Author: Momo Chan

1 The year I turned five, my Aunt Sarah called a repairman to fix the air conditioning. While he worked, I was supposed to be napping. When I woke up, the living room was crawling with police. Sarah was huddled on the sofa, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, her skin a map of violet bruises and her eyes two empty craters. She never smiled again. Instead, she traced thin, red lines into her forearms with a razor, one after another, a silent tally of her pain. Her husband, Mark, quit his job to sit by her side, holding her through the night, whispering it wasn’t your fault until his voice broke. It didn’t matter. A year later, the depression finally pulled her under, and she jumped from our sixteenth-floor balcony. Mark handled the funeral with a terrifying, hollow calm. That night, he swallowed a bottle of pills to join her. For the rest of my childhood, my mother took me to the cemetery every anniversary. She’d lay flowers on the side-by-side graves and sob, “If only I hadn’t told her to call that repairman. If only I’d been there.” Then, I blinked. The sweltering heat of a Georgia July hit me like a physical blow. I was back in that apartment. I was five years old. Sarah stepped out of the kitchen, fanning herself with a magazine. “Toby, honey, the HVAC guy is on his way. Why don’t you be a good boy and take a nap in the cool room?” The doorbell rang. “Maintenance,” a man’s voice called out from the hallway. I lunged forward, throwing my small arms around Sarah’s knees with a grip like iron. “Aunt Sarah,” I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Don’t let him in.” Sarah stumbled, startled by my sudden weight. Her phone was still glowing in her hand—the service app showed a status update: Technician arrived. She looked down at me, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. She knelt, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “Toby? What’s wrong, sweetie? You were just complaining about how hot it was.” I was shaking, but not from a chill. I knew exactly who was standing on the other side of that door. Ray Slater. A monster disguised in a blue work shirt. In my first life, I only saw him once: through the window as the police shoved him into the back of a cruiser. He was a nondescript man with grease on his collar. I remembered his tool kit spilling onto the pavement, a roll of heavy-duty duct tape tumbling out. I couldn’t explain the concept of reincarnation to her. A five-year-old doesn’t have the vocabulary for a second chance at life. I only had my tears. “I had a bad dream,” I sobbed, clutching her sundress. Sarah’s face softened. “A bad dream? About what?” “A bad man coming inside,” I choked out, the words tumbling over each other. “I dreamed about police in the living room. I dreamed you were hurt, and Mommy was crying, and Uncle Mark went away. I kept calling you, but you wouldn’t wake up.” It sounded like the frantic ramblings of a child spooked by a nightmare. The doorbell rang again. More insistent this time. Sarah’s eyes drifted toward the door. I let out a sharp, jagged scream. “Don’t open it! Please, Sarah, don’t open the door!” Terrified by my reaction, she pulled me into her arms, shushing me. “Okay, okay. I won’t. I won’t open it yet.” Outside, there was a brief silence. Then, a polite knock. “Mrs. Miller? It’s Ray from Home-Shield Maintenance. You called about the central air?” Sarah held me tight, staying far from the entryway. “I’m sorry, Ray,” she called out, her voice slightly strained. “Something’s come up. The kid is sick. We’ll have to reschedule.” There was a pause. Then, the man chuckled. It was a low, neighborly sound—the kind of laugh that was supposed to put you at ease. “It’s a record-breaker out here today, Mrs. Miller. You sure you want the little guy suffering in this heat? It’ll only take me twenty minutes.” Sarah’s body went rigid. She hadn’t mentioned she had a child in the service request. She’d only checked the box for “AC not cooling.” I looked up at her, my face wet with tears. “Did you hear him? How does he know about me?” The color drained from Sarah’s cheeks. She dimmed her phone screen and began backing away from the door, her hand rhythmically patting my back to soothe me. “Don’t worry, Toby. I’ve got you. I’m not letting him in.” “Mrs. Miller,” the voice came again, closer to the wood of the door. “I’m already here. The company is going to charge you a hundred-dollar service fee regardless. It’s better if I just take a look.” Sarah took a shaky breath. “I’ll pay the fee. Just leave. Please.” Silence fell over the hallway. After a minute, the muffled sound of footsteps faded away down the carpeted corridor. Sarah kissed the top of my head. “See? He’s gone.” But I didn’t let go. I knew his type. He was a predator, and he’d been scouting this “job” for weeks. He knew my parents were out of town at a conference. He knew Mark wouldn’t be home from the office until six. He knew this old building had blind spots. “Don’t open the door for anyone today,” I whispered, my voice sounding hollow and old. Sarah’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I won’t, Toby. I promise.” We sat in the stifling quiet of the living room for maybe ten minutes. Then, click. The ceiling fan slowed to a halt. The low hum of the refrigerator died. The lights flickered once and plunged the apartment into shadows. Sarah looked up at the darkened fixture. “A blown fuse?” She reached for her phone again. “Maybe the AC unit shorted out the whole circuit. I should call that technician back and ask if—” I lunged for the phone, nearly knocking it out of her hand. “Don’t call him! It’s him! He’s doing it!” Sarah stared at me, her eyes wide. “Toby?” “He didn’t leave,” I insisted, my hands trembling as I pressed them over her phone. “He’s at the breaker box in the hall. He’s trying to get you to open the door.” Sarah wanted to believe it was just the aging electrical system of an old apartment complex. These buildings were notorious for tripped breakers. But then, the doorbell rang. The sound was deafening in the dead silence of the unpowered home. Sarah’s face went white. “Mrs. Miller?” Ray Slater’s voice drifted through the door. “Did your power just go out? I was halfway to the elevator when I heard the transformer pop. I can take a look at your panel while I’m here.” Sarah froze, her phone halfway to her ear. She hadn’t even dialed yet. The realization finally hit her: he was answering a call she hadn’t made. “These old systems can be fire hazards,” he continued, his tone still helpful, still professional. “Especially with the kid there. Heatstroke is no joke for a little guy.” He was testing the lock. I could hear the faint, metallic scrape of a tool against the cylinder. I reached up and covered Sarah’s mouth with my small hand. She understood. She picked me up and retreated into the kitchen, our breathing the only sound in the dark. The scratching at the lock continued. Scrape. Click. Scrape. Sarah set me down behind the kitchen island and bolted to the front door. She slammed the deadbolt home, hooked the security chain, and shoved the heavy entryway bench against the frame. The scratching stopped. Ray Slater knew he’d been made. He let out a soft, chilling laugh through the door. “No need to be like that, Sarah. I’m a professional. How am I supposed to do my job if you won’t let me in?” “I’m calling the police!” Sarah shouted, her voice cracking. “Get away from my door!” “You’re wasting my time,” he sighed, the “nice guy” facade slipping. “I drove all the way out here. Gas isn’t cheap. If you report me, I lose my license. You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?” Sarah didn’t answer. She grabbed her phone and dialed 911, but as the call connected, a memory flashed through my mind like a lightning strike. In the police reports I’d read as an adult, they said Slater hadn’t come through the front door. He’d used the maintenance ledge. These old mid-rises had narrow concrete paths outside the windows for HVAC access. They were supposed to be gated, but the locks were usually rusted or broken. Most people on the sixteenth floor felt safe. Nobody expected a man to walk along a six-inch ledge. But Slater was a technician. He knew the ledge. “The window!” I screamed, pointing toward the kitchen. “Sarah, the window!” The kitchen was dim, the midday sun blocked by the neighboring building. I saw the latch move. Just a fraction of an inch. A hand in a grey work glove gripped the frame. Sarah grabbed me and shoved me behind her as the window slid upward with a screech. Ray Slater’s face appeared in the opening. He was drenched in sweat, his skin flushed a deep, angry red. “Why are you running?” he asked, his voice low and jagged. “I just came to fix the air.” Sarah didn’t wait. She scooped me up and ran for the master bedroom. Behind us, I heard the heavy thud of work boots hitting the linoleum. He was inside. Sarah slammed the bedroom door and turned the lock, dragging the heavy nightstand in front of it. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold her phone. “I have an intruder!” she screamed into the line. “He’s in the house! He came through the window! Please, God, my nephew is here… 402 Oak Creek Drive, Apartment 1602. Hurry!” The dispatcher told her to stay on the line and hide. We heard his footsteps. He wasn’t rushing. He was walking through the apartment, taking his time. I heard drawers being pulled open. A glass breaking. The heavy thud of his tool bag hitting the coffee table. Then, the footsteps stopped right outside our door. “Sarah,” he said, his voice returning to that sickeningly sweet lilt. “You’ve got it all wrong. I saw the power go out and tried to check the external unit from the ledge. You’re overreacting.” Sarah didn’t say a word. She covered my mouth and held her breath. He kicked the door. The frame groaned. I jumped, my heart nearly stopping. Sarah pulled me into the walk-in closet and shoved me behind a row of her winter coats. “Toby, stay here,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears but fierce with a sudden, desperate strength. “No matter what you hear, do not come out. Do you hear me?” I shook my head, terrified. I had “stayed hidden” in my last life. I had slept through the screams. I wasn’t going to let her face this alone again. “Toby, please,” she whispered, kissing my forehead before closing the closet door. Through the slats of the closet, I saw her pick up a small paring knife from the fruit plate she’d prepared for my snack earlier. She stood by the side of the door, her shoulders trembling, the knife gripped in a white-knuckled fist. The door shuddered under another kick. The wood around the lock began to splinter. “Sarah Miller,” Slater shouted. My heart sank. He knew her full name. This wasn’t a random service call. He’d been watching her. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I know Mark is at the office. I know your sister is in Chicago. It’s just you and the kid.” Another kick. The nightstand slid back a few inches. Sarah spoke into the phone, her voice a ghostly whisper. “He’s breaking in. He’s going to kill us.” “Officers are in the lobby,” the dispatcher said. “Just a few more minutes, Sarah. Stay hidden.” A few minutes was an eternity. Slater kicked the door one last time, and the wood gave way. The door swung open, shoving the nightstand aside. He squeezed through the gap, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Sarah. He saw the knife and laughed. “You think you can use that? You don’t have the guts.” “Get out!” Sarah screamed. He stepped toward her. “I’ve been watching you for a month, Sarah. I know you’re soft. Just put the knife down and maybe I’ll let the kid sleep through this.” He lunged for her. Sarah swung the knife, catching his sleeve, but he was twice her size. He backhanded her across the face, sending her crashing against the bedpost. The knife clattered to the floor. He pinned her down, his hands reaching for her throat. Something in my brain snapped. The memory of the funeral, the cemetery, the years of silence—it all surged forward. I pushed the closet door open and ran. I grabbed a heavy glass water carafe from the nightstand and, with every ounce of my five-year-old strength, I swung it at the back of his head. “Leave her alone!” The glass shattered. Water and shards sprayed everywhere. Slater roared, more in surprise than pain. He let go of Sarah and turned toward me, a trickle of blood running down his neck. His eyes were pure, concentrated malice. “You little brat!” He grabbed my arm and flung me across the room. My head hit the corner of the bed frame, and the world turned into a swirl of grey and red. I slumped to the floor, my ears ringing, warm blood beginning to obscure my vision. “Toby!” Sarah shrieked, trying to crawl toward me, but Slater kicked her back. I couldn’t move. My body felt heavy, broken. But I kept my eyes open. I saw him looming over her, his face a mask of rage. “The kid shouldn’t have done that,” he growled, reaching for his belt. Suddenly, the front door of the apartment exploded inward. “Police! Drop the weapon!” And then, a voice that made me want to sob with relief. “Sarah! Toby!” Mark was here. He was actually here.

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I’ve spent the last three months living on caffeine and spite, digging through a mountain of digital paper trails to win my cousin’s divorce case. In the first round of the settlement, I managed to claw back an extra $2 million for her. My cousin and her parents were practically weeping with gratitude, ready to hand over my fee. But then, her new boyfriend—a guy she’d known for all of six weeks—decided to open his mouth. “You know, you can get a divorce consultation online for like five hundred bucks,” he said, leaning back with a smug grin. “She’s charging family five thousand? That’s not a ‘discount,’ babe. That’s a shakedown.” The atmosphere at the dinner table turned brittle. He ignored the awkward glances and leaned into my cousin, his voice dropping into a performative coo. “We’re going to be family soon, Whit. Just leave it to me. For five hundred dollars, I’ll find a way to make sure your ex doesn’t get a single penny of your equity.” My “love-blind” cousin didn’t even blink. Right there, over the remains of our steak dinner, she announced she was firing me. Her parents just chuckled, patting my hand as if I were the one who had done something wrong, saying they “wouldn’t hold the overcharging against me” since we were family. I kept my face perfectly still, but inside, I was practically glowing. Between the private investigators, the travel for depositions, and the forensic accounting, I’d already spent over eight thousand dollars out of my own pocket. That wasn’t even counting the filing fees and notary costs. If they thought five thousand was a “shakedown,” I couldn’t wait to see how they’d handle a total collapse. 1 “Five thousand dollars for a divorce filing?” My cousin’s new boyfriend, Jackson, looked me up and down with a sneer that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Whitney, you’re way too easy to play.” My fork hovered over my plate. I took a slow breath. “A case like this? You can go to one of those legal-doc sites and get everything handled for five hundred bucks,” Jackson continued, crossing his legs and tilting his chair back. “They probably even give you the templates for free. And she’s your cousin? Charging you five grand is just predatory.” My Aunt Sarah tried to smooth things over, her voice fluttering. “Now, Jackson, you don’t understand. Madeline has worked so hard on this—” Jackson didn’t lose his smirk. “Family is supposed to help family, right? Aunt Sarah, think about it. It’s a divorce. You split the assets, you sign the papers. It’s not exactly a capital murder trial. It’s math.” He turned his gaze back to me, sharp and condescending. “No offense, Maddy. I just think Whitney’s been through enough with the divorce. She doesn’t have money to burn. Taking that much from her? It’s just… bad form.” Silence stretched across the table for three long seconds. Whitney didn’t defend me. Instead, she looked at Jackson with a gaze bordering on worship. “Whatever you think is best, babe,” she whispered. “I trust you.” “Sarah, David,” Jackson said, addressing my aunt and uncle with a chest-thumping confidence. “We’re going to be family soon. Give me the reins. For five hundred bucks, I’ll find the right people to make sure Whitney’s ex, Bradley, leaves with nothing but the shirt on his back.” I watched my aunt and uncle’s eyes light up. The warmth they’d shown me earlier evaporated, replaced by a calculating chill. Whitney looked at me, her smile now dismissive. “Maddy, it’s not that I don’t trust you,” she said, her tone dripping with unearned authority. “But if my man has a way to save us money, we’d be stupid not to take it. Let’s just cancel the retainer agreement.” Aunt Sarah chimed in with a saccharine smile. “Exactly. And since we’re family, we won’t even make a fuss about you trying to overcharge her. Just venmo the initial deposit back and we’ll call it even.” Won’t make a fuss? I set my cutlery down with a quiet clack. For a five-thousand-dollar fee, I had covered eight thousand in expenses. I had sacrificed my weekends and pulled all-nighters for three months. I had dark circles under my eyes that three layers of Sephora’s best concealer couldn’t hide. And they were “not going to make a fuss.” I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever makes you happy.” I was more than happy to walk away from a charity case that was costing me money. 2 That night, I sat in my home office, the glow of the monitor the only light in the room. An email was waiting for me. The sender was Vivian Hart—no, Vivian Hart. She was a high-powered CEO my Aunt Eleanor had mentioned. Vivian was a titan in the local tech scene, but her husband was a nightmare—a classic, high-functioning abuser. I had asked Eleanor once if Vivian needed help. Eleanor said Vivian was hesitant; there was too much at stake—corporate shares, board seats, the kind of assets that make a divorce a media circus. But tonight, Vivian had finally reached out. Dear Ms. Ross, My name is Vivian Hart. My friend Eleanor mentioned your work. I’ve heard you are the best when it comes to high-stakes matrimonial litigation. I need someone who understands discretion as much as strategy. Are you available for a consultation at my office tomorrow at 10:00 AM? I typed back: I’ll be there. See you then. Less than a minute later, my phone buzzed. It was Aunt Eleanor. “Maddy, did Vivian Hart email you?” she asked, her voice tight with anxiety. “Just replied,” I said. “We’re meeting tomorrow.” “Good.” Eleanor exhaled. “I heard about what happened at dinner tonight. Your mother told me everything.” I didn’t say anything. Eleanor sighed. “Whitney has always been a fool for a pretty face and a smooth tongue. This Jackson guy… he feels like a snake to me. You’re better off without them, Maddy. People like that will drain you dry and then complain about the flavor. Mark my words, she’s going to regret this.” “It doesn’t matter, Eleanor,” I said. “I’m done with her case.” After I hung up, my phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. The family group chat was exploding. Whitney had posted a video of Jackson. The caption read: Who needs an expensive lawyer when you have a genius boyfriend? $500 and we’re sorted! Love you, babe! The comments from the extended family were a chorus of praise. Jackson is such a catch! Whitney, you finally found a smart one! I scrolled up and saw a message from Jackson himself. He’d posted a screenshot of a site called “LawMate Express”—a bottom-tier legal document generator. He tagged me: @MaddyRoss, check it out. Real professionals only charge five hundred. Don’t worry though, we’re family, so we’ll forgive the ‘professional markup’ you tried to pull on us! I stared at the screen for three seconds, then locked my phone. I opened the file for Vivian Hart’s retainer agreement. In the box for the initial fee, I typed a number: $250,000. That was my actual market rate. Just as I was finishing, my phone lit up again. Whitney had sent a screenshot of a chat with someone named “Junior Lawyer Joey.” The platform assigned us the most amazing attorney! she wrote to the group. Top of his class, so responsive! Jackson really knows how to pick them! I looked up “Joey” on the state bar registry. Nothing. He wasn’t even admitted yet. He was a law school grad with zero courtroom experience, working a gig-economy legal job. I glanced at my calendar. The deadline to file for a preliminary injunction to freeze her ex-husband’s assets was fast approaching. Thinking of how Whitney used to share her toys with me when we were five, I felt a momentary lapse into guilt. I typed a quick message into the group chat: Did you file the motion for the asset freeze yet? Ten minutes later, Whitney replied: Jackson says we have it under control. We don’t need your ‘help’ anymore, Maddy. She followed it with a passive-aggressive smiley face. I realized then that you can’t save someone who is determined to drown. I muted the group chat and went to bed. 3 The next morning, I walked into Vivian Hart’s corner office. She was thinner than she looked in her headshots, with a weariness in her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite mask. There was a faint, yellowish bruise near her temple. Vivian didn’t waste time. “I think you know the basics. My husband runs a mid-sized logistics firm. We’ve been married twelve years. No children.” “When did the physical abuse start?” I asked. She was silent for a moment. “Five years ago. It started with a push. Then a slap. Last year, he started throwing things.” “Why didn’t you leave sooner?” She gave a hollow laugh. “We built the company together after we got married. There are shareholders, venture capitalists, hundreds of employees. If I file a messy divorce, the stock price craters, investors pull out, and people lose their livelihoods.” Vivian pushed up her sleeve. There was a fresh, jagged cut on her forearm. “But two nights ago, he came at me with a crystal ashtray,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “If I hadn’t moved, it would have hit my temple. I’m done being a martyr for a balance sheet.” I nodded and slid the retainer agreement across the mahogany desk. “Two hundred and fifty thousand?” she asked, glancing at the figure. “That’s the base. Investigations, forensic accounting, and court fees are billed as incurred.” Without a word, she picked up a fountain pen and signed her name in bold, elegant strokes. “The money isn’t the issue, Madeline.” She pushed the paper back to me. “I only have one question. Can you make him pay?” I looked into her eyes—eyes full of a decade’s worth of grief and a newly forged rage. “I can,” I promised. “I will.” As I left Vivian’s building, my phone rang. It was Aunt Sarah. I hesitated, then picked up. “Maddy, honey, Whitney needs a quick favor,” Sarah said, her tone breezy, as if the dinner disaster had never happened. “That folder you had—the one with all the evidence and the financial stuff you found—can you just email that over to Jackson?” I felt a cold laugh bubble up in my throat. “The contract was terminated, Aunt Sarah. Those files are attorney work-product. I’m not authorized to release them to a third party.” Sarah’s voice faltered. “But… but that’s Whitney’s stuff. You did that for her.” “Aunt Sarah, I spent three months of my life building that case. I combed through two hundred pages of bank statements and did the legwork myself. Since the representation ended, those files are archived with my firm.” Sarah’s tone sharpened. “Oh, come on, Madeline. You already did the work. It’s just sitting there. Why be difficult with your own cousin?” “Jackson said he could get Bradley to walk away with nothing for five hundred dollars,” I reminded her. “He shouldn’t need my ‘predatory’ work to do that.” There was a stunned silence on the other end. A few minutes later, Whitney called me directly. “Maddy,” she said, her voice full of unearned indignation. “Jackson says you have a legal obligation to hand over the case files to the client.” “The client fired me before I was paid for that work-product,” I replied. “The files stay with me.” “How can you say you weren’t paid?” Whitney shrieked. “I gave you five thousand dollars!” “Five thousand was the discounted retainer for the first phase. You decided that was too expensive and cancelled. That means the relationship is over. I don’t work for free, Whitney.” I heard Jackson’s voice in the background, muffled but clear: “Forget her, babe. She’s just being a bitch because she lost the commission. We don’t need her.” 4 By that afternoon, Whitney had sent me a smug message. She’d managed to get copies of the evidence list I’d filed in the preliminary hearing. She and Sarah had photocopied my notes and the bank summaries I’d painstakingly highlighted. The materials are with our new legal team now, she wrote. A real professional is handling it. Don’t bother responding. I looked at the notes she’d stolen—three months of my life reduced to a photocopy. I didn’t reply. For the next two weeks, I lived at my office. Vivian’s case moved at lightning speed, but the complexity was staggering. My associate and I spent four straight nights untangling a web of shell companies her husband had set up. The conclusion was clear: he was aggressively siphoning marital assets into offshore accounts. I filed an emergency motion for a temporary restraining order to freeze every account associated with him, attaching our forensic evidence. When I showed Vivian the filings, her voice was thick. “Thank you, Madeline.” “I’ve talked to other lawyers before,” she whispered. “They all told me to settle quietly. They told me ‘don’t make a scene’ or it would hurt my reputation.” “Only you didn’t tell me to stay quiet.” I smiled. “That’s because I’ve seen too many women stay quiet until there was nothing left to save.” Vivian looked at me for a long time, her eyes welling up. “Madeline, from now on, my company’s entire legal portfolio is yours.” I grinned. “Just so we’re clear—I charge market rate for corporate work. No discounts.” She laughed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Meanwhile, in the family group chat, Jackson was taking a victory lap. He posted a photo of a “Legal Brief” sent by Junior Lawyer Joey. It was a massive stack of paper, nearly two inches thick. Look at this! Jackson bragged. A real legal brief. Fifty-five pages of pure law! Maddy only ever gave Whitney about twelve pages of charts. This is what ‘professional’ looks like. I clicked on the photo and zoomed in. The “brief” was a joke. It was a copy-paste job of every divorce statute in the state code, followed by pages of irrelevant case law. It was the legal equivalent of a student trying to hit a word count by increasing the font size. It wasn’t a brief; it was a template with Whitney’s name auto-filled into the blanks. The twelve pages I’d given Whitney were the “charts”—the actual evidence of where her ex had hidden the money. Without those, the statutes were just empty words. I found myself actually looking forward to seeing how they’d use that “magnificent” brief to win. The blowback happened faster than I expected. Bradley, the ex-husband, filed an appeal.

