! You’re just a useless piece of trash, you don’t deserve anything!” No one expected him to strike so violently. I watched in horror as Lucy’s small body was thrown backward, her head striking the sharp, metal corner of the window sill. There was a sickening, heavy thud. The sharp metal sliced her forehead open, and blood began to pour, staining her collar and the floor. I screamed, lunging forward to catch her before she hit the ground, pressing my hands against the wound. Warm blood leaked through my fingers, pooling on the floor. Patrick stood there, pale and frozen, taking a step toward us. But the sheer hatred in my eyes made him halt. “If anything happens to my daughter, Patrick, I will destroy you,” I whispered. “Giselle, I…” “Get out!” I called the paramedics and rode with her in the ambulance to the hospital. Standing under the harsh lights of the ER hallway, I paced frantically, my clothes stained with my daughter’s blood. Patrick arrived shortly after, his face dripping with sweat. “How is she?” The ER doors swung open, and the doctor stepped out, his face grave. My heart stopped. I felt my knees buckle, and I grabbed the nearest chair to keep from falling. “Doctor… is she…?” The doctor realized what I was thinking and quickly shook his head. “No, she’s out of danger. But the cut is very deep. She’ll need stitches, and it will leave a permanent scar.” Patrick let out a sigh of relief, muttering under his breath, “Kids play rough. It’s not as serious as you made it out to be.” A white-hot rage took over. I spun around and slapped Patrick across the face with everything I had left. “Are you blind?” I screamed. “Look at the blood on my hands! Look at her face!” My hand was shaking, the warmth of her blood still lingering on my skin. I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to become dead quiet. “Tuesday morning. Eight o’clock. Outside the courthouse. Don’t be late.” “Giselle, I know you’re emotional right now, but you need to think about what’s best for Lucy.” “I am thinking about what’s best for Lucy. That’s why I’m divorcing you.” He looked at my face, saw the utter lack of negotiation, and fled the hospital in a panic. On Tuesday morning, he showed up late, still trying to play the rational one. “Are you sure about this? Lucy’s care is going to cost a lot of money. You’re a housewife with no income…” I didn’t answer. I walked straight up to the window and handed over my paperwork. My silence spoke louder than any argument. Patrick’s face darkened, and he signed the papers in a fit of pride. “Fine. Have it your way. Don’t come crying to me when you regret this.” We walked out of the courthouse, separate. The morning air felt incredibly crisp and clean. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. I was ready to start over with my daughter. But then, my phone rang. “Is this Lucy’s mother? Your daughter has just collapsed. She’s vomiting blood. We’ve issued a critical condition notice. You need to get to the ICU immediately.”

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For five years, Elliot and I lived crammed inside a rented room barely large enough to fit a double bed. It was the price we paid for survival. Three years ago, he threw himself in front of a spinning car to shield me, losing his sight in the crash. After that, he could never work again. The weight of keeping us afloat fell entirely on my shoulders. I took on three different part-time jobs, stretching my days until my bones ached. Just three hours ago, I stood frozen in the grocery store aisle, agonizing over whether to spend five dollars on a pre-packaged sandwich or three dollars on instant ramen. I swallowed the dry lump of hunger in my throat and walked away, returning to our cramped kitchen to boil a handful of plain, unseasoned noodles in water. But for Elliot, I had spent over an hour carefully simmering a rich pork rib broth, infusing it with every bit of nutrition we could afford. I didn’t let myself taste a single spoonful. We were so close. The jar of savings I’d scraped together over the years was exactly three hundred dollars short of what we needed for his corrective eye surgery. Then came my final delivery of the night at the upscale lounge where I worked. The heavy door of VIP Suite 4 was left slightly ajar, and through the crack, his voice drifted out, clear and sharp, shattering my world. “That is incredibly cruel, man. Just to test if Leah really loves you, you’ve been playing blind for three whole years?” “Making your girl pull triple shifts while you play sugar daddy to Caroline? You’re on another level.” “I heard she took a brutal spill on her bike during a delivery last month. She was in agony for weeks but wouldn’t even step foot in a clinic to save money. Doesn’t that break your heart?” Tears welled up, spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. I forgot to wipe them away. He wasn’t blind. It was all an elaborate crucible. He had spun a web of lies spanning seven years, all to measure the depth of my devotion. Maybe I should have let go of him a long time ago. … Inside the room, the air hung heavy and silent for a few beats. Then, Elliot’s lazy, familiar drawl cut through the quiet. “It doesn’t.” “It was just a fall. It’s not like she died.” “Besides, the insurance settlement wasn’t even enough to buy Caroline that new necklace.” “Leah’s too soft-headed. She didn’t even think to demand more.” The bottle in my hands felt like lead. I looked down at the label—a vintage bottle of Romanée-Conti, priced at over thirty-eight thousand dollars. A sum I could work my entire life and never save. Yet, to Elliot, it was just a casual drink on a Tuesday night. A drop in the bucket compared to the jewelry he bought for Caroline. But that “fall” had nearly cost me my life. I remembered the exact moment the sedan clipped my scooter. I was thrown onto the asphalt, but even as my vision blurred, my fingers clutched the delivery bag in a white-knuckled grip, terrified that a spilled container of soup would mean a deduction from my meager pay. The police ruled the other driver entirely at fault, resulting in a settlement of two thousand three hundred and fifty dollars. Even though my joints throbbed so hard my teeth rattled, I couldn’t bring myself to spend a single penny of it on a doctor. I gritted my teeth, pocketed the check, and added it straight to the surgery fund. I bought a cheap bottle of pain-relief liniment from the corner drugstore and rubbed it into my swollen skin in our dim bathroom. I had stared at his contact on my phone for an hour, debating whether to call. In the end, I locked the screen. I told myself that telling him would only make him worry, and what could a blind man do but feel helpless? But now, he sat in that plush room, declaring that it wouldn’t kill me. He had known all along. He just didn’t care. That was why he never once questioned the sharp, medicinal smell of liniment that clung to my skin for weeks. I took a deep, shaky breath, pulled my face mask tight over my nose, and pushed the door open. I had never told him that this third job was the final push to secure his sight. My hands trembled slightly as I placed the heavy crystal decanter on the table. Elliot didn’t look at me. He casually averted his eyes, completely indifferent to the server in front of him. The chatter around the table resumed, the words drifting into my ears like poison. “And that wedding of yours—man, talk about minimalist. A dollar for a symbolic dowry, no house, nothing. You planned it that way, didn’t you? And she still stuck by you for seven years.” Something inside my chest snapped, leaving behind a hollow, bitter laugh. The realization was a set of clean, sharp needles, stitching agony directly into my heart. Five years of marriage, seven years of devotion. It was long