I’ve been in a relationship with a younger guy for three years now. This morning, I woke up and, like always, tried to kiss him and say good morning. But he moved away instinctively, looking somewhat disgusted. He’s just turned 21, still in college, and already he’s pushing me away. He got up, grabbed his phone, and went straight to the bathroom. Moments later, I could hear sounds of him pleasuring himself. My heart shattered. I sat there on the bed, stunned, listening to him in the bathroom. Watching as Adam picked out his clothes, sprayed on some cologne, checked himself out in the mirror, and then hurried off to school. Not once did he look at me. I picked up Adam’s iPad from the nightstand and glanced through his chat history with a lingerie store salesperson. Salesperson: It’s been a while since you last shopped with us. We have some new items in stock. Adam: Not interested anymore. I’m not into her at all now. I’m just 21, and she’s already 35, nearly 36. Her wrinkles gross me out, I can’t get it up. Salesperson: … Salesperson: Really? You used to buy from us frequently. You said you loved your girlfriend. Adam: I felt something for her because she was easygoing and took care of me. She always made up first when we argued. Now, it’s just pointless. Being with her doesn’t feel like a relationship. When I find someone young and cute, I’ll shop with you again. I scratched my head and laughed at myself. I’d seen this chat last night, but I still tried to test him. He’s fallen out of love with me. He’s repulsed by my aging. His ideal girl is probably the one whose photos he looks at before heading to the bathroom. I fell back onto the bed, surprised that I didn’t shed a tear. For a woman my age, crying and breaking down just isn’t dignified.
I got up and started my morning routine. By noon, I began to receive birthday emails from various brand websites where I’m subscribed. That’s when I remembered—it’s my birthday today. I stared blankly at the withered roses on the coffee table, recalling how three years ago today, it was 18-year-old Adam who first confessed his love to me. Back then, Adam had just started college and was being bullied while working part-time at my company. I helped him out. He looked at me with idolizing eyes, following me everywhere. I found it annoying and ended up having him help me with work directly. The Adam of that time was innocent and sincere. He would steal glances at me, and when I looked back, he’d quickly turn away, his ears slowly turning red. When other boys in the part-time job tried to win me over, Adam would get anxious, sticking close to me like a wolf guarding its territory. Occasionally, when our bodies accidentally brushed, he’d blush shyly. On my 32nd birthday, he showed up with a huge bouquet of my favorite roses and a birthday cake. The bashful yet determined look in his eyes, he said he loved me. I told him we had a big age gap and needed to think about it. Adam was filled with unease for those few days. When I finally said yes, he shouted in excitement. He hugged me tightly, his deep voice in my ear, “Every birthday of yours from now on will be our anniversary, and I’ll always be there.” My phone kept buzzing with birthday wishes from family, friends, and even colleagues. But not a single message from Adam. I got up and threw the wilted flowers from the vase into the trash. Things that have gone bad shouldn’t be kept. That applies to both flowers and people.
I got ready and went to work. Everything changes, but the effort I put into my work and my bank balance remain constant. Late that night, my assistant handed me a box. “Serena, I almost forgot! Here’s that Apple phone you wanted me to get.” She checked her watch and smiled, “It’s still 11:55, so we made it. Happy birthday, Serena!” I smiled back and took the box, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. Still, no word from Adam. To him, today was just another day. This phone wasn’t meant as my birthday gift. It was supposed to be for our third anniversary. Before leaving work, I texted Adam. “Come home early after school tomorrow. I want to talk to you.” “Anything you want for dinner?” After a while, he replied, “Whatever.”