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1 Derek and I both worked downtown, but for the past six months, we’d been locked in a cold war over where to buy our first home. He was dead-set on the north side—an hour and a half commute for both of us—insisting the property value there was poised to skyrocket. Every time I brought up the soul-crushing traffic, he’d sigh, his tone thick with patronizing patience, accusing me of being “short-sighted” and “only caring about convenience” while he was “building our future.” Then came Valentine’s Day. Out of the blue, Derek called. His voice was uncharacteristically bright, almost giddy. He told me he’d found a place—a pre-owned brownstone right in the heart of the city, just ten minutes from my office. I was floored. I thought he’d finally listened, that he was choosing us over a profit margin. Without a second thought, I agreed to meet him after work to sign the papers. I stood on the corner of 5th and Madison for an hour in a torrential downpour. The freezing rain soaked through my trench coat, chilling me to the bone. My phone calls went straight to voicemail. Just as the first hot tear of frustration escaped my eye, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t a call; it was a location pin for a luxury condo complex two blocks away. “Rain’s too heavy. Serena and I are at the new place. See you here.” My heart did a strange, painful somersault. Serena was my best friend. Why was she there? The sidewalks were slick with oil and rain. I tripped three times in my haste, skinning my palms and knees, my dignity dissolving with every puddle I splashed through. By the time I reached the unit, I was a shivering, bedraggled mess. Inside, the atmosphere was a sharp contrast to the storm outside. The air smelled of expensive candles and success. Derek and Serena were huddled over a kitchen island, animatedly discussing floor plans. “This is perfect,” Serena chirped, her eyes sparkling as she pointed at the balcony. “It’s so close to my new office. I could literally walk here. Maybe I’ll just rent a place in this building so I can crash at your place every night for dinner.” “Why rent?” Derek laughed, a sound so warm it felt like a slap to my face. “I’ve already picked out your room. The guest suite is yours, Serena. Always.” They moved on to discussing velvet sofas and linen curtains, their voices weaving together in a symphony of shared domesticity. I stood in the foyer, water dripping from my hair onto the hardwood floor, realized the truth. Derek’s “investment strategy” wasn’t based on market trends or neighborhood growth. It was based on Serena’s zip code. My feelings weren’t the priority. I was just the silent partner expected to foot the bill and provide the applause. I stood there for a long time, watching them debate the color of the master bedroom’s accent wall. Neither of them looked up. Neither of them asked what I thought. I quietly turned around, gripped my bag, and walked out. As the elevator doors were closing, an older woman stepped in. Seeing my soaked clothes and the hollow look in my eyes, she reached into her purse and handed me a pack of tissues. “Dry off, honey. You’ll catch your death,” she said gently. “It’s nasty out there. You should call your family to come pick you up. It’s not safe for a girl alone in this weather.” I took the tissues, my voice barely a whisper. “Thank you. But they’re… they’re busy.” Busy playing house without me. The woman’s eyes softened with a flash of pity, but she was kind enough not to pry. Outside, the storm had turned into a deluge. My ride-share app showed “No Drivers Available” nine times in a row. Just as I was about to give up, Derek’s Tesla pulled up to the curb. The passenger window slid down, and Serena’s face appeared, wearing a bright, pitying smile. “Cassidy, get in! Derek said you were too stubborn to call and would probably be standing here like a drowned rat. I didn’t believe him, but look at you! You’re so silly—why didn’t you just call us?” He knew I was stubborn. He knew I was out here. And he’d stayed inside, amusing Serena, while I froze. Normally, I would have exploded. I would have screamed about the betrayal and the hour in the rain. But this time, I felt a strange, cold clarity. I opened the back door and climbed in without a word. Derek glanced at me through the rearview mirror, a smirk playing on his lips. “I guess a little rain is good for something. You’ve finally learned some manners.” The car moved a few blocks before pulling over at a 7-Eleven. Five minutes later, Derek hopped back in, handing a steaming cup of gourmet coffee and a warm pastry to Serena. “You said your stomach was acting up. Eat something warm,” he murmured. Then, he tossed a plastic-wrapped, squashed gas station muffin into my lap. “This has been in the glove box for a while. Eat it before it goes bad.” He shifted the car into gear, his eyes flickering to the damp upholstery where I sat. “Cassidy, can you try to be a bit more mature? I didn’t pick you up for one hour, and you throw a tantrum by standing in the rain? Do you think worrying me and Serena is funny?” So, he hadn’t missed the state I was in. He just thought it was an act. I gripped the stale muffin, my knuckles white. I wanted to scream, to defend my dignity, but a sudden gust of wind from the vents hit me, and I sneezed violently. Serena playfully punched Derek’s shoulder. “Don’t be such a jerk, Derek. Turn the heat up! If Cass gets sick, I’m going to kick your butt.” Derek reached over and brushed a stray hair from Serena’s forehead. “You’re already sweating, Serena. Don’t worry about her. There’s a blanket in the back if she’s that cold.” Three years ago, I had turned down a stable, high-paying corporate track in my hometown to follow Derek to this city. He had cried when I struggled with the commute, promising me that one day, he’d be my “forever chauffeur.” He’d worked overtime, and I had worked double shifts to save for this car. Then Serena’s mother passed away. She was devastated, and I, being the “good friend,” suggested she move here for a fresh start. I helped her find an apartment, introduced her to my network, and asked Derek to help her with her career transitions. I never expected that in helping her find her footing, I’d be pushed out of my own life. It started with her taking the passenger seat because she “got car sick.” Then the car’s temperature was lowered from a comfortable 75 to a freezing 68 because she “ran hot.” When I complained, Derek told me to “just wear a sweater and stop being a high-maintenance brat.” I took a deep breath and opened my banking app. I hit ‘Transfer.’ My father had sent me $50,000 that morning for the “renovation fund.” I sent every penny back to his account. “Cass, what do you want for dinner?” Serena asked, feeding Derek a piece of her pastry. “There’s that new Szechuan place everyone’s talking about. Oh, wait—you can’t handle spice, can you? That’s such a bummer. I’ve been dying to try it.” Derek, a man who used to insist on serving spoons and sanitized surfaces, naturally took the bite from her hand. “If you want to go, we’re going,” Derek said. “Don’t bother asking her. She’s too picky and too cheap to enjoy a good meal anyway.” I clutched my phone, saying nothing. All those years of clipping coupons and skipping vacations so we could afford a home… and in his eyes, I was just “cheap.” The restaurant was packed. Derek naturally pushed me to the back of the line. “You wait here for the table. Serena and I are going to check out that boutique next door.” For the first time, I didn’t argue. I stood in the queue and opened our shared Amazon account. I began deleting every item in the cart—the designer lamps, the rug I’d saved for months to buy, the smart fridge. We were through. As I scrolled, I realized something that made my blood run cold. Over the past year, Derek had used our joint account to buy hundreds of items for Serena. A Dyson vacuum. A freaking refrigerator for her apartment. A silk bathrobe. Every dollar I had squeezed out of our budget had been spent on her. Suddenly, a hand tapped my shoulder. I turned, and Derek popped a dark chocolate truffle into my mouth. The familiar taste of sea salt and cocoa melted on my tongue. I remembered five years ago, how he’d traveled twelve hours on a bus just to bring me these same chocolates for Valentine’s Day. For a second, my heart wavered. Then, he pulled me into a hard, performative hug. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Cass.” I looked over his shoulder and caught Serena’s gaze. For a split second, the mask slipped. Her eyes weren’t sweet; they were filled with a cold, poisonous venom. “Table for three?” the hostess called. I pushed Derek away. “Let’s just eat.” At the table, Derek didn’t even look at me. “We’ll have the signature spicy fish, the cumin lamb, and the Mapo tofu. Serena, anything else?” Serena beamed. “You remembered all my favorites.” Then, she looked at me with mock concern. “Oh, Cass, I forgot. You really can’t eat any of this. Maybe we should swap the lamb for some plain greens?” Derek hesitated for a second. “Nah, we’ll just get her a mango smoothie to cool her mouth down. If it’s too much, she can just rinse the fish in water.” I didn’t say a word. I poured myself a cup of plain tea. When the fish arrived, Derek spent the next ten minutes meticulously picking out every bone and placing the tenderest pieces in Serena’s bowl. “Eat up, kitten.” I stared at the Mapo tofu—red with chili oil. I took a large spoonful. The spice hit my throat like a hot iron, but it was the betrayal that made my eyes water. Derek panicked, pouring a glass of mango juice and pushing it toward me. “Drink this, you’re making a scene.” I didn’t take it. I downed the rest of my tea. He groaned. “What is the attitude for now?” He went back to de-boning fish for Serena. I wasn’t having an “attitude.” He had simply forgotten, after five years, that I am deathly allergic to mangoes. After dinner, Serena pointed at a neon-lit bar across the street. “Going home is so boring. Let’s go get a drink! It’s a holiday!” I felt a fever starting to burn under my skin—the spice, the stress, the exhaustion. “You guys go. I’m tired…” “Don’t be a buzzkill, Cassidy,” Derek snapped. “We’re already here.” That had become his catchphrase since Serena arrived. Don’t be a buzzkill. And to keep the peace, I had shriveled myself into nothing. Not tonight. “I’m serious. I’m calling an Uber—” Derek reached out, snatched my phone from the table, and shoved it into his pocket. “I said, stop it.” He grabbed Serena’s hand and led the way inside. The bar was deafening. Serena immediately dragged Derek to the dance floor. I sat in a dark corner, my head throbbing, trying to find the strength to stand. I decided to head to the restroom to splash some water on my face. I hadn’t walked ten feet when a drunk man grabbed my wrist. “Hey, beautiful. You’re too pretty to be sitting alone. Have a drink with me.” “Let go,” I hissed. I looked toward the dance floor. “Derek!” The music was loud, but he heard me. He turned. He saw the man clutching my arm. But at that exact moment, Serena “accidentally” bumped into someone, and Derek immediately turned his back on me to check on her. The drunk man saw he was ignored and got bolder, dragging me toward a booth. I fought with everything I had left. “Derek! Help me!” He didn’t even look back. As the man leaned in, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. The man’s eyes turned murderous. He lunged, his fist connecting with my jaw, sending me crashing into a table of glasses. Shards of glass sliced into my arms and back. Screams erupted around us. Through the haze of pain, I saw Derek finally sprinting over. He tackled the guy, screaming. He reached down to pick me up, but I flinched away from him, my body screaming in protest. Everything went black. When I woke up, I was in a bed. My body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, but my arms were bandaged. Derek appeared, handing me a glass of honey water. “Drink this. It’ll help the headache. By the way, your dad called. He’s confused about why you returned the renovation money.” I took a sip, my voice raspy but flat. “I don’t need it anymore. So I sent it back.” Derek froze. Then he laughed, that condescending sound again. “Still dramatic? Look, Serena accidentally tripped someone, and the guy was getting aggressive. I had to handle that first. But I got the guy who hit you. He won’t be getting out of bed for a week.” He said it like he was a hero. Like my blood on the floor was just a minor inconvenience he’d settled. I looked at him, my heart feeling like lead. “If someone dies, does it matter how loud you cry at their funeral?” Derek’s face darkened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? It was an emergency. I had to choose—” Serena walked in then, her face a mask of guilt. “Derek, don’t fight with her. Cass, I’m so sorry. If we hadn’t gone to that bar…” Derek rubbed her shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Serena. Honestly, Cassidy, there were a hundred people in that bar. Why did he pick you to harass? You must have been giving off some kind of vibe.” I stared at him, my vision blurring with rage. Serena tugged at his sleeve. “Derek, stop.” Derek sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Look, Serena and I have a meeting with the contractors today. I already called your office and told them you’re taking a sick day. Get cleaned up.” I bolted upright, ignoring the searing pain in my side. “Derek, my project launches today. I told you specifically—no distractions this week.” He shrugged. “They have a whole team. They don’t need you for one day. Besides, if they fire you, I’ll just take care of you. You’ve been wanting to be a housewife anyway, right?” He had just erased years of my hard work with one sentence. “We’re over,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. “Move into that house. Decorate it however you want. I’m done.” Serena gasped. “Cass, no! I’ll call the contractors and cancel right now—” Derek’s jaw set. He saw my words as a bluff, a tactic. His guilt turned into cold fury. “Fine. If you want to play this game, play it alone. Serena, let’s go.” After they left, my phone rang. It was my dad. “Sweetie, don’t be silly about the money. Renovations are expensive. I just wired the $50,000 to Derek’s account so you wouldn’t have to worry about the logistics. You kids enjoy that new home.” My stomach dropped. “Dad… you sent it to Derek?” “Yeah, he said you were having trouble with your app. Everything okay?” I bit my lip until I tasted blood. “Yeah, Dad. Everything’s fine. I’ll call you in a couple of days.” I had to get that money back. But then my work phone exploded. The project was crashing. If I didn’t get there, I’d be liable for thousands in damages. I had to choose: my money or my career. I chose my career. For the next forty-eight hours, Derek was a ghost. Serena, however, was hyperactive in our group chat. She sent photos of backsplash tiles, velvet armchairs, and “his and hers” closet organizers. I muted the notifications. The project launched. It was a success, but barely. I walked into my boss’s office and handed in my resignation. Rachel, my mentor, looked at me with deep sadness. She didn’t try to stop me. She knew I was broken. I walked out of the building and called Derek. No answer. I opened Instagram. Serena had posted a photo thirty minutes ago. It was a picture of a legal document—a “Lifetime Right of Residency” agreement, signed with a red thumbprint. “Official resident of the Grant Manor! Thank you, D!” I felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat. I liked the post and commented: “Congrats. The house is all yours. Just tell your ‘D’ to give me my dad’s $50,000 back.” Ten minutes later, Serena called me. But it wasn’t her. It was a man’s voice. “Is this Cassidy? Your friend Serena has been in a serious car accident. You need to get to St. Jude’s Hospital immediately.” My world tilted. No matter how much I hated her in that moment, she was the girl I’d shared a decade of secrets with. She had no family left. I ran through that hospital like a madwoman, heart hammering against my ribs, tears streaming down my face. I searched every floor. Nothing. I collapsed in a hallway, sobbing, the weight of everything finally crushing me. Then, two shadows fell over me. “Cass! Surprise!” I looked up. Serena was standing there, tucked under Derek’s arm, radiant and perfectly fine. No blood, no bruises. “You were ignoring us,” she giggled, holding up her phone to my face to record my reaction. “I had to trick you to get you to show up. Aww, look at you! You really do love me. I have to post this.” Her eyes were dancing with malice. She wanted to see me broken. She wanted to prove she could pull my strings whenever she wanted. And my boyfriend—the man I’d loved for five years—just stood there. He didn’t help me up. He just said, “Okay, one photo is enough, Serena. Cass is sensitive.” Something inside me finally snapped. I reached up, snatched her phone, and hurled it against the linoleum floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces. “Get. Out.” Serena fake-stumbled back, clutching her chest. Derek’s face transformed. He shoved me back, hard. I hit the wall, my arm scraping against a sharp decorative stone. Blood began to seep through my sleeve. “Are you insane?” Derek yelled, scooping Serena up. “She was trying to fix us! She was being a good friend, and you act like a psycho?” He looked at my bleeding arm. For a second, his eyes softened, but then he hardened them. “You want everyone to get out? Fine. Get out of my house. Today.” “Give me my father’s $50,000,” I said, my voice like ice. “And I’ll go.” Derek paused. Serena started “crying,” pulling the residency agreement out of her bag and tearing it up. “I’ll go! I won’t stay where I’m not wanted!” Derek lost it. “Cassidy! She’s your best friend! How can you be so greedy? You want the money? Fine. I’ll give it back to you. Just pack your shit and vanish.” He chased after her. I wiped my face, walked out, and caught a cab to the apartment we had shared. I packed my life into three suitcases. As I was leaving, the door opened. Serena was there. She “accidentally” dropped a folder. I saw the document inside. Real Estate Purchase Agreement. Buyer: Serena Brooks. Down Payment: $50,000. My heart stopped. I picked it up. “Derek,” I said as he walked in behind her. “Where did she get fifty grand for a down payment?” Derek wouldn’t look at me. “You wouldn’t let her live with us. She needed a home, Cassidy. There was a promotion on this unit… it was a steal. I lent her the money. We’ll save up again. We can do the renovations next year.” “You used my father’s money—money meant for my future—to buy her a condo?” “We’re all friends,” he muttered. “It’s just a loan.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just picked up my bags. Derek watched me walk to the elevator. He started to reach out, then stopped. I didn’t go to a hotel. I went straight to the police station. “I’d like to report a grand larceny and financial fraud,” I told the officer.