enough to build a life, and apparently, long enough for a man to rot from the inside out. I had loved him because once, his love for me was the only real thing in my world. My father had been a ruthless gambler, desperate enough to sell me off to a wealthy sixty-year-old local to clear his debts. Elliot had shown up with nothing but reckless courage, breaking into the house and carrying me out on his back. My father caught us at the edge of town, wielding a rusted kitchen knife. He stabbed Elliot repeatedly—five, maybe six times. But Elliot didn’t make a sound. He just gritted his teeth, held me tighter, and kept running through the dark. Only when we reached the safety of the highway did he finally collapse. Even as his strength faded, he squeezed my hand and whispered, “Don’t be scared. I’ve got you.” In that moment, I resolved to give him my entire life. Through all the grueling years that followed, whenever the exhaustion threatened to swallow me whole, I would repeat those words to myself. They were my anchor, pulling me through the darkest nights. I used to tell myself that the wedding, the house, the stability—they would all come in time. How foolish I was to believe in a future he had already locked away from me. I stepped out of the lounge, pulled out my phone, and sent him a voice message. [When are you coming home for dinner?] [Do you need me to come pick you up?] Inside the suite, his custom ringtone chimed. A chorus of knowing chuckles erupted. His face tightened in a brief flash of panic before he smoothly pulled out his phone, typing with practiced ease. With his other hand, he raised his glass to the group. “To a long night, gentlemen.” My screen lit up. I tapped the audio message, and my tears splashed onto the glass. His voice was casual, practiced, a script he had read a thousand times: [Still stuck at the cleaning gig, babe. It’s hard for me to get around in this weather. Go to sleep early.] In that quiet hallway, the final thread of my endurance broke. I dialed my boss’s number. “Diane, thank you for everything over the years. I’m putting in my notice.” Diane’s voice was warm with genuine relief. “Oh, Leah! Did you finally save up enough for his surgery? God knows you’ve earned it. Once Elliot gets his eyes back, you two can finally go watch those sunsets you always talk about.” I murmured a vague reply and hung up. It wasn’t that the fund was complete; it was that it no longer mattered. I could watch the sunset on my own. When Elliot first “lost his sight,” he had refused to leave our small apartment. So, I had put on a blindfold, stepping into the dark first. I mapped out every curb, every cracked pavement, every obstacle within a ten-block radius so I could teach him how to navigate the world. I fell more times than I could count, my knees and elbows permanently painted in shades of purple and blue. I learned to use a cane better than he did, memorizing the exact count of steps to the grocery store, reciting them to him like a prayer. I begged our neighbors to look out for him, but pleaded with them not to treat him with pity. I fled back to our apartment. It was a dark, damp basement unit, smelling of stale mildew and cheap wood. On the stove, the pork rib soup was still simmering, filling the cramped space with a rich, savory aroma. I picked up a spoon, blew on it, and tasted it. The warmth hit my tongue, and I broke down, sobbing into the quiet room. How had I been so blind? How had I never questioned how a sightless man could walk the streets of the city so flawlessly, never returning with a single scratch or a speck of dust on his clothes? I sat at the tiny kitchen table, staring into the dark until the sky turned a pale, sickly gray. It was dawn when Elliot finally returned. In his hand, he carried a plastic container of leftovers from his lavish dinner, offering it to me like a hard-won prize. “Leah, the kitchen manager at the diner let me take these home. Let’s eat together, okay?” He walked right past the bottle of extra-strength painkillers sitting on the counter, his eyes completely unblinking, perfectly deadpan. I watched him. Even now, he was still playing the part. Three steps from the kitchen to the table. Five steps from the table to the bed. I had wrapped every sharp corner of our mismatched furniture in soft foam padding, desperate to preserve his dignity and keep him safe from harm. He executed his familiar, hesitant shuffle across the linoleum floor. But this time, I didn’t rush forward to guide his elbow. I clenched my fists in my lap, my voice barely a whisper. “Elliot… what if we stop saving for the surgery? I’m just…” “So tired.” But he cut me off before the words could leave my throat. “You’ve held on for this long, Leah. Why would you give up now? We are so close to the goal.” I picked up the plastic container of leftovers and dumped it straight into the trash. His eyes widened, flashing with sudden, cold anger as he stared directly at me. “Are you out of your mind? There’s a limit to throwing tantrums.” I wanted to tell him about the endless shifts, the deep calluses on my palms that didn’t belong on a woman my age. I wanted to ask him why he lied to me, how the man who once bled for me could turn into a stranger. But the words dissolved into ash in my throat. I couldn’t utter a single syllable. There was no warmth in his gaze—not even a flicker of genuine concern. I silently cleared the table, pouring the untouched pork broth back into the pot. He hovered by the kitchen doorway, hesitating before stepping closer. “Is this about money? Are you unhappy at work? Just hang in there, Leah. Please. I only act like this because I’m terrified of losing you, because I love you so much… The doctor said the surgery will work. Once I have my sight back, I can finally take care of you.” No matter what went wrong in my life, his answer was always the same: “just hang in there”. Just endure the pain, and it will pass. Just work another shift, and the money will be there. Just hold on, and things will get better. But I didn’t want to endure anymore. The very words that used to comfort me now felt like salt in an open wound. For years, I had been the willing fool in his elaborate game. I gave a quiet, hollow nod. “Okay. I understand.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw things. I was entirely calm. Elliot let out a slow, relieved breath, turned on his heel, and went into the bathroom to shower. As the water started running, his phone screen lit up on the nightstand. A message appeared from “Caroline (Wife)”. [Don’t forget my birthday next week.] [I love the Starry Orbit necklace you got me. It’s perfect for everyday wear.] [Also, my period started. Can you pick up some pads for me?] I pulled out my own cheap phone, my fingers trembling as I searched the name of the necklace. The screen lagged for a few excruciating seconds before revealing the price: fifteen thousand dollars. A casual gift. A sum that would take me half a lifetime of grueling labor to save. On my birthdays, my hands were raw from carrying heavy shipments, my feet blistered from the scorching heat of double shifts. I never took a day off. I was always running, always chasing the illusion of a better life. My celebration was always a five-dollar grocery store cupcake. I had treated every penny like it was a matter of life and death. Yet every single year, Elliot was by Caroline’s side, celebrating her birthdays with custom cakes and five-figure jewelry. Every tiny, odd detail I had forced myself to ignore over the years came rushing back with terrifying clarity. He had used his “blindness” as an excuse for everything. No matching profile pictures. No social media presence. But his phone’s lock screen was a portrait of Caroline in a stunning white dress. I had never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at