I sat in the car all night, staring at Adam’s “Whatever” text. Scrolling up, I saw just how many more messages I sent compared to him, including all the money I transferred to him. Most of my messages were about what he wanted to eat, where he wanted to go, or me sharing news about my day. Adam either responded with “Whatever” or not at all. Scrolling further up, I saw that for the past six months, almost every conversation was one-sided, with me talking and him barely responding. I sighed softly. His indifference to me was painfully clear. I watched as the night turned into sunrise. Once Adam left for school, I returned to our apartment near his campus, where we lived together after we started dating. Clothes were strewn carelessly on the sofa. I threw them into the washing machine and then started preparing dinner. Lost in thought, I accidentally cut my finger. Blood quickly pooled on the floor. When Adam came home, I was holding a tissue tightly around my finger. He didn’t look at me, only glanced at the table and frowned. He sat down without a second thought, picking through the food disdainfully. To him, maybe I was like the meal, becoming tiresome. “Adam…” Adam responded with a distracted “Yeah,” while still texting on his phone, a pleased smile on his face. “I need to go out,” I said, feeling a mixture of anger and sadness as I looked at my bleeding finger, tears beginning to well up. “Adam…” All I wanted was for him to look at me. But all I got was another careless “Yeah.” I sniffed, wiping my eyes before heading to the pharmacy downstairs. The young girl there looked alarmed. “The cut’s deep. Let me wrap it up, but you really should see a doctor.” I shook my head and left. Back at home, as I pushed open the door, a sickly sweet “Adam, you’re amazing” echoed in the living room. Adam quickly paused the voice message, awkwardly looking up. “Where’s my blue shirt? I want to wear it tomorrow.” He then continued eating as if nothing happened. In the mirror at the entrance, I saw my swollen eyes and pale face. Tears threatened to spill, a wave of sadness washing over me. Taking a deep breath, I composed myself and sat down across from Adam. “Yesterday was our three-year anniversary. Do you want a gift?” His phone kept buzzing with messages from “sweet pie,” probably the young girl he fancied. Adam flipped his phone face-down, irritation in his voice, “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.” I took out the phone box. “I got you something. The latest Apple phone you’ve been wanting.” Adam’s eyes lit up, but just as he reached for it, my phone rang. In the silent room, my mom’s voice was loud and clear. “You’re almost 40. I’ve introduced you to some good prospects. If you don’t plan on marrying, what is it you want? You keep saying you have a boyfriend, but I’ve never even seen him!” Instinctively, I looked at Adam. He lowered his eyes, looking guilty. After a few curt responses, I hung up the call. Adam had pushed the phone box back to me, looking resigned. Taking the box, I smiled. “If you don’t want it, forget it. Are you full? This dinner was for our anniversary, and it’s also our last meal together.” Looking into his eyes, I said calmly, “Adam, let’s break up.”
Adam froze, then sighed in relief. “Okay.” His answer was firm, almost like he feared I’d change my mind. He looked me in the eyes, guilt mixed in his voice: “I’m not in love with you anymore. I never planned on marrying you.” “You can think I’m an asshole, but it’s the truth.” “Sorry.” I lowered my gaze, not wanting to look at him. When we first got together, I had asked Adam, “I’m 14 years older than you. I’ll get old quickly, and you won’t love me then.” Back then, Adam would smile and pull me into his arms, kissing my forehead. “They say loved women don’t age. I’ll tell you I love you a thousand times a day, and you’ll never get old.” That day on, Adam always said he loved me. Once he stopped saying it daily, I knew I’d grown old in his eyes. The same Adam who used to say “I love you” all the time now easily says he doesn’t love me, for the sake of a breakup. I found it almost funny. Calmly, I nodded, “It’s over.” Adam looked surprised at my calmness.
Our breakup was oddly peaceful. Adam awkwardly grabbed a suitcase, planning to pack his things, but soon walked out empty-handed. From the couch, where I sat, I almost laughed. Most of the stuff here was bought by me for him. What did he have to pack? He shot me a quick glance, murmured, “I’m leaving,” and bolted out of the apartment like he was finally free. The room was filled with traces of Adam, from the gaming computer to the socks in the drawer. There were debate scripts I helped him write when he participated in school competitions, and PowerPoint slides I stayed up all night to make for his student council. Even the clothes I bought for him. I remembered the time he forgot his USB drive at home, and I rushed over to his school to deliver it. He snapped at me, “Why did you come here?” He grabbed the USB and walked off, while his friends chuckled and one waved, saying, “Bye, Nanny!” Annoyed, I grabbed some trash bags and tossed all the junk inside. After cleaning, the apartment felt empty. Exhausted, I collapsed on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. The ticking of the clock was deafening in the silence. I picked up my phone. Adam’s Instagram had a new update. “I am finally free. Ending the wrong to find the right.” And just moments ago, at 2 AM, he had another post: “Can’t sleep.” He must be struggling with dorm life. When he complained about noisy roommates and the hard dorm bed, I got him this apartment. Lost in thought, my phone vibrated with notifications from Adam’s secondary credit card. I froze his card immediately. With that done, fatigue washed over me. Rolling over, I fell into a deep sleep.
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