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1 The first time I saw the red string was the morning after Austin and I finally crossed that line. I woke up, the sunlight filtering through the curtains of my bedroom, and there it was: a shimmering, translucent crimson cord sprouting from the crown of my head, tethering me directly to him. It pulsed with a soft, rhythmic light, like a heartbeat. But as my eyes traced the line to where he lay sleeping, my breath hitched. Austin didn’t have just one string. A second cord, deeper and more visceral in color, snaked out from his chest, stretching through the bedroom wall toward the apartment next door. It led straight to his “best friend,” Jade. A few days later, during a group dinner at a dimly lit steakhouse, I stepped away to the restroom but doubled back when I realized I’d left my phone. That’s when I heard them in the alcove near the kitchen. “Austin, I have to go to London for the new contract next month,” Jade’s voice was a low, honeyed purr. “The boy… our son… he has to stay with you for a while.” Austin’s response was a whisper, more tender than anything he’d ever said to me. “Don’t worry, Jade. I’ve got it handled. I’ll tell Sierra he’s a foster kid you’ve been looking after. She’s already agreed to put my name on all her property deeds once we’re married.” He paused, and I could almost hear the smirk in his voice. “Once the paperwork is finalized, I’ll find a reason to divorce her and take half. You won’t have to work another day in your life. We’ll be a real family. Just the three of us. Forever.” “You’re too good to me, Austin,” Jade giggled. I stood in the shadows, my hands trembling, my blood turning to ice. In my previous life—the one that ended in a scream and the whistle of wind against my ears—I had seen the red strings too. I had confronted him, screaming about his betrayal. He had fallen to his knees, sobbing, begging for a second chance, invoking every sweet memory we shared. I had been soft. I had forgiven him. And for that mercy, they rewarded me by pushing me off a twenty-story balcony, forging a marriage certificate, and draining my estate before my body was even cold. This time, the mercy was dead. The conversation continued, Jade’s voice sharpening with a jagged edge. “I hate thinking of you with her, Austin. Every time I see her touch you, I want to kill her. For our future, I’ll play nice, but only for now. Once we have the money, I’ll make sure she just… disappears. An accident. Tragic and clean.” “I know, baby,” Austin said, his voice dripping with feigned disgust for me. “I’m just playing the part. I promise I won’t touch her more than I have to. You’re the only one I love.” I forced myself to breathe. I hit ‘save’ on the voice memo app on my phone, smoothed my skirt, and walked back to the table with a mask of perfect composure. When I sat down, they exchanged a lightning-fast look. Austin reached across the table, squeezing my hand with a dazzling, practiced smile. “Sierra, honey,” he said, his eyes bright with lies. “One month until the wedding. I promise to give you the perfect life.” I looked at him. If I hadn’t lived through his betrayal once already, I would have believed him. He looked so sincere, so devoted. “I’m looking forward to it,” I managed, my voice steady despite the roar of fury in my ears. Jade raised her wine glass, her lips curling into a feline smile. “Sierra, Austin and I grew up together. He can be a bit of a handful, you know? You’ll have to be patient with him once you’re married. Oh, and by the way, I might be headed overseas soon. I’ve been fostering this little boy, Toby… I was wondering if you and Austin could look after him for a bit while I’m gone?” The audacity was breathtaking. “Of course,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Anything for family.” She smiled, draining her glass in one long, triumphant gulp. “To a long and happy marriage, then.” I drank with her, keeping my head down. Under the table, I snapped a quick photo of their legs intertwined, his foot rubbing against her calf. I looked up at the space above their heads. The red string connecting them had turned a violent, bruised purple. If they wanted my inheritance, I would give them exactly what they deserved. “You two finish up,” I said, standing and grabbing my purse. “I have a late night at the office. Don’t wait up.” I walked to the host stand, paid the entire bill, and gave Jade a polite nod as I passed. “Dinner’s on me. Enjoy your night.” The moment I stepped out into the cool night air, the smile vanished. I didn’t go to the office. I took a cab to the corporate housing unit my company kept for commuters. “Sierra? What are you doing here?” a coworker asked, surprised. “Aren’t you getting married in three weeks?” “Just a project that won’t wait,” I lied smoothly. Once I was alone in the room, I pulled up the security feed from my house. Since our engagement, Austin had insisted on moving in “to save for the wedding.” Within twenty minutes, the front door of my house opened. Austin and Jade burst in, their hands all over each other before the door even clicked shut. They were fumbling, desperate, tearing at each other’s clothes as they moved toward the sofa. Jade pushed him back, breathless. “Not here… it feels wrong in her house.” Austin let out a frustrated groan, grabbing her waist. “Fine. We’ll go to your place. But soon, Jade. Once the property is mine, this whole place will be yours to redecorate. We won’t have to hide anymore.” Jade looked around the living room, her eyes cold. “She’s so lucky, isn’t she? Born into all this money, all these properties. It’s not fair.” “It’ll be ours soon,” Austin promised. I watched them leave, then closed the laptop. My heart was a stone. I hailed another cab and headed back to my house. I swung the door open hard. They were standing in the hallway, Jade with her hand on the doorknob, Austin hovering close. “Sierra!” Austin jumped, practically pushing Jade away. “You’re… you’re back early.” Jade gave a shaky laugh. “Sierra, I thought you had a deadline?” “Change of plans,” I said, my voice like a whip. “I could ask what you’re doing here, but I think I have a pretty good idea.” Austin’s face hardened into a mask of righteous indignation. “What is that supposed to mean? Jade was just dropping me off. I invited her in for a drink. Don’t be paranoid.” “A drink? Is that what we’re calling it now?” “Sierra, for God’s sake!” Austin yelled. “We’ve been friends since we were in diapers. If I wanted to be with Jade, I would have been with her years ago. You’re being crazy.” Jade stepped in, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Sierra, honey, I think you’re just stressed about the wedding. I tripped in the hall and Austin caught me. That’s all. I’m leaving now anyway.” She scurried out the door. Austin shot me a look of pure venom. “I’ll deal with your attitude later,” he snapped, following her out. I stood in the silence of my home. My parents had spent forty years building a real estate empire—apartment complexes, commercial strips, suburban developments. Being an only child, it all fell to me. When I met Austin, he didn’t know the extent of my wealth. But the moment he found out about the ten major holdings in my name, his “love” became a predatory obsession. When Austin returned an hour later, the red string between him and Jade was glowing with a sickening intensity. The one tethered to me was frayed, nearly invisible. He didn’t yell. Instead, he took a condescending, parental tone. “Sierra, Jade is like a sister to me. You were incredibly rude. I apologized to her for you, and she’s willing to let it go because she’s a better person than you’re being right now.” He walked over, trying to put his arm around me. I pulled away. “I’m just tired, Austin. I’m thinking about the wedding.” His eyes lit up at the mention of the “W” word. “Right. The wedding. Listen, babe, you mentioned adding my name to the titles of the Westside apartments once we’re hitched. Why wait? We could go down to the county clerk tomorrow and get it started. It’ll make the transition easier.” I looked at him, my gaze so cold he actually flinched. Then, I forced a smile. “Let’s not rush. We have a ceremony to plan. I promised I’d do it after the wedding, and I will.” He relaxed, heading to the shower. Over the next three weeks, I played the part of the doting bride. Austin kept his distance from Jade, or at least he thought he did. A week before the wedding, he dropped a bombshell. “Sierra, Jade said you’re too busy with work, so she went ahead and did your final wedding dress fitting for you. You two are basically the same size, right? She wanted to save you the trip.” Jade walked in behind him, holding a garment bag. Her smile was a jagged blade. “I just wanted to help, Sierra. You’ve been so swamped.” The thought of her skin inside my wedding dress made my stomach turn. “Let me see it,” I said. They blinked. Austin frowned. “Sierra, don’t be ungrateful—” “I said, let me see it.” Jade pulled the dress out. It was white silk, elegant and expensive. I took it from her, walked over to the kitchen, and shoved it directly into the trash can, right on top of the coffee grounds and leftover takeout. Austin exploded. “What the hell is wrong with you?! That cost five thousand dollars!” “I don’t wear things that have been on other people’s bodies,” I said calmly. “Jade was trying to help! You’re being a psycho!” “If you like her in white so much, Austin, maybe she should be the one standing at the altar.” Jade stepped in, playing the peacemaker. “It’s okay, Austin. She’s just stressed. We can find another dress. I just want her to be happy.” She was patient. She was playing the long game for my bank account. The next day, Jade brought “Toby” over. He was about three years old, with dark curly hair and Austin’s exact chin. “This is Toby,” Jade said. “Like I said, I’m leaving in a week. I really appreciate you taking him in.” I looked at the boy. He was a pawn in their game, but he was also the smoking gun. “He’s adorable,” I said, reaching out to pat his cheek. “Actually, I have an errand near the zoo today. Why don’t I take Toby with me? We can get to know each other.” Austin and Jade exchanged a glance of pure triumph. “That’s a great idea, Sierra,” Austin said. I didn’t go to the zoo. I went to a private lab. I handed over two discreetly collected envelopes—one with Austin’s hair from his brush, one with Toby’s. “I need a DNA paternity test,” I told the administrator, sliding an extra hundred dollars across the desk. “Expedited. Forty-eight hours.” When I got home, Austin was on the phone in the kitchen. “She fell for it, Jade. Hook, line, and sinker. She thinks he’s just some foster kid. She’s already taking him out for ice cream.” I pushed the door open. He hung up instantly, scooped Toby into his arms, and gave me a kiss. “How was the zoo, champ?” “Fun,” Toby chirped. Austin smiled at me. “See, Sierra? You’re going to be a natural mother. Maybe we should start trying for one of our own right after the honeymoon.” “Maybe,” I said. A week later, the big day arrived. The ballroom was filled with the elite of our city—my parents’ business associates, the Holloway family in their Sunday best, and Jade, sitting in the front row with a look of smug anticipation. Austin and I stood at the altar. As the music swelled, he leaned in and whispered, “Remember our deal, Sierra. The deeds get signed Monday morning. Don’t let me down.” “I won’t,” I whispered back. The officiant turned to me. “Sierra Miller, do you take this man—” I reached out and took the microphone from his hand. I turned to the crowd, my voice echoing through the hall. “I have an announcement to make. The wedding is canceled.”

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My roommate was a professional “sugar-hunter.” In the digital underbelly of exclusive forums, she’d cultivated an entire roster of boyfriends—all of them heirs to some tech fortune or real estate empire. She categorized them like stock options: A-List, B-List, and C-List. The A-Listers were the whales; they’d wire her five-figure sums just for being “sweet.” The C-Listers were the stingy ones, and by the end of every month, she’d conduct a brutal pruning. It was purge night. I sat at my desk, paralyzed by the mere thought of a social interaction, while she groaned from her bed. “Ugh, I’m exhausted,” she complained, her thumb flying across her screen as she blocked one contact after another. “If you’re broke, don’t pretend to be a trust-fund baby. I don’t have time to waste on losers who can’t even cover a shopping spree.” I bit my lip, my heart hammering against my ribs. I raised a trembling hand, my voice barely a whisper. “Sienna… those guys you’re blocking. Are you just… throwing them away?” She glanced up, squinting. “Yeah. Why?” “Could you… could you give one to me?” 1 I have social anxiety. Not the “I’m a bit shy at parties” kind, but the “I have a panic attack if the barista looks me in the eye” kind. It had reached a breaking point. My therapist told me that if I didn’t make progress, I’d have to take a medical leave from the university. But I didn’t have the money for the intensive, high-end cognitive behavioral programs. “Start small,” the doctor had suggested. “Talk to people online. Maybe even try a low-stakes digital romance. It’s a safe space to practice being yourself.” But I was too terrified to even send a “hi” to a stranger on a dating app. That was why I’d gathered every ounce of courage to speak to Sienna Reed. She looked at me like I’d just grown a second head. “Wait… you actually have a voice? I thought you were a literal mute, Daisy.” The embarrassment burned my throat. I stared at my shoes. “What, you want to try your hand at the game?” Sienna smirked, her eyes glinting with a predatory sort of amusement. “I guess I could spare one.” She swiped through her secondary phone, then stopped. “Here. This guy. He’s on an encrypted messaging app I don’t use much anymore. I’ll give you the login. It’s all yours.” A surge of hope flared in my chest. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “Thank… thank you.” I reached for the phone, but she pulled it back, her expression hardening. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s not a gift. I spent weeks ‘farming’ this contact. It’s a premium lead. Five hundred bucks, and the account is yours for good.” 2 “Five hundred?” I stammered, my hand dropping. “Nothing in this world is free, Daisy. Especially not a billionaire’s son.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word on the street is this guy is the heir to the Montgomery estate—old money, private jets, the works. If you play your cards right, you’ll make that five hundred back in a single ‘good morning’ text. You want him or not?” The truth was, Sienna didn’t actually know if he was a Montgomery. The guy had never replied to her messages, never posted on his private feed, and certainly never sent her a cent. She figured she’d been scammed by whatever broker sold her the contact info. I didn’t care about the money, though. I wasn’t looking for a payday; I was looking for a ghost to talk to. I hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.” Sienna’s eyes lit up. She flipped her phone around to show her Venmo QR code. “Smart girl, Daisy Miller. You won’t regret it.” After the transfer went through, I logged into the account and changed the recovery info. As I did, I caught Sienna watching me. She looked… surprised. “I never noticed before,” she muttered as I climbed into my bunk bed and pulled the curtains shut. “You’re actually kind of a knockout when you aren’t hiding behind that hair.” 3 Behind the safety of my bed curtains, the world felt manageable. I stared at the new profile. The avatar was a minimalist, cold shot of a mountain peak. The name was just “M.” How do you even start? For someone like me, a digital “hello” felt like a leap off a cliff. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and typed: Hi. Are you awake? I hit send and immediately tossed the phone to the foot of the bed, my heart racing. I waited. And waited. By the time I fell asleep, there was no reply. Honestly? It was a relief. Talking to a living, breathing person was terrifying. Talking to a silent void? That, I could do. He became my digital diary—a “tree hole” where I could bury my thoughts. Daisies: [Good morning. They put onions in the breakfast burritos at the dining hall today. Gross.] Daisies: [I saw two squirrels fighting over a crust of bread today. The smaller one won. It felt like a win for the little guy.] Three months passed. I sent him snippets of my day, photos of the sunset, and my secret fears. I never expected a reply, so I grew bold. I practiced the flirtatious lines I’d read in novels, testing them out on the silence. Daisies: [Do you know what my favorite kind of star is?] Daisies: [It’s the one I see when I think of you. Cheesy, right? I’ll stop.] The turning point came when I dropped my phone in the library. The screen shattered, and it took three days to get it repaired. When I finally logged back in, my breath hitched. There were two messages. M: [?] (Sent the first night I was gone, at midnight.) M: [Losing patience already?] (Sent the second night.) My stomach did a somersault. He was… alive. He was a real person. And he had noticed I was gone. Before I could figure out a reply, the phone began to vibrate in my hand. He was calling. 4 I panicked and hit ‘decline’ so fast I almost dropped the phone again. Across the room, Sienna narrowed her eyes. “Daisy? Was that your phone? I haven’t heard that thing ring since the semester started.” Nobody ever called me. I looked away, my face flushing. “It was… just an alarm.” The phone vibrated again. Sienna stood up, reaching for it. “Let me see. You’ve been acting weird lately.” “No!” I pulled back, but she was faster, lunging for the device. In the scuffle, she knocked over her bowl of spicy ramen. The red broth splashed everywhere, soaking into the fabric of her cream-colored designer dress. “No!” she shrieked, looking at the stain in horror. “This was two thousand dollars! Daisy, you clumsy bitch! You’re paying for this!” I’m not just socially anxious; I’m a “frustration crier.” My throat tightened, and my voice cracked with tears. “You… you tried to grab it. It’s not my fault.” “The hell it isn’t! If you’d just given me the phone, this wouldn’t have happened!” Our other roommate, Mia, finally snapped. “Sienna, shut up. You were harassing her. Why would she show you her private messages?” Lexi chimed in from her desk. “Exactly. We saw it. You lunged at her. Don’t try to bully her into paying for your vanity.” Sienna fumed, realizing she was outnumbered. She grabbed her robe and stomped toward the bathroom. “Fine! You’re all just jealous. I’m telling the RA about this!” Once she was gone, I looked at Mia and Lexi, my eyes wet. “Thank you.” “Don’t sweat it, Daisy. She’s been a nightmare lately,” Mia said. I climbed back into my bed, trembling. I looked at my phone and realized my worst nightmare had come true. In the struggle, I hadn’t declined the second call. I had accidentally hit ‘accept.’ “Done fighting yet?” a voice asked. 5 It was a deep, cool baritone that sounded like expensive bourbon and late nights. I hung up immediately. M: [What? Did you lose the fight? Are you crying now?] I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Daisies: [No. I’m just… you scared me.] M: [My bad. I shouldn’t have called out of the blue.] M: [Busy the last three days?] He actually cared. Daisies: [No, my phone broke. I just got it back today.] M: [Why didn’t you just buy a new one?] Must be nice to be that rich. Daisies: [The old one still works.] There was a five-minute silence while he apparently processed the concept of “repairing” things. Then: M: [Transfer: $10,000. Go get a new phone.] The amount of zeros made me dizzy. My hands shook. Daisies: [No, no! I can’t take this. Truly, I’m fine.] M: [Don’t overthink it. Your daily updates are… entertaining. I got used to them. I don’t like it when my routine is interrupted.] M: [Buy the phone. Keep the updates coming.] I was stunned. Daisies: [Oh. Okay.] M: [Transfer: $10,000. For the dress. Buy a twenty-thousand-dollar one. Tell your roommate to stay in her lane.] This was insane. Was I being groomed? Was this some elaborate scam? But I had nothing to steal. Daisies: [Why are you doing this?] M: [You have a nice voice. I heard a bit of it before you hung up. I have chronic insomnia. If you’re willing to read me a story every night until I fall asleep, I’ll put you on a $15,000 monthly retainer. Think of it as a job.] My heart thudded. This wasn’t just a way to pay for school; it was a way to practice speaking. To a stranger who couldn’t see me. Daisies: [Okay. Deal.]