her in that photo—with absolute, reverent adoration. They looked like a couple in a bridal magazine. And my contact name on his phone? It was just a random string of alphanumeric code. How pathetic. Everything I had been denied—the romance, the respect, the security—had been given to someone else. All I had was a piece of paper called a marriage certificate. When I had once begged him to put up a photo of us, his expression had turned deeply wounded. “‘Leah, navigating those settings is so hard for me. Please don’t make things difficult.’” Inside the bathroom, his voice called out over the sound of the shower. “Leah, can you grab me a dry towel? Leah, come help me.” He had never seen me as a wife. I was just a live-in nurse. A servant he could dismiss when the shift was over. The water stopped. I slipped his phone back onto the nightstand and lay down, letting the quiet tears soak into my pillow. Elliot stepped out, picked up his phone, and typed out his replies. After a moment, he turned in my direction. “Leah, do you know what brand of pads is best? Like, for a heavy flow?” My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Realizing his mistake, he quickly turned back to his phone, pretending to clumsily search the web. I stared at the ceiling, digging my fingernails into my palms until they bled. “Let’s get a divorce,” I said, my voice hoarse. Elliot didn’t even pause. He either hadn’t heard me, or simply didn’t care enough to acknowledge it. My mind drifted back to New Year’s Eve when we were twenty. He had proposed under a sky filled with fireworks, his eyes burning with an intensity that made me believe every word. “‘I’m going to buy you the biggest house one day, Leah. I’m going to give you the life you deserve.’” I suppose promises are only currency when love is alive. Once it dies, they’re just worthless paper. I slipped the cheap, tarnished band off my ring finger. The metal had begun to rust, a perfect reflection of what we had become. I unlocked my phone and booked a one-way ticket to Seattle. I could learn to watch the sunrise alone. Ten minutes later, Elliot was fully dressed, grabbing his coat. “My boss needs me to cover an early shift, babe. Go back to sleep. What did you say earlier?” He leaned down and pressed a soft, meaningless kiss to my forehead. I remained perfectly still, refusing to repeat myself, as the tears rolled silently into my hair. I stood by the window and watched him walk down the street to the 24-hour convenience store. Through the glass storefront, I watched his eyes scan the shelves. He didn’t hesitate; he reached for the premium, organic brand on the top shelf. A familiar, dull ache bloomed in my chest. I had always bought the cheapest, bulk-packaged pads online, half of them without proper branding. Elliot had seen them a thousand times and never once questioned it. He had never cared. I had ended up in the hospital with a severe infection from a bad batch of those cheap products, spending two agonizing weeks in a ward. Elliot had been so detached during that hospital stay, letting me hold his hand like it was a chore. When the doctor insisted I remain hospitalized for a month, I discharged myself early. I couldn’t afford to lose my shifts at the diner and the coffee shop. I had cried myself to sleep that night in our damp bed. Elliot didn’t hold me. He had only muttered, “You’re out now, so it’s fine.” To this day, my hand still instinctively reached for the budget brand on the bottom shelf. I didn’t know how we had drifted so far into this abyss. There was a time when he would hold me tight, whispering apologies for not being able to give me a better life. And now? Elliot walked out of the store and stepped directly into the back of a waiting luxury sedan. Through the tinted window, I saw the driver bow his head. “Mr. Aldridge, your wife has been waiting for you.” I stood frozen on the sidewalk for a long moment before hailing a cab. I needed to see her. I needed to see the woman he had spent five years protecting. The cab followed his car to an upscale brownstone. Elliot stepped out carrying a bouquet of fresh red roses and knocked on the door. Caroline opened it, throwing her arms around his neck, teasingly reaching into his coat pockets for her gift. Elliot laughed, stroking her hair with an unmistakable tenderness. He produced a jewelry box, fastening the delicate necklace around her throat. She beamed, kissing his cheek. Then, they leaned into each other, lost in a deep, intimate kiss. I knew I was done with him, but watching the betrayal play out in front of me still felt like a physical blow. I stood in the shadow of a streetlamp, biting my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, desperate to keep from making a sound. My knees buckled, and I sank onto the cold concrete, wrapping my arms around myself as if to shield the broken girl I had been for seven years. Eventually, I forced myself to stand and walk away from her doorstep. But my mind was elsewhere, and I missed my footing on the steep concrete stairs. I went tumbling down, crashing heavily onto the pavement. My knees tore open, and sharp pain flared across my arms and ribs. Years ago, I had been diagnosed with a mild clotting disorder. I had never told Elliot—medical treatments were a luxury our budget couldn’t support. Now, the dark blood seeped through my jeans, refusing to stop. Kneeling on the freezing pavement, my fingers shook as I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It was a pathetic, desperate gamble. I wanted to see if there was any shred of me left in his heart, if seven years of unpaid devotion bought me even a single moment of his concern. I dialed again and again. The screen flashed and died, reflecting my pale, tear-streaked face. Finally, the line connected, but there was no voice. Only the sound of rustling sheets and soft, breathless sighs echoing through the receiver into the empty street. A cold, absolute despair washed over me, like the endless gray rain that had defined my life for so long. In that quiet stairwell, the last embers of my love for Elliot quietly went out. Minutes later, a text arrived: [Leah, did you forget I’m blind? I can’t exactly drive over to get you.] The same excuse. The same lie he had used to bind me to him. My eyelids grew heavy. I was too weak to stand. I remembered the day of the crash, how he had sprinted toward me as the truck lost control, throwing his body over mine. The deafening screech of metal on metal had filled the air. Surrounded by shattered glass and rising smoke, he had pinned me to the pavement, covering my ears, his ragged breath hot against my neck. “‘If we get out of this alive, Leah, we’re getting married.’” We did get married. But promises made in the heat of a fire are easily scattered once the ashes grow cold. This time, as I lay bleeding on the concrete, Elliot never looked back. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a sterile hospital ward. A neighbor had found me unconscious on the sidewalk and called 911, saving my life. By the time my leg healed enough for my discharge, the winter had broken, and the streets were bright with early spring sunshine. When I packed up the basement apartment, I realized how little of myself I had allowed to exist there. All my belongings fit easily into two small suitcases. The apartment was empty, and so was I. I left without leaving a single trace behind. Miles away, in his spacious study, Elliot felt an odd, nagging ache in his chest—like a missing rib. Then, his phone chimed with an audio message. [Elliot. You’ve been able to see for a long time, haven’t you? Let’s get a divorce.] In an instant, the color drained from his face, and the crystal glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the hardwood floor.