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No one in my family ever remembers my birthday. For my brother’s birthday, my parents order a custom cake a month in advance and book his favorite steakhouse. For my sister’s, the entire family spends the weekend at Disney, posting a nine-photo Instagram grid captioned, “Happy birthday to our little princess.” My birthday is July nineteenth. It falls right in the middle of summer break, and every year, that day passes like any other ordinary Tuesday. I actually thought eighteen would be different. That morning, I woke up early, put on a light touch of makeup, and sat on the living room sofa, waiting. Mom grabbed my sister’s dance bag on her way out. She barely looked at me as she passed. “Heat up some leftovers for lunch, May. I’m taking your sister to her intensive.” Dad was out on the porch watering the ferns. My brother called him over to shoot some hoops in the driveway, and within minutes, the two of them were gone. By noon, the house was entirely empty. I unlocked my phone and sent a message to the family group chat: “I’m eighteen today.” No one replied. By seven that evening, everyone had gathered back at the house. The dinner table was crowded with slow-roasted barbecue ribs—my brother’s favorite—and a creamy potato soup my sister loved. There was no cake. No candles. Nothing that had anything to do with me. No one sang. No one even noticed that something was missing. Everyone else’s arrival in this world is a milestone worth celebrating. Mine, it seemed, was barely worth mentioning. But turning eighteen meant one thing: I could finally, legally, choose my own way out. 1 “May, delete that text from the group chat. It’s cluttering the thread.” My brother, Mason, didn’t even look up from his plate. He tapped his fork against his bowl, prompting Mom to serve him another helping of rice. I looked down at my phone. In the family group chat, my message—”I’m eighteen today”—still hung there, isolated and unanswered. Right above it was a link about lawn care my uncle had shared three hours earlier. Right below it was a voice memo Grandma had just sent. I tapped the memo. She was asking Mason about his final grades. They had stepped right over my message. Like a stone in the middle of the road, everyone’s path simply curved around it. “Cluttering?” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It’s one text.” “It takes up the whole screen. I almost missed Grandma’s message because of it.” Mom walked over, carrying a bowl of soup, the ladle clinking softly against the ceramic. “Alright, that’s enough. Put the phones away at the table.” She set the soup in front of my sister, Isla. Isla took a sip and wrinkled her nose. “Mom, it’s a little bland today.” “Let me grab the salt.” Mom immediately turned back to the kitchen. I looked at the spread on the table. Barbecue ribs, steamed broccoli, and the potato soup. Mason loved the ribs. Isla loved the soup. The broccoli was Mom’s diet prep. There wasn’t a single dish on the table made for me. Nothing I actually liked. I love fish. Pan-seared salmon. I’d mentioned it dozens of times. I’d said it so often I finally got tired of hearing my own voice. “Dad, today…” “Yeah?” Dad glanced at me over his water glass, but his focus immediately drifted back to Mason. “Mason, did your wrist flare up again during the game? Where you sprained it last month?” “It’s fine,” Mason said, flexing his hand. “Just felt a little tight when I went up for a layup.” “I’ll take you to the clinic tomorrow to get it looked at.” “I don’t think I need to go.” “Better safe than sorry.” My voice was cut off. It wasn’t the first time. Isla watched me from across the table, her spoon pausing mid-air. It was a tiny gesture—so brief that if I hadn’t spent my entire life observing this family, I would have missed it. Then she lowered her eyes and went back to her soup. After dinner, I stood at the sink to do the dishes. The faucet hummed loudly. From the living room, I could hear Isla practicing her ballet turns, Mom counting out the beats in the background. “One, two, three, four. Again.” Mason was shouting at his friends through his gaming headset in his room. Dad was scrolling through his tablet on the recliner. The house was incredibly lively. Everyone had a purpose. Everyone was being watched, nurtured, and held in some form of attention. Except me. I stood in the kitchen, washing five sets of plates. The water rushed over my fingers so loudly that even if I had started crying, no one would have heard. But I didn’t cry. I was eighteen now. It wasn’t worth the tears anymore. When I finished, I walked into the living room. Mom was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her photo library and laughing quietly to herself. “Look at this, you guys,” she said, holding the screen out to Dad. “Isla doing her first recital at five years old. She was so precious.” Dad leaned in and smiled. Mason stuck his head out of his bedroom door. “Are there any of me?” “Of course there are. Hold on, let me find your little league videos.” Mom scrolled for several minutes, laughing as she uncovered old clips of Mason running the bases. “Are there any of me?” I asked, standing at the very edge of the carpet. Mom looked up. Her thumb paused on the screen. “Yours… I’m sure they’re on here somewhere. I’ll have to look for them later.” Later. It was always later. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I went back to my room and shut the door. My phone screen lit up. It was a text in our high school class thread from my desk mate, Becca: “Happy birthday, May! Sorry I forgot to say it earlier. I’m buying you an iced coffee tomorrow!” It was the only “happy birthday” I received all day, coming from a classmate I’d known for less than a year. I typed a quick “Thank you” and sent it. Then I opened my camera roll and scrolled all the way to the top. My photos stopped around the age of six. The year the twins were born, Mom’s camera lens simply stopped finding me. The digital albums were a monument to the two of them. Mason’s first steps, Isla’s toddler recitals, matching twin photoshoots—album after album. I scrolled for a long time until I finally found one of myself. I was nine, standing on a stage for a middle school speech competition. Mom had taken it from the back of the auditorium. But the photo was blurry, cutting off half of my body. The other half of the frame was perfectly focused on three-year-old Isla, who was sitting in the front row, looking back at the camera and showing her tiny baby teeth. And there I was on stage, speaking into a microphone, a smudge of a girl in the background. That was my place in this house. The blurry backdrop of someone else’s highlight reel. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own face back at me. Eighteen-year-old May, who had spent the morning carefully putting on makeup, waiting all day, and ending it without a single family member wishing her well. From the hallway, Mom’s voice called out: “May, make sure you wake your sister up at seven tomorrow. Her intensive starts at eight-thirty.” I stared up at the ceiling. “Okay.” 2 “May, it’s seven.” Isla was already awake, standing in my doorway. She was wearing her pale pink leotard, her hair only half-tied. I checked my phone. It was 6:53 AM. My alarm hadn’t even gone off yet. “You’re up early,” I said. “Yeah, I set my own alarm.” She tilted her head slightly, looking at me. “Mom told you to wake me, but I figured you probably didn’t sleep well.” Her tone was casual, as if she were simply commenting on the weather. But the words left a dull ache in my chest. She knew I hadn’t slept. “Let me help you with your hair,” I offered. “No, it’s fine. I can do it.” She turned and walked down the hall. A polite, calculated distance. Isla had always treated me this way. Not cold, but certainly not warm. She behaved like a roommate who happened to share the same lease. She called me “May,” but there was never any sisterly affection behind it. Mason, on the other hand, just called me by my name when he wanted something, skipping any title entirely. Yet when he spoke to Isla, it was always with an easy, natural warmth—a quiet familiarity that belonged only to the two of them. The twin bond was a circle I could never hope to enter. At the breakfast island, Mom was heating up oatmeal for Isla. Mason wasn’t awake yet. “May, did you eat?” Mom asked, not looking up from her tablet. “Yeah.” I hadn’t. But she didn’t double-check, and she didn’t notice the lack of a dirty bowl in the sink. “Isla, did you grab your water bottle? It’s going to be hot today. Drink plenty of water.” “Got it.” “Sunscreen?” “In my bag.” “Do you want me to drive you?” “No, I’ll just take the bus.” Mom still looked anxious. “May, why don’t you ride with her? She doesn’t know the stops near the dance center very well.” Isla had been going to that same dance center for two years. But to Mom, she was perpetually helpless. “Okay.” As we walked toward the door, Mason finally emerged from his room, rubbing his eyes. “Mom, what’s for breakfast?” “I made breakfast burritos and left some Greek yogurt on the counter for you.” Breakfast burritos and yogurt. His favorite. What was my favorite? I didn’t even know anymore. Because no one had ever asked. On the bus, Isla took the single empty seat by the window, immediately pulling out her phone. I stood next to her, holding onto the overhead strap. The bus was packed. Only one empty seat, and she took it. She didn’t offer to take turns sitting. It wasn’t done out of malice; she simply didn’t think about it. Just like Mom, just like Dad, just like everyone else in that house. It wasn’t active cruelty. It was just a complete absence of awareness. They never considered that I might be tired, or that I might want to sit down too. “May,” Isla said suddenly, her eyes still on her screen. “That text you sent in the group chat yesterday…” My heart took a small, sharp dip. “What about it?” “Did Mason really tell you to delete it?” “Yeah.” “Did you?” “No.” “Oh.” She went back to scrolling. I waited for three bus stops, hoping she would say “Happy belated birthday.” The words never came. “This is my stop,” she said, standing up as the bus hissed to a halt. “Thanks, May.” “Yeah. Have a good rehearsal.” “Can you pick me up later? It ends at five.” “I have class this afternoon.” “Oh. Okay. I’ll just take the bus back then.” She stepped off, her ponytail bouncing in the morning light. The doors closed, and the bus pulled back into traffic. I didn’t actually have class. My afternoon was completely open. But I didn’t want to pick her up. Not because I disliked her, but because I wanted to see what would happen if I simply stopped showing up. Would Mom go instead? Would Dad leave work early? Or would Mason be dispatched to fetch her? At 4:50 PM, Mom’s name popped up in the family group chat: “Isla finishes at five. Who’s picking her up?” Dad: “In a meeting.” Mason: “At a friend’s house.” Mom: “May? Don’t you have a light schedule this afternoon?” I stared at the screen. She had started with “Who’s picking her up,” but the assignment always found its way back to me. Three seconds later, another message from Mom: “You’re probably in the area anyway. Just grab her.” I wasn’t in the area. The dance center was on the far east side of town; our house was on the west. But in this family, my schedule was always assumed to be blank, my plans were always assumed to be expendable, and my life was always available for draft. “Sure.” I typed the word, sent it, and laid the phone face down on my desk. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering. What if one day I didn’t type that word? What if my phone went dead, my number was disconnected, and I simply ceased to exist? Would they worry about where I was, or would they just be frustrated that they had to find another way to get Isla home? I already knew the answer. And that was why I didn’t bother trying to find out. When I met Isla outside the studio, she was flushed, her face red from the heat. “May, I’m so thirsty.” “Where’s your water bottle?” “Finished it hours ago.” I handed her my own flask. She took it, gulping down half of it before handing it back. “Thanks.” “Sure.” On the bus ride home, she fell asleep against the window, her head nodding lower and lower with every bump in the road. I reached out, gently guiding her head down to rest against my shoulder. Her breathing was soft and rhythmic, her long eyelashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks. She was beautiful. She was the family’s masterpiece. I held her steady, watching the familiar streetlights blur past. I had traveled every road in this city, but always for someone else’s sake. But very soon, I wouldn’t have to anymore. 3 “May Ellis, right? I saw your score on the National Math Modeling competition. Third place nationwide.” My guidance counselor called me into her office on Monday afternoon. Outside, the sounds of a gym class echoed across the quad. “Yes,” I replied. “That’s highly impressive. It’s a prestigious competition. Have you decided which colleges you want to target for early admission?” “Still researching.” “What do your parents think?” “I haven’t told them yet.” She adjusted her glasses, studying me. “You haven’t discussed something this major with your parents?” I offered a small, polite smile. “I wanted to make sure I understood all my options before bringing it up.” That was a lie. The truth was, even if I told them, no one would look up from their plate. The previous month, I had ranked third in our entire graduating class on the midterms. The school had posted the honor roll on the main bulletin board, and I had taken a photo and sent it to our family group. Mom had replied with a brief: “Nice.” Then, a second later: “The instructor sent over Isla’s new solo choreography. Take a look, she’s improved so much!” A string of thumbs-up emojis from Dad and Mason immediately followed. My third-place rank had survived on the screen for exactly thirty seconds. When I got home that evening, a stack of mail was piled on the entryway table—bills, dental reminders, school circulars. I sifted through them and found a thick envelope covered in a thin layer of dust. I opened it. It was the official physical certificate of my national award, mailed to my parents two months ago. It had never been opened. The words—”Congratulations, your child May Ellis has secured Third Place in the National High School Mathematical Contest in Modeling”—lay printed in elegant black ink, buried beneath grocery coupons and electric bills, completely overlooked. I folded the paper carefully and slid it into my backpack. At dinner, Mom’s phone rang with a FaceTime call from my aunt. “How did Mason do in his swim meet last weekend?” my aunt’s voice chimed through the speaker. “Second in the district!” Mom’s voice practically sang with pride. “The coach says he has natural talent. We’re looking into sending him to the state developmental camp next month.” “That’s wonderful! And what about Isla? I heard she took gold at the regional showcase?” “Yes, gold! The judges were raving about her stage presence.” They talked for a few more minutes before my aunt seemed to remember something. “Oh, and how is May? She’s a senior now, right? How are her grades?” Mom hesitated. It was barely a beat, but it was there. “She’s… she’s doing fine. Very steady.” Very steady. Third in the graduating class. A national mathematics award. In my mother’s mouth, it was reduced to “very steady.” Mason’s district second-place was a triumph to be shared. Isla’s regional gold was a victory to be rehearsed to anyone who would listen. But my national placement was handled in two words. It wasn’t because the achievement wasn’t good enough. It was because saying it didn’t give Mom that immediate, warm rush of pride. Her eyes lit up when she spoke about the twins. When she spoke about me, she was simply answering a question she couldn’t avoid. After the call ended, Mason leaned across the table. “Mom, when does the state camp start?” “Next month. Your dad already cleared his schedule. I’ll go with you.” “Awesome.” Isla chimed in. “Mom, my teacher wants me to audition for a commercial next week.” “Really? What kind of commercial? Where?” “For the downtown mall’s anniversary campaign. They need a featured dancer.” “We need to get you ready then! Let’s go buy you some new pointe shoes tomorrow.” I sat at the corner of the table, my hand resting on the folded certificate in my pocket. No one asked if I had any updates. No one turned to say, “How are things going with you, May?” They didn’t need to ask because, in their world, there was nothing about me that required their gaze. May was the girl who washed the dishes, who picked up Isla, who lived quietly in the background. And that was all they needed me to be. I went to my room, opened my laptop, and pulled up the college portals. One was in Atlanta, a thousand miles away. Another was in Austin, fifteen hundred miles away. The furthest was Portsmouth University, up in Seattle—all the way across the country. My cursor hovered over “Portsmouth University” for a long time. They had a world-class mathematical modeling lab. My national award would guarantee me a spot and a substantial scholarship. Three thousand miles away, no one would look at my life and call it “very steady.” No one would let my acceptance letters collect dust under the grocery flyers. No one would remember I existed only when they needed a ride. I opened the application page. I paused for three seconds. Then I closed the window. Not because I didn’t want to go. But because the deadline was still two months away, and I needed to gather my official transcripts. And… Because I wanted to give them one final chance. Just one. If they still couldn’t see me, then I would leave. Quietly, cleanly, and without looking back. 4 “May, your cousin Tori is staying with us for a couple of weeks. Move your things out of your room so she can have it. You’ll crash with Isla.” On Saturday morning, Mom delivered the instruction over her shoulder as she tied her sneakers by the door. I paused, my toast halfway to my mouth. “Why my room?” “Your room faces south. It gets the best morning light, and Tori’s been under the weather lately. She needs the sun.” “Mason’s room faces south too.” Mom’s hand paused on her shoelaces. She looked up, her expression turning sharp with impatience. “Mason is a boy, May. Tori is a girl. Does that make sense to you?” “Then let her stay in Isla’s room.” “Isla needs space to stretch and practice her routines at night. Her room is too small.” “Your room only has a bed and a desk. It’s the easiest to clear out.” Every scenario had been perfectly arranged for everyone else’s comfort. Mason was a boy, Isla needed her studio space. Only I was expected to yield. Only my space was negotiable. “How long will she be here?” “Two weeks or so. She’s taking summer prep courses in town.” Two weeks. My room, my desk, my privacy—all surrendered for two weeks. And I was to be squeezed into Isla’s tiny bedroom, sharing a narrow twin bed. “Okay.” I didn’t argue. Experience had taught me that arguing only wasted my breath. When Tori arrived that afternoon, she brought two massive suitcases and a bright, polite smile. “Hi Auntie, hi Uncle!” “Tori! Oh, look at you, come in, come in!” Mom welcomed her as if she were royalty. Tori rolled her suitcases into my bedroom, looked around, and frowned slightly. “Auntie, can we move this bookshelf? I need a place to set up my vanity mirror.” “Of course. May, come move your bookshelf out of here.” My bookshelf. It held every notebook, textbook, and certificate I had kept over the last three years. I spent an hour carrying them piece by piece, stacking them in the corner of Isla’s cramped room. That night, I lay on a makeshift pallet on Isla’s floor. The bed was too narrow for both of us, and Isla had warned me that she tossed and turned. “May, do you want to sleep on the bed? I can take the floor,” Isla offered, looking down at me from the edge of the mattress. “No, it’s fine. The floor is cooler anyway.” “Okay.” She pulled her blanket up. After a quiet moment, she spoke again. “Tori’s actually really nice. Don’t be mad at her.” I wasn’t mad at Tori. I was just tired of being the only person in the house whose boundaries did not exist. On the third day, I went back to my old room to retrieve my AP prep guides. I opened the door to find Tori leafing through one of my notebooks. “Are these yours?” she asked, pointing to my math modeling journal. “Your handwriting is so neat.” “Yes. Please put them back.” “I was just looking. Don’t be so sensitive, cousin.” She laughed, tossing the notebook carelessly back onto the desk. I looked at the desk. My blue-covered competition binder was missing. “There was a blue binder here. Where is it?” “I didn’t touch it,” Tori said, shrugging as she lay back on my bed. “I never saw any blue binder.” I searched the room for ten minutes and finally found it at the bottom of the trash can. The blue cover had been torn, and several pages were soaked with dark coffee, the ink bleeding into illegible smudges. It was my modeling journal. Three years of concepts, proofs, and ideas—the only copy I had. “Tori, this…” “Oh, oops. I must have knocked it off the desk when I was pouring my coffee.” She didn’t even sit up. Her tone was entirely light. “You can just write another one, right?” Three years of work. Just write another one. I stood in the doorway, holding the damp, ruined journal, my fingers trembling. It wasn’t anger. It was a profound, cold fatigue. The kind of exhaustion that comes from knowing that in this house, no one would ever stand up to protect what was mine. I carried the binder back to Isla’s room and used her hairdryer to dry the pages one by one. Some of the formulas were gone completely. I sat on the floor, tracing over the faded lines with a pencil, reconstructing them from memory. I worked until one in the morning. The next morning at breakfast, Tori sat in my usual chair, sharing a laugh with Mom. “Auntie, this breakfast is amazing. My mom never makes things like this.” “Eat as much as you want, sweetheart. I’ll make something different for you tomorrow.” Mason was playing a game on his phone. Isla was stretching against the island counter. No one knew what I had spent my night doing. No one asked why my eyes were bloodshot. In that quiet kitchen, a sudden clarity washed over me. I didn’t need to give them a “last chance.” I didn’t need to wait for them to finally look my way. They hadn’t simply missed me. There was simply no space reserved for me in their lives. There never had been. Over the next two days, I quietly took care of three things. First, I moved all my important documents—my birth certificate, my passport, my academic records—from the house to my locker at school. Second, I changed the security number on my savings account to a new, unregistered prepaid phone line. Third, I submitted my final application to Portsmouth University. The status page updated immediately: Application Received. The decision would be out in two weeks. But by then, I wouldn’t be here to read it. At 2:00 AM, while the entire house slept, I pulled my small suitcase from the back of Isla’s closet. It was light. I didn’t have much to carry. My documents, a few changes of clothes, and my coffee-stained journal. And a train ticket. 6:00 AM, heading northwest to Seattle. I walked out to the quiet living room, placed my house key gently on the shoe cabinet by the door, and took one last look at my phone. The family chat was still open on Mom’s text from the night before: “Who’s free to pick up some milk tomorrow?” I left the group chat. I deactivated my old phone number. The screen went black. The entire world fell into an absolute, beautiful silence. I lifted my suitcase, opened the front door, and let it click shut behind me.