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For five years, I was a prisoner inside my own ribcage. A traveler from another world took over my life, armed with a system and a mission to win over the people I loved. I had always been loud, fierce, and fiercely passionate. She was quiet, dull, and painfully awkward. The moment she slipped into my skin, my parents and my husband knew she wasn’t me. For the first three years, they didn’t even try to hide their disgust for the intruder. But the universe—her “system”—had a rule: I could only return once she successfully completed her mission of making them love her. She was too terrified to make a move. So, desperate to bring me back, my family began guiding her, holding her hand through the steps to win themselves over. I truly believed they loved me beyond measure. Until I woke up early. When I finally opened my eyes, I found Christian gripping my wrists, his eyes swimming with terror and desperation. “The mission is almost over…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please… can’t you just stay?” My parents sat beside the bed, nodding through their tears. “Sweetheart, we came back from ten years in the future.” “In that future, after you left, our real daughter returned. But nothing felt right anymore. We weren’t used to her.” “We tried to find you, only to discover that when you went back to your original world… you died.” I let out a quiet, hollow laugh. So that was it. There was no one left in this world waiting for me to come home. But it didn’t matter. What they didn’t know was that I had a system of my own. Since all my ties to this life were severed, my work here was done. This time, I could leave without looking back. … Deep in my mind, I summoned my system. “Confirming abandonment of my current identity. Requesting immediate extraction.” The cold, synthesized voice chimed in instantly: “Application received. Extraction sequence initiated. Countdown: twenty-four hours. After today, your soul will be permanently returned to your original world.” Sensing my silence, Christian tightened his grip on my wrist. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling. “Please, Gloria,” he pleaded. “Stay. I beg you.” I stared at him for what felt like an eternity, then let out a soft, tired sigh. My mother lunged forward, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “Yes, Gloria. I can’t survive without you. Please, just stay with us.” My father stood at the foot of the bed. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were filled with desperate hope. They were calling for Gloria. The name of the traveler. I looked at the three people who used to be my entire universe. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, masking every ounce of grief behind a blank stare. Then, mimicking Gloria’s soft, timid cadence, I whispered, “Okay. I won’t leave.” The moment the words left my lips, Christian pulled me into a crushing embrace. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his hot tears spilling onto my skin. “Thank God… thank you, Gloria.” My mother covered her mouth, sobbing with relief, while my father turned away to wipe his eyes, a heavy weight lifting from his shoulders. They were so incredibly happy. So consumed by their relief that they failed to realize the person sitting right in front of them was the daughter my mother had carried for nine months, the girl Christian had grown up with and loved since childhood. They didn’t see Iris. I rested stiffly against Christian’s shoulder, my eyes drifting to the framed family photo on the nightstand. It was taken five years ago. In the picture, I was wearing a vibrant red dress, laughing hysterically as I piggybacked on Christian. Back then, Christian used to tell me I was his sun. He swore to the heavens that no one would ever take his sun away. Back then, my mother spent hours in the kitchen every Sunday making my favorite chicken pot pie, pulling the golden crust fresh from the oven just for me. And when someone at a high-society gala whispered that I was too wild, too spoiled to be the daughter of Thomas, my father had flipped the table in a rage, pointing a finger in the man’s face and telling him to get the hell out. He had roared that his daughter had earned the right to be spoiled for the rest of her life. But everything shifted the moment the traveler invaded my body. And my own system had been powerless to stop it. During the first year, when Gloria had first taken over, Christian had shoved away a glass of water she tried to hand him. “Don’t use Iris’s face to look so pathetic,” he had sneered, disgust dripping from his voice. “It makes me sick.” In the second year, when Gloria clumsily cut her finger in the kitchen, my mother had watched her bleed with cold indifference. “My daughter has never stepped foot in a kitchen,” she had snapped. “Stop pretending to be a dutiful housewife.” By the third year, Gloria’s progress had stalled completely, triggering a penalty warning from her system. Desperate to get me back, my father swallowed his pride and his hatred, teaching Gloria step-by-step how to please Christian, how to win his heart back. It was around that time that my soul, drained of all its energy, fell into a deep slumber. I slept for two years, believing my family was enduring a living nightmare just to rescue me. I didn’t realize that while I slept, their hearts had quietly drifted away. What had happened during those two years? “System,” I called out in the silence of my mind. “Show me the memory logs from my slumber.” The system complied, projecting a stream of memories directly into my consciousness. The reel began to spin. Year Four. Gloria had drank herself to a stomach hemorrhage at a business dinner to save Christian from a client. Christian stayed by her hospital bed for three days and nights, gently wiping her brow with a warm cloth. When she finally opened her eyes, he kissed the back of her hand, his eyes red. “You’re so clumsy,” he had murmured, his voice thick with a tenderness he could no longer hide. “How are you going to survive without me?” Later that year, Gloria sat crying, unable to memorize the complex social etiquettes my father was trying to drill into her. For the first time, Thomas didn’t yell. Instead, he handed her a tissue. “If you can’t learn it, don’t,” he said softly. “Being quiet is nice, too. At least you don’t cause trouble like Iris did.” Then, Gloria cut her finger again while trying to complete a cooking challenge set by her system. My mother rushed into the kitchen, snatched the knife, and threw it into the trash. Hugging Gloria tight, she wept, “To hell with the mission! We don’t care about bringing Iris back anymore! Just don’t hurt yourself!” Year Five. Margaret took Gloria shopping. She walked right past the vibrant red dresses I used to adore, instead filling a wardrobe with soft, minimalist white linen dresses. “White suits you so well, Gloria,” my mother had said, smiling warmly. “It’s so clean and peaceful.” The projection faded. I reached up and quietly wiped away a tear before it could fall. Just two years. In just two short years, they had taken an outsider and, piece by piece, raised her to be the darling of their hearts. Gently, I pushed Christian away. Using Gloria’s quiet, hesitant voice, I asked, “If I stay… what happens to Iris?” The living room fell dead silent. My father stared down at the hardwood floor. My mother gripped my hands tightly, her voice cracking with emotion. “Gloria, like we said, we came back from ten years in the future.” “In that future, you finished your mission and gave Iris her body back. But we realized we couldn’t go back to the way things were. We weren’t used to her anymore. Iris… she wouldn’t even let us speak your name. She made us throw away everything that belonged to you.” “We missed you so much. We missed the dishes you baked, the quiet way you waited by the door for us to come home.” “So, we decided to go look for you. But we found out that when you returned to your original world… you died in an accident.” Christian grabbed my shoulders, desperation clawing at his face. “We regretted it so much. We prayed to every god, made bargains with the universe, begging on our knees for a second chance.” “And the universe answered. We were sent back to this moment, before you left. This time, we are never letting you go.” Listening to them, my throat felt like it was clogged with ash. So in that other lifetime, I hadn’t just lost their love; I had been branded an unreasonable, bitter woman for wanting my own life back. They had crossed a decade, weeping and begging the heavens, not to save me—but to rescue Gloria. Still playing Gloria, I asked softly, “But what about Iris? Are you just going to abandon her?” My father let out a heavy sigh. “We’ll find a way. Iris is our daughter, but you’re our daughter now, too. We want both of you.” I turned my gaze to Christian. “Do you feel that way too?” Christian looked up, his eyes shining with naked devotion. “Yes, Gloria. I can’t live without you either. As for Iris…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll make it up to her. I’ll sign over my shares to her name. She’ll have enough money to never work a day in her life.” I stared at his earnest face. Seven years of love and shared history, reduced to a financial settlement. I offered a gentle nod, keeping Gloria’s placid smile on my face. “Well, congratulations,” I thought. “You succeeded. You kept your precious Gloria. And I, finally, get to leave.” My mother squeezed my hands. “Gloria, you have such a soft heart. We know you feel guilty about taking Iris’s body. We know you’d never want to hurt her just to save yourself.” I looked at her, saying nothing, and slowly pulled my hands back. In the corner of my vision, my countdown clock was ticking away. My father sighed. “That’s why we went to your system. We asked if there was a way for both of your souls to co-exist, without either of you having to sleep forever.” My grip tightened around my glass of water. “The system told us that for one body to host two conscious souls, it requires massive energy. To achieve that balance, we have to weaken the original soul’s anchor to this world.” “We have to destroy the three things Iris treasures most in this world.” Christian chimed in quickly. “But don’t worry, it’s just a temporary hardship for her. If it weren’t for you looking after her parents and taking care of me these past five years, this family would have fallen apart long ago. What’s a little suffering compared to that?” Margaret’s eyes welled with tears. “Don’t carry this burden, Gloria. We can’t let you die. Iris doesn’t know any of this anyway. We’ll explain it to her later when she wakes up.” My father nodded in agreement. “Exactly. This is the only way you both survive. Making Iris suffer a little in exchange for two lives—it’s worth it.” Even though I had already checked out of this world, hearing those words pour from their mouths carved a sharp, fresh ache into my chest. “Sacrificing me for my own good.” What a beautifully twisted joke. But thankfully, Iris wouldn’t be needing their mercy anymore. I summoned Gloria’s quiet, submissive smile. “Okay. I trust you.” A wave of relief washed over the room. Christian turned to my parents, immediately mapping out the system’s instructions. “First, Iris’s art gallery downtown. I’ll have my people clear it out tomorrow and put the property up for sale.” My mother hesitated for a split second. “But she worked so hard to build that place. She loved that gallery.” “Mom, we spoiled her too much in the last life,” Christian said, his voice dropping. My father nodded. “A gallery can be rebuilt. Once her soul is stable, I’ll buy her a bigger space in a prime location.” “Second,” Christian paused, his eyes falling on the ring on my finger. “Our seventh anniversary. The ceremony is tomorrow. I’ll announce its cancellation publicly, revoking my vows to Iris.” I listened in silence, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my lips. That was the ring he had slipped onto my finger while kneeling in front of our entire university class. He had sworn to the world that Iris would be his wife, and only his, forever. “And the third?” my mother asked. My father took a breath. “Third, we erase every trace of Iris from this house. Her bedroom will be completely gutted and remodeled into a style Gloria likes.” My father looked at me, his voice soothing. “Gloria, we are keeping you with us in this life. When we found you in your world, you were lying on a cold slab in a morgue.” Margaret chimed in, tears spilling over. “That’s why we’d rather let Iris suffer a little than lose you again. She’s our flesh and blood—she’ll understand our sacrifices once she wakes up.” I watched the three of them console one another. They had fully convinced themselves of their righteousness. To save Gloria, they were going to tear my life apart, all under the guise of loving me. Right there in front of me, Christian called his assistant. “Liquidate every painting in Iris’s gallery. Sell them off, give them away, do whatever it takes. I want the deed transferred by the end of the day.” Hanging up, he looked at me eagerly. “Step one is done, Gloria. Did the system’s progress bar move?” I stared at the empty air, pretending to look at a holographic screen, and nodded. “It did.” Christian exhaled a long breath. Then, he pulled up his social media account, which had millions of followers. For years, his feed had been a public monument to our love. Now, without a shred of hesitation, his thumb swiped across the screen. He hit delete on every photo, every love letter, every anniversary post, and our engagement announcement. He topped it off by posting a public statement: “Seven years, and it’s over. We have gone our separate ways. I wish her the best.” I watched the post go live. Within five minutes, his phone was blowing up with texts and calls from mutual friends. Christian simply powered it off. He turned to comfort me—or perhaps to comfort himself. “It doesn’t matter. Reputation, pride… none of it matters as long as we keep you both alive. I’ll explain everything to Iris when she’s back.” Upstairs, the deafening sound of drilling began. My parents had personally escorted a construction crew into the bedroom I had lived in for twenty-five years. I walked up the stairs and leaned against the doorframe, watching. My mother pointed at the framed certificates and paintings on my wall, her voice sharp and clinical. “Take all of these down. Throw them in the dumpster outside.” “Get rid of the bed too,” my father ordered the workmen. “Replace it with a simple single bed. Strip the wallpaper. Paint everything solid white.” That was the pink wallpaper my mother had spent a whole weekend helping