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The security footage flickered on the conference room screen during our Monday morning stand-up. It was a grainy, high-contrast video of the apartment building’s third-floor hallway. In the frame, a woman with thinning silver hair and a slightly bent spine was hovering over a row of black trash bags lining the wall. It was my grandmother, Helen. I reached for the remote to turn it off, my chest tightening with a sudden, sharp anxiety. But before my fingers could touch the plastic, Jessica, our newest intern, slammed a thick sheet of paper onto the center of the mahogany table. “Matthew,” Jessica said, addressing the company’s CEO, her voice ringing with performative outrage. “I’m formally submitting a petition on behalf of the entire staff. Nina has been housing her relatives in the employee apartments, violating collective housing policies and severely disrupting everyone’s daily life.” I looked down at the paper. There were forty-nine signatures in blue and black ink—a united front from my entire department, leaving mine as the only empty space. I swept my gaze over the faces around the room, keeping my voice as calm as I could manage. “Is this really how you all feel?” Several coworkers immediately looked down at their laps, refusing to meet my eyes. “Nina,” Lisa, a junior designer, muttered, shifting in her chair. “The company apartments aren’t your personal estate. Bringing guests in without prior approval isn’t fair to the rest of us.” “Exactly,” another voice chimed in from the back. “You’re treating the place like a free boutique hotel for your family vacations.” I didn’t answer them. Instead, I turned to look at Matthew. My boyfriend. The man who sat at the head of this table because of the late nights and endless sacrifices we had shared. “Do you agree with this, Matthew?” Matthew didn’t look at me. He adjusted his collar, his expression hardening into a mask of professional detachment. “Nina, the apartments are a benefit meant to ease the financial burden on our employees. It’s not your family’s personal guest house.” A cold, hollow feeling settled in my chest. I forced a small smile. “So, what is the plan?” Jessica raised her chin, her eyes flashing with triumph. “You have three days to vacate the apartment. Furthermore, you need to reimburse the company for the unauthorized time your family occupied the space, calculated at market-rate hotel prices.” Nods of agreement rippled through the room. They had all seemingly forgotten that the entire apartment building belonged to me. I had only leased it to the company for free because I had sat in this very room, listening to them complain about how they couldn’t afford Boston’s soaring rents. … “Nina, because your guests have severely disrupted the lives of your colleagues, you need to pack up and vacate the apartment within three days. As for the financial restitution for unauthorized occupancy, HR will send you the bill once the calculation is complete.” Matthew’s voice was clinical, devoid of the warmth we had shared just last night. I picked up the petition from the polished conference table, looking at the names. “How exactly did my family disrupt your lives?” Lisa sneered. “Last month you had some older man staying there. He walked down the hall half-undressed, looking into the girls’ rooms. Who knows what he was planning?” She was talking about my Uncle Paul, who lives in rural Maine. He wore a tank top on his first hot summer day in the city, but after I gently reminded him of the building rules, he was always fully dressed. The apartments are individual one-bedroom units; nobody lingers in the hallways unless they’re coming or going. And if I recalled correctly, Uncle Paul spent his week off carrying heavy packages for Lisa, fixing her leaky bathroom pipe, and replacing a blown fuse. Now, he was a predator in her narrative. Tyler, a sales rep, chimed in with a mocking laugh. “And your grandmother. Sneaking around the doors, rifling through trash bags. Did she bring those backwoods shoplifting habits with her?” The paper crumpled in my grip. I stared at Tyler. Last month, he had collapsed from acute gastroenteritis in the hallway. It was my grandmother who found him, called the ambulance, and brought him home-cooked broth every day of his recovery. She walked the halls because she was worried about him, terrified another young person would collapse with no one there to help. The complaints kept rolling in, each one more distorted than the last. They complained about my cousin’s golden retriever being “vicious,” forgetting that the dog had barked at a suspicious trespasser who was cornering a female coworker late at night. They complained about my Aunt Beatrice being “loud and argumentative,” forgetting that she was the one who marched down to the local farmers’ market to demand a refund for them when they were scammed and brought to tears. They had forgotten everything. Jessica grinned, crossing her arms. “Well, Nina? Your relatives have caused nothing but trouble. What do you have to say for yourself?” I looked at them calmly. “Are you all absolutely certain my family made your lives miserable?” No one looked me in the eye. “It’s the truth, Nina,” someone muttered. “But you’re the boss’s girlfriend, so we didn’t want to ruffle feathers.” I nodded slowly. “Understood. My mistake.” My mistake was being soft-hearted enough to let them live in my building for free. Matthew smiled, satisfied with my silence. “Good. Since you accept the terms, Nina, pack your things. Hand over the keys and the building access cards to Jessica. Once you pay the reimbursement fee, we’ll put this behind us. I won’t hold it against you professionally.” I let out a soft laugh. “Matthew, do you actually remember where those ‘company apartments’ came from?” Matthew’s eyes flickered. He shifted in his leather chair, irritation crossing his face. “The company leased them to make life easier for our staff. Nina, embezzling company resources is a fireable offense. I’m letting you stay because of our relationship and your seniority. Stop making a scene and cooperate.” His anger was defensive. He knew exactly who owned the building, but he didn’t want to admit it in front of the staff. He was using Jessica to seize my property and turn it into a permanent company asset. Jessica tossed her hair, beaming like a victorious pageant queen. “Nina, as the boss’s girlfriend, you should be setting an example. Fighting this just puts Matthew in a terrible position.” Matthew looked at Jessica, patting her shoulder. “If only everyone were as understanding as you, Jess.” Jessica placed her hand over his, giving me a sharp, triumphant look. “If I had a boyfriend as wonderful as you, Matthew, I’d never dream of making his life difficult.” The room was thick with their mutual heat, the coworkers watching us like spectators at a soap opera. I stood up, pulling my bag over my shoulder. “Are we done? Or should we leave you two to get a room?” Jessica’s face flushed red. Matthew’s expression turned incredibly sour. “Nina, watch your mouth. Jessica and I are strictly professional.” “No need to explain,” I said, walking toward the door. “We aren’t blind.” Matthew’s jaw tightens. “Nina, you’re just acting out because I asked you to move. Fine, let’s compromise. You can stay, but you’ll pay three thousand a month in rent, and no more guests.” I felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat. Pay three thousand dollars a month to live in my own building? “Sure,” I said, leaning over the table. “Show me the deed to the building, Matthew. The second you produce the deed, I’ll write you the check.” I didn’t wait for his answer. I turned around and walked out. That evening, I got home and found the apartment empty. I was about to call my grandmother when a shrill scream echoed from the hallway. I rushed out. Jessica was gripping my grandmother’s arm, pulling her roughly. “Please, just give me my gold locket back!” Jessica was crying, her voice carrying through the corridor. “I’ll pay you for it. It was my mother’s heirloom!” The noise drew a crowd of coworkers from their units. “I came back to my apartment and found my mother’s gold locket gone,” Jessica sobbed to the onlookers. “I checked the hallway camera. This old lady was the only one who entered my place this afternoon.” Grandma Helen’s voice trembles as she tried to pull away. “Her door was wide open, and I smelled gas. I saw her stove burner was left on, so I went in to turn it off. I didn’t touch anything else, I swear.” Tyler stepped forward, shoving my grandmother back. “Don’t lie, you old thief! You’ve been lurking around our doors for weeks, just waiting for a chance to rob us.” “That locket is a dead woman’s memory. Aren’t you afraid of the consequences?” Lisa added. “Give it back, or we’re calling the cops!” Grandma Helen was crying, her fragile hands shaking. “I didn’t take it. I was only trying to turn off the gas.” Jessica wasn’t careless enough to leave her apartment unlocked with a burner running. This was a setup. I stepped in, placing myself firmly in front of my grandmother. “What proof do you have?” “She was caught on camera going into Jessica’s room!” Tyler sneered. “Who else could it be? This is what happens when you let low-class people stay here. Everyone needs to check their valuables.” My grandmother clutched my hand. “Nina, I didn’t steal anything.” I squeezed her hand back. “Jessica, where did you leave the locket?” “In my vanity drawer. No one else has been in my room.” I pulled out my phone. “Perfect. I’ll call the police. My grandmother says she only touched the stove. We’ll have the forensic team dust the vanity drawer for fingerprints. That will clear up exactly whose hands were on your mother’s locket.” Jessica’s face went pale. She lunged and grabbed my phone. “Forget it, Nina. There’s no need to involve the police over something this small.” “My grandmother is being called a thief for saving your apartment from a fire,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “If we’re going to investigate, let’s do it right.” Matthew walked into the corridor. “Nina, can you stop causing trouble for one day? You bring guests in violation of company rules, and now you want to call the police over a misunderstanding? You’re embarrassing me.” My hands curled into fists. When Jessica was screaming at my grandmother, he was nowhere to be found. But the moment I mentioned the police, he accused me of ruining his reputation. I looked at Jessica. “Did you actually see my grandmother take it?” Jessica looked around, her confidence crumbling under my stare. “Maybe… maybe I misplaced it. I’ve been so stressed lately. Let’s just drop it.” “If you accused my grandmother falsely, you need to apologize to her. Right now.” Matthew stepped between us. “Nina, don’t push it. It’s a minor misunderstanding. Why do you always have to ruin the mood?” “An innocent elderly woman was publicly humiliated. If she doesn’t get an apology, I’m calling the authorities.” Jessica shot me a venomous look, then turned to my grandmother. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. Please don’t take it to heart.” Matthew frowned. “Nina, if you hadn’t brought her here illegally, none of this would have happened.” Grandma Helen pulled my sleeve. “Nina, let’s go inside. The stew I made for you is almost cold.” I swallowed my rage, nodding, and lead her back to our apartment. The next morning, I walked into the office. Jessica stopped me in the lobby, throwing a printed spreadsheet at my chest. “Nina, here is the itemized bill for your family’s illegal occupancy over the years. At a standard rate of a thousand dollars a night, you owe the company a hundred thousand dollars.” I looked at the paper and laughed. A thousand dollars a night? They were charging five-star hotel rates for a mid-tier apartment building. I tossed the paper into the nearest trash can. “I’ll pay you when you prove this building belongs to the company. Show me the deed or the lease agreement. The moment I see proof of company ownership, I’ll write the check.” I push past her and walk into my office. Half an hour later, my office door was kicked open. Matthew stormed in, kicking my desk. The wood groaned, and the desk collapsed onto its side, sending my monitor, files, and personal items crashing to the floor. “Nina, have you no shame?” Matthew yelled. “You’ve been freeloading off this company for years. Jessica asks for the housing fees, and you play mind games? You just don’t want to pay!” I looked at the broken glass on the floor, then up at him. “Matthew, does this building belong to the company? Why should I pay them?” Matthew’s eyes darted away, but he quickly recovered his bluster. “The employees have lived here for years. Of course it’s company property! Stop trying to dodge the bill. Pay Jessica, and apologize to her.” “And if I don’t?” “Then pack your things and get out of my company!” I looked at him for a quiet moment. Then, I opened my drawer, pulled out the resignation letter I had prepared last night, and slide it across the tilted surface of the broken desk. Jessica stepped into the doorway, a smirk playing on her lips. “Nina, are you really resigning? Jobs are hard to find these days, and finding a boss who offers premium housing benefits is rare. You’ll easily spend three grand a month on rent out there.” Matthew looked at me, confident I’d break. “Nina, if you admit you were wrong and pay the hundred thousand, I’ll give you one more chance.” I pointed at the paper. “Just sign it, Matthew.” I grab my purse and walk out. Behind me, Matthew’s voice shook the walls. “Nina! Don’t you dare come crawling back to me when you’re desperate!” I decided to take a week off to rest. One afternoon, while I was at the grocery store, my phone rang. It was my grandmother, her voice breathless and trembling with tears. “Nina, please come back… your coworkers… they’re throwing our things out…” I dropped my basket and sprinted to my car. When I burst into our apartment, the scene was devastating. Our clothes were strewn across the floor, our books torn, our dishes smashed. My grandmother was on the floor, clutching her chest. She had tried to stop Tyler from smashing our family portrait, and he had shoved her. Her head was bleeding where it hit the corner of the wooden coffee table. Tyler stood over her, sneering. “Get up, old lady. Stop trying to fake an injury to sue us.” My vision goes red. I rush forward. “What the hell are you doing?!” Jessica stood near the doorway, looking down her nose at me. “Nina, you don’t work for the company anymore, which means you have no right to occupy company housing. Since you wouldn’t leave voluntarily, we decided to help you pack.” The other coworkers chimed in. “Seriously, I’ve never seen someone so shameless. Fired, but still squatting in company property.” My grandmother was pale, blood pooling on the hardwood floor. I pulled out my phone with shaking fingers, dialing 911 for an ambulance and the police. Within ten minutes, the paramedics wheel my grandmother out on a stretcher. Two police officers arrived, assessing the wreckage. Jessica spoke up immediately, her voice smooth and reasonable. “Officers, this is a civil matter. Nina was occupying company-owned housing after being terminated. We were simply assisting with her relocation, but she and her grandmother resisted and staged an injury to cause trouble.” I walked over to the hallway closet, open the safe, and pull out the deed to the building. I slammed it onto the kitchen counter. “I own this entire building,” I say, my voice steady but sharp as a razor. “Why would I move out of my own home? You’re the ones who are trespassing.”

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We were walking through the grocery store, and he was acting like a walking billboard for his foster sister. I reached for a bag of kettle chips. “Zoe loves those,” he said. I grabbed a carton of yogurt. “Zoe says that brand is too sweet.” I picked up a plastic clamshell of fresh strawberries. Without even looking up, he muttered, “Zoe is allergic. She can’t even stand the smell.” I slammed the strawberries back onto the shelf. He frowned at me. “What is your problem?” My problem? I was just exhausted. For three years, every breath he took felt like it was on behalf of Zoe. I felt like an intruder, a piece of stray furniture cluttering up someone else’s perfect life. Then his phone rang. I heard her sweet, helpless voice over the receiver calling him “big bro,” saying her car had broken down on the highway. He glanced at me. I offered a flat smile. “Go ahead.” And he actually did. He walked away, leaving the shopping cart behind, without a single backward glance. Watching his retreating figure, I felt a sudden, sharp wave of absurdity. I pulled out my phone and sent him a text: “We’re done.” … After sending the text, I slipped my phone back into my pocket. I reached out, picked up that clamshell of strawberries, and tossed them straight into the cart. I didn’t give a damn about Zoe’s allergies. I took two steps forward, then stopped. I turned back, fished out the chips, the yogurt, and the strawberries, and placed them back on the shelves. One by one. Lined up perfectly. It was a small, quiet act of taking back control. Then I walked toward the registers. Halfway there, my phone buzzed. “What’s wrong now?” he wrote. I didn’t reply. Another message popped up: “Zoe’s car broke down. I’m just going to check on her. I’ll be right back.” I stared at the screen and typed: “Don’t bother.” The lines at the checkout were long. I stood at the very back, looking down at my empty cart. I had pushed it across the entire store just to collect a basket of things “Zoe said.” The line crawled forward, and I moved with it. An older woman in front of me turned around, her eyes lingering on my empty cart for a second. I gave her a polite smile. She quickly looked away. The phone buzzed again. A call. I declined it. It buzzed again. I declined it again. On the third try, I shut the phone off completely. At the register, the cashier asked if I wanted a bag. I said yes. She glanced at me, probably wondering why I needed a bag when all I had was a single bottle of water. I didn’t explain. I paid, slipped the water into the plastic bag, and walked out. Outside, the sky was a heavy, uniform gray. I walked to the parking lot, found my car, and sat inside. I didn’t start the engine right away. I just leaned back against the headrest, looking out at the sky through the windshield. It was dull and washed out, much like the last three years of my life. My phone remained off in my purse. The car was incredibly quiet—so quiet I could hear the rhythm of my own breathing. Then, a knock on the window. I turned. Tyler was standing outside, bending down to peer in. His expression was a complicated mix of urgency and irritation. He kept knocking, a steady, demanding beat against the glass. I rolled the window down an inch. “Where’s Zoe?” “I dropped her car at the dealership,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Why did you turn off your phone? I’ve been calling you non-stop.” “I told you. We’re done.” He stared at me for a couple of seconds, then straightened up and reached for the passenger door handle. It didn’t budge. I had locked it. He rested his hand on the door frame, looking down through the window. “Get out, Gillian. Let’s talk.” “Talk about what?” I looked up at him. “Talk about what Zoe likes to eat? What she’s allergic to? How her car broke down and you had to rush to her rescue? For three years, every breath out of your mouth has been about her. If you want to live her life, go do it. Why are you even with me?” He parted his lips, but no sound came out. I rolled the window back up and started the ignition. He hurried around to the front of the car, blocking my path. I didn’t hesitate. I turned the wheel and navigated around him, pulling out of the space. In the rearview mirror, he stood in the middle of the asphalt, his shadow stretching long and thin behind him. When I stopped at the red light at the intersection, I turned my phone back on. A flood of unread messages poured in, all from him. The latest one read: “Zoe is just a sister to me.” I let out a quiet laugh. The light turned green, and I pressed the gas. When I got home, I changed into comfortable clothes and started packing. I pulled his shirts out of the closet, folded them, and stacked them on the sofa. His shaving cream, his books, his slippers—I gathered them all into one corner. When I had moved in three years ago, his things occupied half of the closet. They still did. I picked up a coffee mug Zoe had bought him, looked at it for a moment, and dropped it into the trash can. The front door clicked open. He was back. He stood in the entryway, taking in the scene. The neat stack of his clothes on the couch, his personal items on the coffee table, and the handle of the mug peeking out from the trash. “Are you serious about this?” “Do you think I’m joking?” He walked over, knelt down, and fished the mug out of the trash. He wiped it with his sleeve and placed it carefully on the table. “You can’t throw this away,” he said. “Why?” “Zoe gave it to me.” I looked at him, and a sudden, profound exhaustion washed over me. I was too tired to talk, too tired to argue, and too tired to look at his face. “Fine,” I said. “Keep it. Keep everything. Keep her, keep the mug, keep every word she’s ever said to you. Keep it all. I’m leaving.” I picked up my bag and walked past him. He reached out and caught my wrist. “Gillian.” I stopped. He was silent for a long time. So long that I actually thought he was finally going to say something meaningful. Then his grip loosened, and his hand fell away. “…Drive safe.” I kept walking. I didn’t look back. As the elevator doors slid shut, I caught a final glimpse of him standing in the doorway, still holding that mug. My phone rang. It wasn’t him. It was a friend request from Zoe. The attached message read: “Hey, please don’t blame Tyler. It’s my fault.” I tapped decline, then blocked the account. As the elevator descended, the floor numbers ticked down. I leaned against the metal wall, looking up at the ceiling light. It was painfully bright, making my eyes sting. When the doors opened on the ground floor, a delivery driver was standing there, staring down at his phone. I walked past him into the cool night. The air had turned brisk. The phone in my bag buzzed again. I pulled it out. A text from an unknown number read: “You left, and he’s crying. I’ve never seen him cry before. Are you really not coming back?” I stared at the screen for five seconds. Then I typed a single word: “No.” I blocked the number. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves along the sidewalk. I raised my hand and hailed a cab. I slid into the back seat and gave the driver my parents’ address. The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, asked no questions, and stepped on the gas. Outside, the streetlights blurred into long streaks of gold. Watching them, I felt a hollow sensation in my chest, but alongside it was a strange, unfamiliar lightness. It felt like I had finally shed a heavy shell I’d been carrying for three years. The cab pulled up in front of my parents’ brick apartment building. When I paid, the driver lingered for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but settled on a quiet, “Take care.” I walked up the stairs. It was an older building with no elevator, and they lived on the third floor. I unlocked the door. The living room lights were on, and my mother peeked out from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour. “What are you doing here at this hour?” “I missed your homemade ravioli.” She stared at me for several seconds, her eyes searching my face, but she didn’t pry. She wiped her hands and brought out a bowl of fresh filling from the kitchen. “Good timing. I just made the dough.” I washed my hands and sat at the dining table, picking up a wrapper. My mother sat opposite me, her fingers working quickly as she watched me. I kept my eyes on my hands. “What happened to your wrist?” I looked down at the pale red mark near my thumb. I must have scraped it against something while packing. It wasn’t bleeding. “Just a scratch.” She didn’t push. Her hands moved a little faster, crimping the edges of the dough. My father came out of the bedroom, adjusting his reading glasses. He paused when he saw me. “Gillian’s here?” He walked into the kitchen, poured a mug of warm water, and set it down next to my hand. The steam rose quietly between us. Once two trays of ravioli were finished, the water in the pot began to boil. I sat on a small stool near the stove, watching the pasta float to the surface. My mother stood beside me, gently moving them with a slotted spoon so they wouldn’t stick to the bottom. “Did he do something?” “No.” “Then why are you here?” I kept quiet. She turned the burner down a notch and partially covered the pot. “If it’s nothing major, you should go back tomorrow.” “I’m not going back.” My mother’s hand paused. The metal spoon clinked against the rim of the pot, a sharp, clean sound in the small kitchen. “What does that mean?” “We broke up.” She lifted the lid, and a thick cloud of steam billowed up, obscuring her face. My father stepped into the kitchen just in time to hear those last words. His footsteps paused. Without saying anything, he turned and went back to the living room. We sat down to eat. I took a bite of a fresh ravioli, inhaling sharply to cool my mouth. My mother sat across from me, her plate untouched. She just watched me eat. “Have you really thought this through?” “Yes.” She got up and went out to the balcony to gather the laundry. As she passed the living room, my father muttered something to her, and she murmured a response, her voice too soft for me to make out. After finishing my plate, I carried the empty dishes to the sink, passing the balcony door. My mother was standing out there, her back to me. The evening breeze lifted her hair, and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear—a gesture identical to my own. As I was washing the dishes, my phone rang. I hadn’t changed my number yet, and I recognized the digits on the screen. I hesitated for a moment before answering. His voice was incredibly hoarse. “Where are you?” “My parents’ place.” “Which apartment?” I dried my hands on a dish towel. “Where do you think, Tyler?” Silence stretched over the line. “Please come back. Let’s just talk.” “There’s nothing left to talk about.” “Gillian, it’s been three years. You’re just going to throw it all away?” I shifted the phone to my other ear and leaned against the kitchen counter. “It’s been three years, Tyler, and you don’t even know I’m allergic to strawberries.” The line went completely dead. “I picked up a container of strawberries at the store, and you told me Zoe was allergic,” I continued, my voice steady. “I’ve been allergic to them since I was a child. I break out in hives if I touch them. The very first time you took me out to dinner, you ordered a strawberry tart. It was the only dessert on the table I couldn’t touch. Isn’t it funny? You actually remembered back then.” I could hear his breathing turn heavy. “Gillian…” “I spent three years with you, and all you memorized were her preferences. What was I to you? A live-in calendar? Your own mother doesn’t remember your favorite meals, but I do, because I cared enough to pay attention. But what did you ever remember about me?” He didn’t answer. The only sound was the faint hum of static. I pulled the phone away slightly, checking the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. “Do you even know my birthday?” Still, silence. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “See? You don’t even know. You post on social media for her birthday every single year. Last year, when you forgot her actual day, you spent an entire week guilt-tripping yourself. But when you forgot mine, and I pointed it out, you just said ‘oh’ and ordered takeout.” “Gillian, I—” “Don’t,” I interrupted. “It’s fine. Keep the mug. But we’re done.” I hung up. I stood in the quiet kitchen, listening to the faucet drip—one slow, rhythmic drop at a time. My mother came in from the balcony. She looked at me, walked over, and tightened the faucet until the dripping stopped. Then she reached out and pulled me into a gentle hug. She smelled of lavender detergent. Faint and comforting. “The food is getting cold,” she said softly. “Want some more?” “”” The doorbell rang the next afternoon while I was folding laundry on the balcony. My mother answered it. Through the screen door, I saw him standing in the hallway. His hair was a mess, and his button-down shirt was wrinkled, as if he had pulled it straight from the bottom of a laundry basket. He was holding a heavy plastic grocery bag. My mother stood firmly in the doorway, blocking his path. She glanced back at me, asking with her eyes if she should let him in. I set the laundry down and walked over. When he saw me, he took a step forward, but my mother didn’t budge. “Mr. and Mrs. Clarence, I just need to speak with her for a minute,” he pleaded. My father came out of the bedroom carrying his tea, gave Tyler a brief look, and sat on the sofa without a word, turning on the television. He cranked up the volume; a local news broadcast filled the apartment. I walked to the entrance and looked at Tyler through the mesh of the screen door. “Why are you here?” “I brought your things.” He lifted the heavy bag. “You left your phone charger, and your hand cream, and…” “Just throw them away.” His hand froze in midair. My mother looked between the two of us, then quietly slipped back into the kitchen. With the screen door between us, his face was divided into tiny, blurred squares by the wire mesh. “Gillian, please don’t be like this. Let me come in so we can talk.” “We can talk right here.” He let out a heavy sigh and set the plastic bag on the floor by his feet. His hands dropped to his sides, then reached back up to grip the frame of the screen door. His knuckles were white. “I went home and thought about what you said. About the strawberries… I didn’t know. You never told me.” “I did tell you,” I said, looking him in the eyes. “Our first winter together, you made strawberry tea. I told you I couldn’t drink it because of my allergy, and you just said ‘oh.’ The second year, you made it again. And yesterday at the store, you told me Zoe was the one who was allergic. You never registered it. Not once.” He parted his lips, his mouth twisting as if he were trying to swallow something bitter. “Then why didn’t you remind me? You never said anything. How was I supposed to know?” I stared at him for a moment, and then, surprisingly, I smiled. “Remind you of what, Tyler? Remind you that I’m your girlfriend? Remind you that she’s just your foster sister? Remind you to care about me? If I have to remind you to do those things, then what am I to you? A free notepad?” He had no response. His hands slid off the screen door and fell limp at his sides. The motion-activated light in the hallway flickered off, then on again. He stood in the fluctuating light, looking like a branch snapped by the wind. “I threw the mug away,” he said suddenly. “I don’t care.” “I blocked Zoe, too.” “That has nothing to do with me.” “Gillian, please look at me.” His voice cracked, rising slightly before he forced it back down into a trembling whisper. “I made a mistake, okay? I know I messed up. Just come back. I’ll do whatever you want.” Across the hall, a neighbor’s door creaked open slightly. Someone peeked out before quickly shutting it. On the television, the weather reporter was talking about the upcoming rain forecast. My father changed the channel, and the tinny audio of an old black-and-white movie began to play. I looked down at the plastic bag on the floor. The top was open, revealing the tangled white cord of my charger and the silver tube of my hand cream. And a plastic clamshell of strawberries. They were bright red and looked perfectly ripe through the plastic. “Did you buy those?” He followed my gaze downward and nodded. “Aren’t they your favorite? I saw them on the way here.” “I’m allergic.” He froze. His eyes darted from the strawberries back up to my face. The expression on his face was hard to describe. It was the look of someone who had just been slapped but had no idea why. “I went to that organic market you like…” his voice trailed off, the words dying in his throat. I bent down, pulled the clamshell of strawberries out of the bag, and pushed them through the gap in the screen door. “Take them back. Give them to someone who can actually eat them.” He didn’t reach for them, so I set them on the doormat and stood back up. “Tyler, it’s been three years. I spent three years waiting for you to notice me. You couldn’t remember what I liked, you couldn’t remember my allergies, you couldn’t remember my birthday—you couldn’t remember a single small detail about my life. But you remembered everything about hers. What she likes, what she hates, when her car needs service, every single post she makes. Where did you keep me? In some hidden folder on your phone?” His eyes grew glassy, and his lips trembled. Looking at him now, I realized the pain in my chest was entirely gone. A few months ago, a single frown from him would have made me anxious for hours. Now, seeing him fall apart in front of me, I felt only a quiet, spacious emptiness. Like a ship that had finally unloaded its cargo—lighter, but slightly unsteady. “You should go,” I said. I pushed the screen door open slightly to grab the plastic bag with my actual belongings. “I’ll take my things. You should go home.” “Gillian…” “Don’t.” I picked up the bag, stepped back, and closed the wooden door, sliding the deadbolt into place with a sharp click. He remained on the other side. He raised his hand, hovering it near the wood, but he didn’t knock. The sound of old movie music drifted from the television, slow and melancholic. He stood out there for a long time. Eventually, my mother peered out of the kitchen, saw me still standing by the door, and quietly slipped back inside. I stood there, staring at the wood, imagining him on the other side. Finally, I heard the faint sound of his footsteps descending the stairs, growing lighter and more distant until they vanished entirely. I looked down at the bag in my hand. The charger, the hand cream. I opened the door briefly, set the strawberries back on the concrete step, and locked the door again. I leaned my back against the door and slid down until my knees met my chest, burying my face in my hands. My mother walked over and gently ran her hand through my hair. “”” The next morning, when I opened the door to get the mail, the strawberries were still sitting on the step. Beside them was a brown paper bag. Inside was a warm cup of coffee and a fresh croissant, wrapped carefully in foil. A small post-it note was stuck to the bag in his handwriting: “Eat it while it’s warm.” I took the coffee and drank it. I left the pastry. I brought the strawberries inside and slid them into the refrigerator. As I stood by the trash can, I hesitated, then decided not to throw them out just yet. I kept my phone on silent, leaving it on the coffee table all day without touching it. For lunch, my mother made a simple spaghetti pomodoro, and in the afternoon, I walked with her to the local market to buy groceries. The woman at the vegetable stand asked my mother why her daughter was back in town, and she simply replied that I was taking a short break. I stood beside her, holding the canvas bags, and said nothing. That evening, after my shower, I walked into the living room and saw my father wearing his reading glasses, staring at my phone as the screen lit up with a notification. He looked up, handed the phone to me, and went back to his paper. I unlocked it. A message from Tyler: “I went to the learning center today and finalized the paperwork to dissolve the partnership. Let me know when you can come by to sign the remaining documents.” I didn’t reply immediately. I set the phone face down on the table and went to my room to dry my hair. Halfway through, I picked it up again, staring at the message. I typed: “This weekend.” I deleted it. I typed: “Just mail them to me.” I deleted that, too. In the end, I sent a single word: “Okay.” I tossed the phone onto the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling. My old bedroom was exactly as I had left it. The curtains were a light blue floral print I had chosen in high school. The window unit AC was old and hummed loudly, blowing air that carried a faint, dusty scent. I rolled onto my side. The pillow smelled faintly of lavender—the same detergent my mother used. The next morning, his reply came: “I’ll be at the center on Friday afternoon. Call me when you get there.” When Friday arrived, I took a cab over. The learning center had a new sign, though it wasn’t secured yet; scaffolding still cluttered the entrance. The front doors were propped open, and a few movers were carrying boxes out to a truck. He was standing near the reception desk, talking to a man in a hard hat. When he saw me walk in, his voice faltered for a second. He finished his sentence, saw the man out, and turned to me. He had lost weight. His button-down shirt hung loosely on his shoulders. As he drew closer, I noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw. He was holding a manila folder, and his fingers trembled slightly as he handed it over. “These are the transfer documents for the shares. Take a look. If everything looks right, you can sign at the bottom.” I took the folder and sat in one of the plastic chairs nearby. He stood opposite me, his hands sliding into his pockets, then coming back out, then tucking away again. He didn’t say a word. “Where do I sign?” He stepped closer, pointing to the line. His finger remained near the paper for three long seconds. His nails were trimmed short, and there was a faint smudge of blue ink near his knuckle. I signed the first page, then turned to the next. By the time I reached the final page, the pen ran dry. I shook it twice, and he quickly reached into his pocket to offer me a fresh one. As our fingers brushed, he didn’t pull away. I looked up at him. He sank to his knees, sitting on his heels beside my chair. He looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot. “Gillian, I’ve done nothing but think for the past few days. It’s not that I didn’t care about you. I just… I took you for granted. Because you were always there, I felt like I didn’t need to try. I thought I had to keep track of Zoe because she was fragile, but I got it completely backward. I ruined everything.” His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and strained. I looked down at the pen in my hand, spinning it slowly between my fingers. “Why are you telling me this now?” “I want to try again. From the very beginning. Tell me what you love, what you hate. I’ll write it all down in a notebook. I’ll cook for you, I’ll celebrate your birthday, I’ll memorize every single thing you’re allergic to. Just give me one more chance.” I didn’t say anything. The pen spun once more. Outside the large glass window, a pedestrian walked past, their shadow stretching and shrinking across the pavement. “Are you finished?” “Yes.” “Then I’m going to leave.” He didn’t move, just kept staring at me. I stood up and handed him the signed documents. He took them, his arm dropping to his side. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked toward the entrance, pausing at the glass doors. “Tyler, it’s not that you couldn’t remember,” I said softly. “You just never wanted to. There was only ever one seat in your heart, and it belonged to her. I just brought a folding chair and sat next to it for three years. Now, I’ve taken my chair and left.” I pushed the glass door open, and the city air hit my face. I didn’t look back. After a few steps, I heard him call my name from behind. I didn’t stop. The street was crowded, and I blended into the flow of people walking toward the subway. My phone vibrated in my pocket. An unknown number. I answered it, and the line was quiet for a second. “Did you just walk out of the learning center?” The voice sounded familiar, though I couldn’t immediately place it. The caller let out a soft chuckle. “Look straight ahead. Black sedan, hazard lights on.” I looked up. A black car was parked along the curb. The driver’s side window was rolled down halfway, and a man was resting his arm on the frame, looking in my direction. “Get in, Gillian. Your mom asked me to pick you up.”