me hang. That was the custom oak display case my father had commissioned for me when I won the state art championship. Now, the workers ripped them down, piling them in the hallway like junk. My mother pulled a thick leather photo album from my desk drawer—our family album, filled with memories of the three of us from my childhood to my twenties. Without a single glance inside, she tossed it directly into a heavy black trash bag. “Is there anything else we should change, Gloria?” she asked, turning to me. I shook my head slowly. “No, it’s perfect. The system says the tasks are complete.” In reality, the voice ringing in my head was saying: “Extraction countdown: ten minutes.” As the last of my belongings hit the bottom of the trash bag, a violent, tearing pain flared through my chest. The physical toll of the soul extraction hit me all at once. I tasted copper, and a splash of blood spilled past my lips. My mother gasped, rushing forward to support me. “Gloria! What’s happening?” My father hovered over us, panic in his eyes. “Is this a side effect of the balance transfer?” I nodded, my face turning deathly pale. “The system says… Iris’s soul is experiencing rejection pain. My body is just feeling the resonance. It will pass once the countdown ends.” Hearing that it was Iris who was suffering, the tension melted from their faces. Christian gently wiped the blood from my chin, his voice incredibly soft. “Hold on. It’ll be over soon.” Five minutes. I pushed Christian’s hand away and stood up straight, steadying myself. I looked around the room, at the bare walls, at the three people who once meant everything to me. I felt absolutely nothing. One minute left. The voice echoed: “Extraction sequence ready.” I looked at Christian, at Thomas, and at Margaret. They were staring at me with eyes full of hope, waiting for Gloria to stabilize, waiting for the beautiful future where both souls lived in harmony. I counted down in my head. “Three. Two. One.” “Erase all soul traces of Iris from this world,” I commanded my system. A violent wave of weightlessness hit me. My soul was ripped from the physical shell. From a height, I watched my body collapse, losing all strength. Christian lunged forward, catching her in his arms. “Gloria!” My parents scrambled over. “Why did she faint? Did it work?” Margaret cried. “Is Iris awake?” “It should be fine,” my father reassured her, though his voice shook. “We did everything the system asked. Iris should be waking up now.” On the sofa, the woman’s eyelashes fluttered. She slowly opened her eyes, the haze of unconsciousness giving way to sharp, clear recognition. Christian gripped her hand, his voice thick with tenderness. “Gloria, you’re awake. How do you feel? Is Iris there? Can she hear us?” Gloria stared at Christian’s hand around hers, then looked at the worried faces of Thomas and Margaret. She flinched, her voice trembling. “How… how am I back? I’m alive?” Christian froze. “Gloria, what are you talking about? Of course you’re back. Can you feel Iris? Is she in there with you?” Gloria’s eyes widened in horror. “But… my system told me that this final day belonged to Iris. She took control of the body for twenty-four hours to say her final goodbyes.” She swallowed hard, looking around the empty, ruined room. “Did she already leave?”

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Simon was the most celebrated fireworks designer in the country. In our seven years together, I had hinted a thousand times that I wanted a show created just for me. Every time, he’d simply run his fingers through my hair with a soft chuckle. “Next birthday, babe. I’ll design the most beautiful show you’ve ever seen.” On the night of my birthday, my heart hammered with anticipation as I rushed down to the coast. But beneath the canopy of blazing colors, I saw Simon. He was holding Daphne, his arms wrapped tightly around her. The fireworks bloomed over the ocean, a breathtaking canvas of light that felt entirely like someone else’s dream. I stood frozen at the edge of the sand, catching the drifted chatter of the onlookers. “I heard the designer puts this on for his muse every single year.” “A million-dollar show just for her. Now that’s real devotion.” I stood at the very periphery of the crowd, watching the two of them bathed in a shower of falling light. A sharp, hollow ache bloomed in my chest. When we got back to the apartment, Simon handed me a beautifully wrapped box. “Happy birthday!” he said. “It’s a robot vacuum—top of the line. Now you don’t have to bend over to clean. Your back will thank me.” I stared down at the sleek, practical machine. And suddenly, a quiet, empty smile crept onto my face. It took seven years to love Simon. But letting him go took only a single, silent second. … Simon tore open the packaging with meticulous care. “It’s the newest smart model,” he explained, adjusting the dock. “Let the tech handle the chore from now on. You shouldn’t have to work so hard.” I glanced at the receipt sticking out of the box. Nearly two thousand dollars. It wasn’t cheap. In the past, I would have bent over backward to convince myself: “He loves you, Diana. He’s just practical.” But tonight, I had seen that sky. I had seen the golden trails of light cascading over the water, bridging the ocean to the horizon like an endless dream. A dream that didn’t belong to me. “The display tonight,” I said softly, “was that yours?” His hands paused for a fraction of a second. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly casual. “Yeah. Daphne is back in the country. I promised her a long time ago I’d do a show for her every year.” “Every year.” The words hung heavily in the quiet room, pressing down on my chest like lead. I had waited seven years. Waiting for Simon to be less busy, waiting for his “next time,” waiting for the promised masterpiece. But Daphne didn’t have to wait. Her sky lit up every single year, without fail. Noticing my silence, Simon crossed the room and took my hands in his. “Diana, fireworks are just a flash of light. They burn out, and then they’re gone. I got you this because I actually want your daily life to be easier.” I offered a faint smile, withholding the bitter questions that used to claw at my throat. He let out a soft sigh of relief and ruffled my hair. “I knew you’d get it. You’ve always been the sensible one.” “Sensible.” That word again. In seven years, I’d heard it enough to make me sick. On my birthday, when I asked for flowers, he bought me an air fryer. “Flowers die in a week,” he’d said. “This lasts for years.” For our anniversary, when I suggested a weekend trip to the coast, he got me a neck massager. “You always complain about your shoulders. This is way more practical than driving all that way.” When I begged for just a little romance, he’d pull me close and chuckle. “We’ve been together forever, babe. Leave those silly romantic gestures to teenagers.” I used to tell myself he was just a realist. Simon dealt in grand spectacles of light; perhaps when your job is literal magic, daily life becomes mundane. I thought he saved his creativity for his work. But tonight, the truth settled in. He understood romance perfectly. He just chose not to waste it on me. Daphne loved golden glitter trails. He would stay up until three in the morning adjusting the chemical burn rates just to get the hue right. Daphne loved the ocean. So he painted the entire horizon for her. Then a memory flashed in my mind: the most breathtaking part of tonight’s show, the indigo and lavender nebula that swept across the dark sky, was from a sketch I had drawn on a napkin seven years ago. I had leaned over his drafting table, eyes bright, and whispered, “Simon, if you ever design a show for me, can you make it look like a violet galaxy spilling into the sea?” At the time, he had laughed, calling it childish. “That’s not how pyrotechnics work, Diana.” Yet tonight, that exact childish galaxy had bloomed right over Daphne’s head. Simon’s phone buzzed on the counter. The name “Daphne” flashed on the screen. He glanced at me, picked up the phone, and stepped out onto the balcony, leaving the sliding door cracked open. His quieted voice drifted into the warm living room, filled with a tenderness I had never received. “Did you like the indigo-violet sequence tonight? … Yeah, actually, Diana had scribbled down a rough idea years ago. She doesn’t understand the chemistry of it, she just likes pretty concepts, so I took her doodle and rebuilt it properly.” My fingertips went entirely numb. Then, Daphne must have asked him something else. Simon chuckled softly. “She won’t mind. She’s always sensible about these things. Besides, her life revolves around cooking and doing chores—she doesn’t know anything about art or fire. My shows are for people who actually understand the medium. Like you.” I stared down at my phone, at the confirmation message for my upcoming appointment at the clinic. An absurd laugh bubbled up in my chest. The fireworks I had waited seven years for weren’t a matter of effort or timing. It was simply that, in Simon’s eyes, I was never worthy of the art. I used to think that if I just held on a little longer, he would finally turn around and see me. But now, the smoke had cleared. It was time for me to walk off his stage. The next evening, Simon took me to a college reunion at a downtown lounge. I hadn’t expected Daphne to be there. She sat next to Simon, looking effortless in a white slip dress. A few old friends were already teasing them. “Daphne, you made it! God, remember college? You and Simon were the golden duo. The pyrotechnic prodigy and the visual arts queen. Everyone thought you’d be married by graduation.” I froze at the entrance of the private room. Daphne was two years ahead of me. Back in college, she was the girl everyone wanted to be. Brilliant, radiant, her installations permanently featured in the main gallery. She was the reason I had first heard of Simon. Everyone said they were a match made in heaven. When Simon eventually asked me out, I had quietly wondered if fate had finally decided to be kind to me. But now, looking at Daphne seated beside him, those nostalgic jokes felt like tiny needles stitching through my skin. I forced a polite smile and took a seat on Simon’s other side. Halfway through the night, I slipped out to the restroom. When I returned, the heavy door to the private room was slightly ajar. Inside, someone who had clearly had too much to drink laughed. “But seriously, Simon. You and Daphne were inseparable. How did you end up chasing Diana right after? We still talk about how wild that was.” The room fell quiet for a second. Simon, his voice loose from the bourbon, muttered, “That’s old history.” But Daphne let out a soft laugh. “Oh, come on, Simon. Why be shy? We had that massive fight, and he was desperate to prove he didn’t need me.” Her voice was quiet, but it pierced the air. “Diana happened to walk by the campus café right then. He pointed at her and told me, ‘Watch this. I’ll have her in three days. You really think you’re irreplaceable?’” A round of chuckles erupted. “No way! So Diana was just a dare?” Daphne hesitated, perhaps realizing she’d gone too far, and sighed softly. “I mean, I don’t mean it like that. Diana is sweet. It’s just… that’s how it started.” In an instant, the world went completely silent. The air left my lungs, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight. The romance I thought had been written in the stars was actually just a spiteful boy pointing at a random girl on a sidewalk. I had replayed our first meeting a thousand times in my head: Simon intercepting me on the quad, books clutched to my chest, his smile catching the autumn sun. I had spent seven years believing I was lucky. Now I knew I was just a punchline. “Do you regret it now, though?” someone asked. The room went still. I held my breath, pressed against the cold drywall of the corridor. Even now, broken as I was, a pathetic part of me was waiting. Waiting for him to say “no”. Waiting for him to say that somewhere along those seven years, he had actually fallen in love with me. But the silence stretched. It stretched until my fingers went completely cold. He didn’t say a word. In that moment, I wanted him to lie. Just for the sake of mercy. But his silence spoke louder than any words ever could. Inside, the sound of a glass shattering broke the quiet. “Oh, ouch! That’s hot!” Daphne gasped. Simon was on his feet instantly. The door to the room was thrown open. He was already ushering Daphne out, completely blind to me standing in the doorway. The impact knocked me off balance. I hit the hard tile floor, a sharp, white-hot spasm tearing through my lower abdomen. It felt as if something vital inside me was being ripped apart. Simon looked down, his brow furrowing. “Diana? What are you doing standing out here?” I trembled, my hands instantly flying to clutch my stomach. “Simon… I have to tell you, I’m…” Before I could finish, Daphne let out a sharp, theatrical wince. Simon’s attention snapped back to her, panic flashing in his eyes. “Diana, I need to get Daphne to the ER. Take an Uber home, okay? It was just a small trip—you’ll be fine once you get off your feet.” I reached out, catching the edge of his sleeve, my fingers trembling violently. “No, Simon, wait—” But he pulled away, sweeping past me down the corridor. As they went, Daphne looked back over his shoulder. She caught my eye, her lips curving into a slow, triumphant smirk. I sat on the freezing floor, watching his back recede into the dim light of the hallway. The cramping intensified, a heavy, dull ache. And then I felt it—the warm, slow trickle of blood down my thigh. I managed to get myself to the emergency room. After what felt like hours of testing, the doctor came in, looking grave. “The fetus is still there,” she said, looking down at the clipboard. “But you are threatened with a miscarriage. You cannot sustain any physical or emotional stress right now.” She glanced at the empty hallway behind the curtain. “Where is your partner?” I was silent for a long moment. “There’s no one,” I whispered. The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. The child had a father. I just didn’t have a way to tell him. The sun was long gone by the time I discharged myself, clutching a bag of prescriptions. When I pushed open the door to our apartment, Daphne’s laughter spilled out of the living room. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror, wearing my wedding gown. Simon stood behind her, adjusting the delicate tulle veil over her shoulders. It was the gown I had spent weeks searching for, visiting five different boutiques before finding the one. When I had texted him a picture of it, he had taken hours to reply with a simple, “Looks fine.” But now, his eyes were wide, filled with an awe he had never shown me. Catching my reflection in the mirror, Daphne gasped, smoothing down the satin skirt in mock panic. “Diana! Oh, please don’t be mad. The boutique delivered it today. Simon mentioned you weren’t feeling well, so I thought I’d help check the fit for you.” I stood in the doorway, my fingers cutting into the paper pharmacy bag. I could see the safety pins cinching the waist. Pinning it to Daphne’s measurements. I remembered trying it on in our bedroom. The waist had been slightly loose, and I’d turned to Simon, asking if I should have it tailored tighter. He hadn’t even looked up from his screen. “Whatever you want, Diana. It’s fine.” Yet here he was, smoothing every wrinkle on Daphne with agonizing precision. The urge to scream, to demand answers, died inside me. All that was left was an immense, hollow quiet. Daphne bypassed the silence, picking up the printouts of the wedding plans from the coffee table. “Oh, and we were looking at the fireworks layout for the reception. Honestly, the current theme is a bit cliché. What if we changed it to that violet galaxy design?” She looked at my pale face, tilting her head. “You don’t mind, do you, Diana? I just think it would look so much more romantic.” My throat burned. The violet galaxy. My napkin sketch. The promise I had lived on for seven years, given away like scraps. Simon looked down at the layout. “Sure,” he said. He didn’t even look at me. “A wedding show needs to be spectacular anyway. Daphne always did understand my aesthetic better.” I wanted to laugh out loud. My dress was on her body. My wedding was being reshaped in her image. Even my childhood dream had to go through her to be realized. Daphne began flipping through the seating arrangements. “Should we put me at the head table, Simon? I mean, given our history, sitting too far away might make people think we’re hiding something. It would look less awkward if I’m close.” Simon murmured, “Of course you’re at the main table. You’re not an outsider, Daphne.” Not an outsider. Which meant I, the bride, was the only stranger in the room, interrupting their beautiful reunion. Simon finally walked over, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “Go get some rest. Let Daphne handle the details. Her taste is better suited for this anyway.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch, and walked into the bedroom without a word. I heard him sigh with relief behind me. He probably thought I was just being “sensible” again. I opened my closet and began silently packing my clothes into a duffel bag. In the living room, the robot vacuum was humming, bumping into the dining table leg over and over again—a perfect metaphor for seven years of clumsy, useless devotion. I ignored it. I packed my passport, my ID, my cards. Outside the door, their voices drifted as they mapped out a sky of colored fire. It was fine. No matter how bright they made it, those lights would never have to touch me again. At two in the morning, a blinding pain woke me. I sat up, clutching my stomach, the room spinning into darkness. Simon wasn’t in bed. I hesitated, then dialed his number. It rang for what felt like eternity before connecting. In the background, I heard Daphne sobbing, calling his name. Simon’s voice was sharp with stress. “Diana? What is it?” I slumped against the wall, barely able to breathe through the agony. “Simon… I’m bleeding. There’s so much blood…” There was a brief pause on the line. Then, Daphne let out another loud, dramatic cry. Simon’s tone hardened. “Diana, you need to call a cab and get to the hospital. Daphne got a spark burn on her hand during the test fire. I can’t leave her right now.” My grip on the phone tightened. A tiny ember on Daphne’s hand was worth more than my entire body failing. “Simon,” I whispered, “what if something really happens to me?” He let out an irritated sigh. “Don’t dramatically exaggerate. Can you not pick tonight of all nights to pick a fight? Daphne is in actual pain here. Just be reasonable for once.” Daphne wailed again in the background. Simon muttered, “I have to go. Text me when you’re at the clinic.” The line went dead. The silence returned to the dark bedroom. I looked down at the dark stains on my palms. Seven years of my life, boiled down to a dial tone. It wasn’t even worth another tear. I called an ambulance myself. In the back of the emergency vehicle, I kept my hands pressed flat against my lower stomach, but I could feel the life draining out of me. At the height of the pain, a dark thought crossed my mind: “Maybe dying on the way wouldn’t be so bad.” At least then, I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I had wasted seven years on a ghost. When the gurney rolled into the ER, a nurse rushed alongside me. “Where is your family? Your emergency contact?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t have anyone.” Saying those words didn’t hurt as much as I expected. It was just hollow. Like the last remaining piece of me had finally evaporated. The doctor’s face was grim after the procedure. “The pregnancy is gone,” he said gently. “The hemorrhaging was severe. If you had arrived ten minutes later, we might not have been able to stabilize you.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Because of the scarring and complications… conceiving in the future is going to be very difficult.” I stared at the harsh fluorescent lights of the ceiling. No tears came. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A notification from social media: Daphne had posted. It was a photo of her hand. There was a tiny, barely visible red smudge on her knuckles. Simon was half-kneeling before her, carefully dabbing ointment on it. Her caption read: “When the sparks fly, I’m glad you’re the one holding the ice.” A comment below read: “Simon is literally hovering. That’s not a burn, that’s just pure devotion.” Daphne had replied with a blushing emoji: “He completely overreacted, honestly.” I stared at the screen and let out a quiet breath. “Overreacted.” I guess overreaction was a luxury reserved for those who were loved. A red speck on Daphne’s hand made his sky fall. While I bled out in an empty apartment, and he called it a tantrum. By dawn, the IV bag was empty. I dragged myself back to the apartment, my body feeling like lead. The apartment was dead quiet. The robot vacuum had run out of battery in the middle of the hallway, sitting there like a discarded, expensive joke. I pulled the hospital discharge papers out of my bag and laid them flat on the kitchen island. Next to them, I slid off my engagement ring and set it gently on top of the paper. None of it mattered anymore. My flight was in three hours. I was leaving the city, and I was leaving Simon behind forever. Simon didn’t return until mid-morning. He walked in carrying a bag from the pharmacy, likely remembering my late-night call about the bleeding. He opened the door, his eyes landing first on the dead vacuum, then on the open bedroom door showing a half-empty closet. Finally, he saw the kitchen island. The ring. The papers. Simon froze. He walked over slowly, his hand trembling as he picked up the medical report. His eyes scanned the black-and-white text. “Spontaneous miscarriage. Severe post-operative hemorrhaging. High risk of future infertility.”

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