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My mother is a parenting influencer with over ten million followers. Her bio reads: “Mother of two exceptional girls. Believer in gentle, present parenting.” In her videos, she documents how my older sister, Mallory, practices flawless self-discipline through “co-regulation,” and how my younger sister, Mia, is being nurtured into a child prodigy. But I have never once appeared in her frame. When I was little, I wanted nothing more than to stand beside her in just one video. She had glanced at my faded, hand-me-down school hoodie, her brow furrowing. “You’re too quiet, Gill. And you don’t translate well on camera. Don’t ruin the aesthetic.” Over the years, she never showed up to a single one of my parent-teacher conferences. She was terrified the world would find out she had another daughter—one she couldn’t show off. On my college graduation day, I was awarded Summa Cum Laude—the outstanding graduate of my department. Clutching my leather-bound certificate, I called her, begging her to come to campus just this once to see me. She said she was too busy. Yet that very night, she hosted a massive celebration party for Mia. I rushed over, desperate to show her my degree. At the venue, a family friend noticed me and asked, “Oh, is this your other daughter?” My mother’s smile froze. She waved her hand dismissively, laughing it off. “No, no. Just a distant relative’s kid, tag-along.” Then she leaned in close, her voice a sharp whisper: “You look so frayed and plain. Stay out of the shots.” Standing outside the ring of light, hugging my certificate to my chest, I realized how pathetic I was. That night, I formally accepted the study abroad exchange program in London. Since her life’s narrative only had room for two children, it was time for me to vanish from her frame entirely. …… When I got back to the house, it was completely dark. The living room drapes weren’t fully closed, letting a thin sliver of amber streetlamp bleed through the gap. I didn’t turn on the lights. I just sat on the edge of the sofa, hugging my leather-bound degree certificate. The sharp, embossed corners pressed hard against my wrist, leaving a dull ache, but I didn’t let go. During the ceremony, when the dean handed it to me, the applause had been deafening. At that moment, all I wanted was for my mother to see it. Even if she only looked at it and said, “Not bad.” So I sat there in the dark, waiting. I waited until my legs grew numb, until the gold-stamped letters left a deep red imprint in my palms. Finally, the sound of bright, echoing laughter drifted from the driveway. My mother’s voice was always the loudest. “Mia, sweetheart, you did so well today. Your camera presence is getting so natural.” My older sister, Mallory, chimed in. “The comments are going to be flooded with people praising your parenting style, Mom.” Mia giggled. “Mom, did I take too much of the spotlight from Mallory today?” My mother coaxed her gently. “Silly girl. You’re both my absolute pride and joy.” The front door swung open, and the lights flooded the room. I winced, blinking against the sudden brightness. When my mother saw me, the warmth evaporated from her face. “Gill? What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” She scoffed. “No wonder your personality is so cold and gloomy.” My throat tightened. Her eyes drifted down to the certificate in my arms. “Didn’t I tell you?” she snapped. “Keep out of the shots at those events. But no, you just had to pull focus. Are you that desperate to let everyone know you exist in this family?” My fingers clenched, the paper cutting into my skin. “I just wanted to show you,” I whispered. “I’m successful too.” My mother let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’re always so calculated, Gill. You knew tonight was Mia’s celebration, and yet you had to try and steal her spotlight.” I held out the certificate. “I graduated Summa Cum Laude. Only six students in the entire department got this.” She glanced at it, then tossed it carelessly onto the pile of discarded cardboard and wrapping paper from Mia’s gifts by the coffee table. The corner of the certificate struck a box and bent. “Is this little thing really worth bragging about?” she said. “Does it even pay the bills?” A sharp, stinging burn rushed up my nose. I bit the inside of my cheek, refusing to let the tears fall. Mia blinked her wide, innocent eyes. “Gill, is that thing really that important?” I stared at my degree lying in the trash pile like a piece of worthless scrap paper. The thing I had worked myself to the bone for over the last four years, just so my mother would look at me. Now it sat among torn ribbons, treated like garbage. Mallory held up her phone. “Mom, I saw this gorgeous Miu Miu bag online.” She didn’t even look in my direction as she spoke. “I can style it for our next vlog.” My mother took the phone, her voice softening instantly. “Add it to the cart.” Then she turned to Mia. “Let’s get one for Mia too. Sister bags. It’ll look perfect on camera.” I looked down at my own backpack. I had carried it for ten years. The canvas straps were frayed, and the zipper had broken twice, held together by a safety pin. Clutching the worn strap, my voice was barely audible. “Mom… can I get a new backpack? Just a cheap one. Twenty bucks.” The living room fell dead silent. My mother’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you need a new backpack for?” she asked, her tone dripping with annoyance. “You don’t even go on camera. Who are you trying to impress? Besides, you’re naturally plain anyway. It’s not going to make a difference.” My face burned with humiliation. I hung my head, my fingernails digging into the split seams of my backpack strap. Mallory finally looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my old bag down to my scuffed shoes before quickly turning away. “Gill, Mom had a really exhausting day. Stop making things difficult.” Mia added in her soft, sweet voice, “Yeah, Gill. Don’t ruin Mom’s mood over a bag.” My vocal cords felt frozen. I wanted to scream that the cost of their designer bags could buy a lifetime of my backpacks. I wanted to tell them I wasn’t trying to make trouble. But under the weight of their cold, dismissive glares, the words died in my throat. After they went upstairs, I knelt by the trash pile and pulled my certificate out from the cardboard boxes. The corner was permanently creased. I tried pressing it flat with my fingers, over and over, but the scar remained. I took a picture of the degree and posted it in the family group chat. “Gill Keller awarded Summa Cum Laude.” The group chat remained silent for a long time. Ten minutes later, my aunt replied: “I saw Mia’s celebration video today! She looks absolutely stunning.” My mother replied almost instantly: “Mallory and Mia are both such exceptional girls.” Within seconds, the screen flooded with heart emojis and compliments. My message was swallowed up, pushed entirely out of sight. I put my phone down and pulled out an old sketchbook from the very bottom of my desk drawer. Inside was a drawing from when I was a child. It was a drawing of my mother standing in front of a camera, holding my hand. Beside it, in messy, childish handwriting, was a caption: “Hi everyone, this is my daughter, Gill.” I had written those words dozens of times back then. I was so terrified that when the day finally came for my mother to introduce me to her audience, she would forget her lines. I gripped the page until the paper crumpled. Then, I closed the sketchbook. If she was never going to introduce me, I would have to find my own way into the light. The next morning, I was jarred awake by the screech of a power drill. My bedroom door was wide open. Two construction workers stood in the doorway, tools in hand. I was still in my pajamas, my hair messy and stuck to my face. As the blanket slipped down to my waist, I scrambled to pull it up, shielding myself. My mother stood right behind them, her face completely indifferent. “This room gets the best natural light,” she said. “We’re turning it into a shooting corner. Move your stuff to the study today.” I froze. “The study doesn’t have any windows.” My mother frowned. “You don’t do on-camera work. Why do you need good lighting?” Before I could protest, the workers were already lifting my desk. They pulled open the drawers, and my sketchbooks tumbled out onto the floor. All those childhood drawings of my mother were swept mercilessly into a black trash bag. I lunged forward to grab them, my knee slamming hard against the metal bedframe. A wave of blinding pain washed over me. Mallory picked up one of the stray sketches, flipped through a couple of pages, and let out a soft chuckle. “Wow, Gill. You really lived in a fantasy world back then, didn’t you?” My mother’s face grew colder. “No wonder you’re always trying to sneak into the background of my videos.” Mia pulled a paper bag from the bottom of my closet. “What’s this?” she asked. My heart stopped. It was a new blue dress. I had saved up my allowance for three months to buy it, and the tags were still attached. My mother snapped the dress and shook it open. The soft, pale blue fabric draped elegantly in the air. “So you did have hidden motives,” my mother sneered. “Who were you planning to dress up for? Trying to steal someone’s spotlight?” I reached out to grab it. “Give it back.” My mother sidestepped me effortlessly and handed the dress to Mia. “Mia, try this on. Your skin is pale; it’ll look beautiful on camera.” My hand remained frozen in mid-air. My fingers were still curled in the shape of grasping the dress, but they only held cold, empty air. But before I could lower my arm, Mallory’s phone chimed. She looked down at the screen, and the smug smile faded from her lips. “Mom,” she said, her voice dropping. “Someone in the comments of yesterday’s video is asking who that girl in the corner was. They’re saying… ‘Wait, I thought you only had two daughters?’” The air in the room instantly turned to ice. My mother slowly turned her head to look down at me. The next second, her hand swung. The slap was so hard my ears rang, and the left side of my face went entirely numb. “Was it you?” she hissed. I held my burning cheek, tasting copper in my mouth. “No.” My father walked into the room, his face dark with anger. “Who else could it be but you?” Mallory thrust her phone right in front of my face. “You just posted your little certificate yesterday, and suddenly today the comments are blowing up. Gill, do you seriously think we’re stupid?” Mia clutched the blue dress to her chest, her eyes welling with tears. “Gill… I worked so hard to get people to like me. Why do you have to ruin it?” I shook my head violently, tears finally spilling over. “It wasn’t me! I swear, I didn’t do anything!” My mother snatched my phone right out of my hand. I tried to lunge for it, but my father pinned my shoulders down. His grip was so tight it felt like my bones were going to shatter. Tears and mucus smeared across my face, but I didn’t even have a hand free to wipe them away. My mother opened my messages. From my college classmates to my roommates, even my professor’s assistant. Using my account, she began typing and sending messages to every single contact: “Please don’t contact me anymore.” “We are not friends.” “Blocking you.” I watched those chat bubbles go dark, one by one. My head felt like it was going to explode. “No! Stop!” I screamed, my voice cracking into a desperate shriek. “Those are my friends! You can’t say that to them!” I screamed until my throat bled, my entire body shaking with rage and terror. But nobody stopped. Mallory helped block them, her fingers moving lightning fast over the screen. Finally, my mother threw the phone back onto my chest. “You don’t need a social life anyway. It just gives you opportunities to talk too much. Get out and think about what you’ve done.” By the time the front door slammed shut behind me, the rain had started to pour. I stood on the sidewalk in my pajamas, the fabric clinging to my shivering frame. The rain pelted my phone screen, and I wiped it desperately with my wet sleeve. Tears mixed with rainwater, running into the corners of my mouth, tasting bitter and salty. But I couldn’t accept this. With trembling fingers, I tapped into the comment section of the viral video. Someone had posted a screenshot of the source of the rumor. It was a leaked chat log. The profile picture belonged to Mia. “My sister dressed like a total peasant today and insisted on bringing her degree to force her way into the shot. My mom said she’s not allowed in the videos because she ruins our family brand.” My heart seized. I could barely breathe. I pressed down on the image to save it. The next second, the screen went blank. “This content has been deleted.” Rainwater dripped from my hair. In the window of the house above, the lights were warm and bright, and the faint sound of their laughter drifted down to the street. I clutched the phone to my chest, my body shaking uncontrollably. And yet, I realized with a sickening wave of dread, I had absolutely nowhere to go. The rain only grew heavier. I sat huddled outside a convenience store, water dripping from my hair. A little girl standing next to me tilted her umbrella slightly over my head. She looked up at her mother. “Mommy, where is this girl’s mommy? Why isn’t she holding an umbrella for her?” I froze, my hand flying to wipe my eyes. But my skin was already drenched, and the gesture only smeared more water across my face. “This girl doesn’t have a mother,” I whispered. The little girl’s mother gasped softly. Without a word, she gently pressed the umbrella handle into my hand. The plastic handle was still warm from her grip. I held onto it, but my hand only shook harder. My phone screen lit up again. The university forum had a new thread pinned to the top of the homepage: “Summa Cum Laude Gill Keller looks down on her classmates?” “She apparently thinks the school didn’t promote her enough and claims they owe her.” “What an ungrateful brat. The school literally gave her the highest honors, and she’s still crying about it.” I stared at the word “ungrateful,” gasping for air as if I were drowning. I wanted to explain. I dialed my roommate’s number. First call: “Busy.” Second call: “The user you are trying to reach is unavailable.” I tried sending friend requests back. My fingers were shaking so violently I couldn’t type the words right. “I didn’t say those things.” “It wasn’t me.” “I don’t look down on you guys.” Over and over. Nothing. No response. The rain drummed against the plastic umbrella, a deafening, relentless roar. I forced myself up and began to run toward campus. My cheap slippers splashed into puddles, cold water spraying up my calves. When I finally reached the dorm building, the security guard stopped me at the door. “Miss, you can’t come in looking like this.” I pounded on the glass door, my voice cracked and raw. “Please, let me in! I swear I didn’t write those messages!” Students passing by stopped to stare. Someone whispered, “Is that her? The girl from the forum?” “She looks completely unhinged.” My body went stiff. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Just then, my roommate, Hannah, ran out of the building. “Gill?” She immediately took off her dry jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. The warmth of the fabric hit my skin, and the tears finally broke through. Another roommate, standing behind her, whispered, “Let’s get her inside and changed first.” I grabbed their sleeves, desperate. “Do you believe me?” Hannah was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know what to think,” she said softly. “But… I know you. You’ve never been that kind of person.” Those words, though quiet, made my knees buckle. I sank straight onto the linoleum floor. I had just changed into dry clothes when my mother’s call came through. Her voice was sharp with impatience. “Have you thrown enough of a tantrum yet?” “Get back here. Mia has a shoot and needs some material.” I clenched my jaw, my voice trembling. “I’m not coming back.” Mia’s voice drifted from the background. “Gill, please, I really need you. Your writing is always so creative. If you come back and finish this script, I’ll convince Mom to let you sleep in your room.” “Sleep in my room.” But my passport and exchange documents were still in that house. I closed my eyes, tears slipping silently down my cheeks, my fingertips cold. “Okay,” I said. When I walked through the door, I didn’t even take off my shoes. My mother pushed her laptop toward me. “Get to writing.” I sat at the kitchen table. My hands were swollen and bruised from the cold, and every keystroke sent a dull throb through my knuckles. Behind me, they chatted happily about lighting setups and makeup. No one asked if I was okay. At 1:00 AM, the script was finished. I rewrote the final line three times before hitting save. The next afternoon, the video was uploaded. Mallory sat in front of the camera, smiling warmly. “This is a little story I wrote for Mia.” Mia wore my pale blue dress, laughing brightly for the lens. The comments flooded in: “Mallory is so talented!” “Mia is gorgeous.” “Dr. Cynthia Keller really knows how to raise brilliant children.” I sat in the windowless study, watching the screen. My stomach twisted into painful knots. I wanted to throw up, but there was nothing left inside me. Later that day, Hannah and my other roommates posted a clarification on the campus forum. “Gill Keller didn’t write those messages,” they wrote. “Her family took her phone and blocked us using her account.” I sat on my dorm bed, staring at the screen, my fingers slowly curling into fists. That afternoon, the study abroad director called me. “Gill Keller? Your exchange slot has been officially approved.” “Your materials are perfect, and the stipend has been cleared.” “You are free to prepare for departure.” I held the phone close to my ear, leaning my back against the dorm door. The screen went dark. The room was so quiet I could hear the steady beat of my own heart. One. Two. I closed my eyes, my throat tight. I had finally made it out, yet the tears kept falling. After a long silence, I whispered, “Thank you, professor.” Hannah slid a paper bag into my hands. Inside was a brand-new gray backpack. “Stop carrying that old, broken thing,” she said, looking away to hide her own watery eyes. “Go to London and live your life.” I wrapped my arms around her, hugging her tightly. The paper bag crinkled loudly between us. I buried my face in her shoulder, my voice thick. “Thank you.” When I went back to the house to gather the rest of my things, the living room was crowded with lighting rigs and tripods. The moment Mia saw me, she ran over with a bright, performative smile and grabbed my arm. “Gill! You’re back just in time!” “We need you to co-star in this episode!” I froze, my chest fluttering with a tiny, pathetic spark of hope. For a fleeting second, I thought my mother was finally willing to let me be in her videos. But then my mother looked up from the monitor. “Don’t wear those clothes,” she said flatly. “Go find something older. Something ragged.” The warmth in my face drained completely. Mallory walked over, holding the script, her expression indifferent. “You’re playing a girl from a poor, rural family we’ve been sponsoring,” she explained. “You came to thank us for paying your tuition.” I clutched the paper bag with my new backpack. “I am your family,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. My mother’s face instantly darkened. “Gill, are you doing this again?” she hissed. “It’s just one scene. Do you have to turn everything into a personal crisis?” I stood my ground, refusing to move. My mother stepped forward, her hand swinging. The slap sent my head spinning, and my ears began to ring. Mallory frowned, snatching the paper bag from my hands. “What is this?” She pulled out the new gray backpack, her eyes filling with disgust. She threw the bag onto the floor and stepped directly onto it, grinding her shoe into the clean fabric. I bent down to grab it, but she shoved me back. “Just get in position. Stop wasting everyone’s time.” My knee collided sharply with the corner of the coffee table, and a wave of nausea washed over me. Mia stood under the bright studio lights, clutching my blue dress to her chest, her eyes wide and tearful. “Gill, please just do this for me. Once we finish, Mom won’t be mad anymore.” I slowly stood up. I pressed my palm against my scraped knee and felt something wet. I didn’t know if it was water or blood. The camera started rolling. My mother barked from behind the lens, “Look natural. Smile.” I stared into the black lens of the camera. Slowly, the corners of my mouth curled upward. My mouth tasted like copper. “Thank you so much for sponsoring my education, Mrs. Keller,” I said, the words heavy and hollow. “I will always remember your family’s kindness.” The moment the director yelled cut, everyone let out a sigh of relief. Mallory excelled at spinning the narrative. “Honestly, her awkwardness made it feel so authentic.” I knelt down and picked up my new backpack. There was a dirty footprint stamped onto the gray fabric. Before dinner, my mother dragged her suitcase into the hallway. “A brand partner sponsored a family trip,” she announced. “We’re flying out to Hawaii tomorrow for a three-day shoot.” Mia squealed with joy. My father clapped his hand onto my shoulder. “You stay behind. You can use the time to clean the house.” My mother tossed a stack of papers onto the dining table. “Here is the script outline for the second part,” she said. “Have it finished by the time we get back.” Once the front door clicked shut, the house fell into a deafening silence, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. I stood there for a long time. Then, I walked into my room. One by one, I packed my passport, my ID, and my study abroad acceptance letter into my suitcase. Before leaving, I laid my house keys quietly on the shoe rack. My phone buzzed. A message from my mother: “Make sure you mop the living room floors.” “And don’t write a lazy script. Don’t ruin your sister’s channel engagement.” I stared at the two lines of text. My thumb hovered over the screen for a few seconds. Then, I powered the phone off. The slap on my cheek still throbbed with a dull heat. But for the very first time in my life, the crushing weight in my chest lifted. I gripped the strap of my new backpack and walked out the door. I didn’t look back.

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My girlfriend, Caroline, was a linguistic prodigy fluent in eight languages. I, on the other hand, was a complete dud when it came to foreign tongues. Everyone in her academic circle thought we were a mismatch. But in our early days, she used to smile, ruffle my hair, and tell me my clumsy attempts to pronounce her favorite French words were the cutest thing she’d ever seen. Then, her senior from graduate school, Oliver, returned to the States after a long stint in Paris. At dinner, when she and Oliver started discussing a new French translation, their banter was so seamless, their pauses so perfectly timed, it felt rehearsed. Everyone at the table laughed at their inside jokes. I sat there, gripping my water glass, not understanding a single word, forced to stretch my lips into a hollow, polite smile. Suddenly, Oliver looked directly at me and said something in rapid, fluid French. Instinctively, I tugged at Caroline’s sleeve. “What did he say?” But she was already leaning back in, busy cross-referencing a term with him. She gave my hand a brief, distracted pat. “Just a second, Will.” But that “second” stretched through the entire dinner. Later, someone at the table asked with a smirk, “Hey, Caroline, does your boyfriend even know what we’re saying?” Caroline finally looked at me. A brief flicker of apology crossed her eyes, but she just gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. Then she turned back to Oliver, seamlessly launching into another dense, academic topic I couldn’t hope to follow. I held my glass, my fingertips completely numb from the ice water. In that moment, a quiet exhaustion settled deep in my bones. The long, tiring race of chasing after her, of trying so hard to prove I was worthy of standing by her side—I didn’t want to run it anymore. … When the dinner finally ended, I followed Caroline out of the private dining room. Oliver was still talking to her about the French manuscript. He spoke quickly, and Caroline listened with rapt attention, occasionally nodding and citing an original source. They walked side-by-side ahead of me. I lagged half a step behind, the chill of the condensation from my water glass still lingering on my skin. A few times I tried to speak, but my voice was instantly swallowed by their shared laughter. At the hotel entrance, a cold wind swept over us. Caroline glanced back at me, reaching out to tighten my loosely wrapped scarf. “It’s freezing out here. Keep yourself warm.” I looked into her eyes. “What did he say to me earlier? In French?” Caroline’s hand paused on my wool scarf. Oliver tilted his head, offering a soft, easy smile. “Are you still thinking about that, Will?” Caroline let her hand fall. Her voice softened. “We’ll talk about it later.” I stared at her. “You said ‘later’ at the table, too.” Her brow furrowed, but before she could speak, Oliver interjected gently. “Did I say something wrong? Will was so quiet tonight. I thought he didn’t mind.” One of the guests quickly laughed, trying to smooth things over. “Will is just the strong, silent type. Quiet and steady.” My fingers curled into my palms. Three years ago, at another gathering with her friends, someone had asked me about a complex literary movement I knew nothing about. I had flushed, utterly mortified. But back then, Caroline had squeezed my hand and stepped in with a laugh. “He’s an engineer, guys. Don’t grill him.” Her hand had been so warm then. Now, standing in front of me, she simply shrugged. “He’s always like this. Takes a while to warm up.” “Warm up?” I repeated quietly. Caroline didn’t seem to hear me. She was already pulling out her phone to look up directions for Oliver. Oliver glanced at the screen, lowering his voice. “I just got back to the city and my sense of direction is terrible. It looks like it’s impossible to get an Uber around here right now.” “I’ll drive you back to your hotel,” Caroline said instantly. I looked at her. “I want to go home, too.” “I’ll be quick,” she said, checking her watch. “Wait for me in the lobby. Ten minutes.” “Caroline,” I called out. She stopped. “What if I say I do mind?” I asked. The smile on Oliver’s face faltered. The chatter around us died down. Caroline spoke under her breath, her voice tight. “Will, don’t do this. He just got back. He doesn’t know the city.” I looked at her. “So my feelings don’t matter?” She remained silent for two seconds, as if the question wasn’t even worth answering. Oliver lightly touched her arm. “You know what, forget it. I can manage on my own.” Caroline immediately stopped him. “Wait for me. Don’t push yourself.” I slowly let go of my scarf. “Go ahead,” I said. Caroline let out a sigh of relief and patted my shoulder. “Wait for me. Don’t run off.” She turned and walked away. Ten minutes passed. She didn’t return. Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed. A text from Caroline: “Oliver’s blood sugar dropped. I’m helping him up to his room to rest for a bit. Go on ahead without me.” I stared at the screen for a long time, frozen. Five years ago, my own blood sugar had crashed in the library. Caroline had practically carried me to the campus clinic, her hands shaking so violently she couldn’t even hold a cup of water steady. When I woke up, her eyes were red, and she scolded me through tears. “Don’t you dare push yourself like that again, do you hear me?” Back then, she was genuinely terrified of losing me. I didn’t go back to the apartment we shared. Instead, I drove to the tiny studio I hadn’t lived in for years. The lock was stiff. When I finally got it open, the musty smell of dust rushed out. On the windowsill, the colored paper and pens I used to make children’s scrapbooks were still sitting there, their edges yellowed with time. My phone lit up repeatedly. “Did you make it home?” “Don’t be upset about tonight. Oliver is new here, I couldn’t just abandon him.” Late that night, Caroline found her way there. She stood in the doorway, holding a container of warm soup, her eyebrows knitted in frustration. “Why did you come here? I was worried.” I sat on the floor, looking up at her. “Were you worried about me, or were you worried that I didn’t stay put where you left me?” Caroline froze. She held out the soup. “Eat something first. Your stomach is already sensitive, and you’re running around in the cold.” I didn’t reach for it. “Caroline, what did Oliver say to me in French?” The room fell into a heavy silence. This time, I refused to hear “later.” Caroline hesitated for a few seconds. “It was nothing. Just a joke.” “What kind of joke?” She set the soup on the table, avoiding my eyes. “He just said you were cute. Nodding and smiling along even though you couldn’t understand a word.” My fingers pressed into the hardwood floor, the cold dust clinging to my palm. “So you were laughing at me.” Her tone hardened. “Will, there’s no need to make a big deal out of a casual dinner.” “I asked you what he meant, and you told me to wait,” I said, looking at her. “You knew exactly what he was saying, and you knew I was sitting there in the dark.” Caroline rubbed her temples. “Oliver didn’t mean anything by it. You’re being incredibly petty.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Petty?” Five years ago, she told me my earnest clumsiness was what she loved most. Now, she looked at me like I was a difficult, immature child. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother’s passing,” I said. “You promised you’d go with me to her graveside.” Caroline’s expression softened slightly. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around me. “I remember. I already ordered the white lilies. They’ll be delivered tomorrow morning.” I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t hug her back either. The next morning, I stood at the train station holding the white lilies, waiting for her. A drizzle was falling, quickly dampening the wrapping paper. I called her. First call went to voicemail. Second call, still no answer. Forty minutes later, she called back. The background was incredibly noisy. Someone in the distance shouted, “Professor, the projector is set up.” Caroline’s voice was rushed. “Will, I am so sorry. Oliver was asked to give an emergency literary lecture. The organizers desperately needed someone familiar with the original French texts, and I had to come help him.” I squeezed the paper wrapping of the lilies. “Do you remember what today is?” Silence stretched over the line for a heartbeat. “I’m so sorry, Will, but I really can’t leave right now.” And then, Oliver’s voice drifted through. “Caroline, I’m not sure about this passage. Could you take a look?” Instinctively, Caroline replied, “Coming.” I slowly pulled the phone away from my ear. Her voice was still faint through the speaker. “Will, I’ll make it up to you tonight. I promise.” I hung up and went to the cemetery alone. The lilies were soaked. I laid them before the headstone. My mother was still smiling in her photograph. The first time she met Caroline, she told me Caroline had a steady gaze, that she would take care of me. When my mother was in the hospital, Caroline had sat outside the ICU with me all night. When I drifted off, she had draped her own coat over me, leaving her own fingers stiff with cold. In the evening, Caroline sent a text. “The lecture is over. I’m on my way to you now.” Then, she sent a photo from backstage. In the photo, Oliver was wearing her coat, holding her thermos. The thermos was a gift I had given her last winter, engraved with my initials, W.S. I stared at those letters for a long time. I typed out my reply: “Caroline, let’s break up.” Ten minutes later, she replied: “Don’t be ridiculous.” I flipped my phone face down on the table, my knuckles turning white. Caroline rushed over to my studio late that night. She wasn’t angry. She just tried to wrap her arms around me and soothe me, the way she always did. “I know you’re hurt.” I stepped back, out of her reach. “I’m not hurt. I’m done.” Her outstretched hands hovered in the empty air. “You shouldn’t throw around the word ‘breakup’ so lightly.” “I’m not saying it lightly.” She looked at me, her voice softening. “You’re just exhausted. Once this busy season is over, I’ll take you on a trip. Just the two of us.” I looked her in the eye. “Caroline, today was my mother’s memorial. You promised you’d be there. Did you even think about it once?” Her lips parted, but no words came out. “Will, don’t keep score.” I didn’t say another word. The next day, I went back to the agency. Caroline’s new book launch was in its final stages of preparation. I was supposed to be the lead event coordinator. Over the last three months, I had revised the schedule six times and visited the venue over a dozen times. The flowers at the registration desk, the reader gift bags, the quotes printed on the photo wall, even the warm water and stomach medicine prepared for everyone backstage—I had curated every single detail. I didn’t understand French literature. I didn’t know their highbrow theories. I just knew Caroline had a weak stomach, that she couldn’t drink cold water before going on stage, and that she hated harsh, bright spotlights. The director called me into her office. “Will, we’re changing the special guest speaker to Oliver. You’ll be stepping back to handle the backstage execution.” I froze. “But according to the program, Caroline was supposed to thank me in her opening remarks.” The director gave me a polished, professional smile. “Oliver’s international background is much more impressive. He looks better standing next to her on stage.” I took the schedule sheet and went to find Caroline. The meeting room door was slightly ajar. Oliver was flipping through the layout designs I had spent weeks creating. My opening speech drafts, which had taken me three sleepless nights to write, were spread out on the table, marked up with red ink. I walked in. “Why do you have those?” Caroline looked up. “Oliver is stepping in for the panel discussion. He needs to familiarize himself with the setup.” “So he just gets to use my entire proposal?” Oliver stood up, offering a breezy, polite smile. “Don’t misunderstand, Will. I just think your work is incredibly thorough.” He paused, adding, “Some of these execution details really aren’t my strong suit.” I stared at him. In that moment, I realized it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it. He just knew that the effort I put in was cheap. At least, in Caroline’s eyes, it was worthless. I turned to Caroline. “What about my name on the credits?” She hesitated. “Don’t get so hung up on a name, Will. I know how much work you put into this.” I looked at her. “You know, so you feel entitled to just give it away?” During rehearsals, Oliver stood on stage reading the English translation printed on the signature wall. “I have finally waited for the return.” I snapped my head up. That translation was wrong. I didn’t know French, but I remembered that line. Last winter, Caroline had been editing until 4:00 AM. She had curled up on the sofa and explained this exact chapter to me. She told me the most beautiful part of the original text wasn’t the waiting; it was the acceptance of loss. She had said, “Will, the line should read: ‘I have finally accepted the loss.’” Back then, I couldn’t follow her academic jargon, but I had written that phrase down in my journal. Because she had told me it was the very heart of the book. I walked over and spoke in a low voice. “Isn’t that line incorrect?” The smile on Oliver’s face dimmed. “Will, this is a literary adaptation. You might not fully grasp the nuance.” Caroline frowned as well. “Will, don’t cause a scene during rehearsal.” I looked at her. “You were the one who told me that.” She went quiet for a second. Oliver said softly, “Caroline, the event is about to start.” Caroline closed her folder. “Let’s stick with Oliver’s version for now.” My hands clenched into tight fists. Even the things I remembered because of her could be discarded so easily. Back stage, I saw the final program. Where my name had been listed under “Event Director,” it now read “On-site Support.” And the copy on the signature wall, the reader journals, and the gift cards was now credited as a “Collaborative Creative Space” designed by Oliver and Caroline. I looked at those words and let out a quiet, tired laugh. Three months of late nights, a dozen venue visits, layout blueprints revised until dawn. All reduced to “On-site Support.” Right before the show started, the director rushed in. “Oliver needs to present some of his creative inspiration slides on stage. Go double-check the projector files.” I opened the presentation. Several slides were my original designs for the reader journals and signature wall sketches. My handwritten notes had been cropped out. Oliver stood beside me, his voice smooth. “Don’t take it personally, Will. I just felt these materials perfectly captured the spirit of Caroline’s book.” I turned to Caroline. “This is my work.” She glanced at it, keeping her voice low. “Don’t make a fuss. I’ll make sure they credit you after the event.” “And if I hadn’t noticed?” She was silent. I stared at her. “Would you have credited me then?” She didn’t answer, brushing it off. “Today is not the time to argue about this.” During the panel, Oliver sat next to Caroline. They talked about original French texts, their college years, the books they had read together in Paris. The crowd applauded warmly. I stood in the wings, my headset buzzing with cue alerts. Then, an elderly professor stood up in the audience, holding a copy of the new book, his face grave. “The citation at the end of Chapter Seven is incorrect,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall. The room fell dead silent. The professor continued, “The original text doesn’t say ‘waiting for the return.’ It says ‘accepting the loss.’ This error shifts the entire emotional weight of the book. It shouldn’t have made it to print.” Oliver’s face went pale. He instinctively looked at Caroline. Caroline held the microphone, silent for several long seconds. In those seconds, I actually found myself waiting. Waiting for her to speak the truth. Instead, she said, “The coordination of the event materials was quite complex. It seems there was a lapse in the execution phase, and the slides weren’t updated in time.” The director immediately whipped her head around to look at the backstage wing. Everyone’s eyes followed her gaze, landing squarely on me. Whispers broke out in the crowd. “Is that Caroline’s boyfriend?” “I heard he doesn’t know anything about literature, but they let him run the event.” “No wonder there was a mistake.” Standing there, I felt a wave of cold absurdity wash over me. It was true—I didn’t know French. But I knew how to remember every word she said. I knew to slip medicine into her bag when her stomach flared up. I knew how to stay up all night fixing schedules for her book launch, and I knew how to fill an entire venue with her favorite flowers. None of that mattered now. Caroline walked backstage, her voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “Will, just take the fall for this. Don’t make things ugly on stage.” I looked up at her. “You know it wasn’t my mistake.” She looked away. “I’ll make it up to you later.” “Make up for what?” I asked. “My name? My work? Or the lie you just told?” Caroline’s face drained of color. The whispering outside grew louder. Slowly, I slipped the silver band off my ring finger. It was a five-year anniversary gift from her. She had told me that no matter how far she went, she would always carry me with her. I picked up a spare microphone from the backstage desk and walked out onto the stage. The entire room fell silent, every eye on me. I placed the ring on the table. The metal hit the wood with a quiet, hollow click. “Caroline told me this translation herself last winter,” I said, my voice steady through the speakers. “She told me the original line meant, ‘I have finally accepted the loss.’” I pulled out my phone and tapped a voice memo from a year ago. Caroline’s voice echoed through the sound system—exhausted, but incredibly tender. “Will, we can’t translate this as ‘return.’ It’s about loss. It’s about letting go.” The stage went absolutely still. Oliver looked as though he might faint. Caroline stood frozen. I unlocked my phone and pulled up my photo album, projecting it onto the screen behind us. There they were: my sketches of the signature wall from three months ago, my early mock-ups of the reader journals, the backstage schedule drafts. Every single page was watermarked with my name and the date. “These designs were mine,” I said. “My name was demoted to ‘On-site Support,’ and my layout was stripped of my name and presented as someone else’s inspiration.” I looked at Caroline, nudging the ring slightly forward. “Caroline, I don’t understand French. But I know what it sounds like when you lie to me.” Without another word, I turned and walked out.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “552814”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel