After Ethan Thompson and I started dating, he blocked his ex-girlfriend, Scarlett Hayes, on all platforms. But every time she got drunk, she’d show up outside our apartment building and cause a massive scene, pounding on the door and ringing the doorbell incessantly, until he came down. As soon as the lights went out, he had to go downstairs. They were always on a collision course, clashing like rivals since their dating days, and they’d argue intensely over the smallest things, each cursing louder and fouler than the last. I had long grown used to it. But this time, the usual war of words escalated. Scarlett straddled him, her fists and kicks showing no mercy. Furious, I rushed over and pushed her away, only to receive a harsh slap in return. Just as I was about to retaliate, Ethan clamped down on my wrist. He helped Scarlett up from the ground, his eyes overflowing with concern: “Did you hurt yourself when you fell?” When he turned to me, there was only harsh criticism: “She’s had too much to drink, why would you push her?!” I stared blankly at the man who allowed another woman to cling to him and throw a drunken tantrum. Suddenly, I understood. When a man says he hates a girl he’s dated, that girl is actually the one he can’t forget.
Ethan and Scarlett had been entangled for seven years, and their breakup was anything but amicable. I had been living in Ethan’s apartment for three years, and Scarlett had been causing trouble for three years. At first, she secretly made a spare key and, when he wasn’t home, stole the dog they had raised together. Ethan spent three days tracking her down, finally retrieving the dog from a rental in the suburbs. Later, she attached a miniature device to the bottom of his car. Every time we drove out, the car’s GPS would loop the voice message of Ethan confessing his feelings to her from back in the day. After that, every time she drank, she’d come to our building and cause a huge scene, pounding on the door and ringing the doorbell incessantly, until he came down. Such was the tangled mess of their love and hate. Ethan would clench his teeth in anger every time, swearing he’d cut ties with her completely. Yet he never truly pursued any action against her. This time, I was the one who got hit. But she was clinging to him, still sobbing, her face streaked with tears. Ethan didn’t look at me. He didn’t even ask if I was hurt. He just held her patiently in his arms, comforting her in a soft, low voice: “There, there, it’s okay now. I’m here, stop crying.” “I hate you, Ethan!” Scarlett clung to him, feigning drunkenness, tearing and biting at him. Ethan was a severe germaphobe. He couldn’t stand physical contact with others. Every time I tried to kiss him, he’d turn his head. Frowning, he’d say, “Chloe, cut it out, it’s not hygienic.” But now. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her wet kisses landing on his cheek, his neck, the corner of his lips. The sounds of her wet kisses were jarring. He didn’t pull away. Even when she bit his Adam’s apple, he only let out a muffled groan and tightened his arms around her. “Chloe, don’t mind her, she’s had too much to drink.” He finally spared me a glance. “You go on back to sleep. I’ll take her home.” With that, he lifted her into his arms and turned to leave. Scarlett lay on his shoulder, her previously closed eyes suddenly opening. There was no trace of drunkenness in those eyes, only triumph. She looked over his shoulder at me, a defiant smirk playing on her lips. As if to say, “See? I won again.” I watched Ethan’s retreating figure. It was strange; he seemed to have lost his light. I had tried hard to convince myself that for a crazy woman like Scarlett, Ethan felt nothing but disgust. It wasn’t until this moment, watching him carry her away and disappear around the street corner, that I finally understood. His fondness for her was almost physiological. It would always override his reason.
That slap couldn’t be for nothing. I immediately called the police. The siren’s wail quickly pierced the quiet of the neighborhood. Scarlett sobered up instantly, lunging at me like a maniac, trying to scratch me, but the police officers handcuffed her arms behind her. She screamed as she was shoved into the patrol car. Ethan’s usually impassive face was almost contorted with panic. “It’s a complete misunderstanding! She’s my friend, she was drunk and emotionally unstable, that’s why she lashed out at me! We can sort this out at home…” The officer explained, “A victim, Ms. Chloe, reported an assault. We need to take her back to the station to verify the details.” “What victim?” Ethan whipped his head around, his gaze like an ice pick, piercing right through me. He looked like he wanted to skin me alive. “Chloe! Are you seriously going to take this that far?!” My cheek was still swollen, and I looked at him coldly. “Ethan! Save me! No!” Scarlett cried out from the car. Ethan was burning with anxiety, pounding on the car window: “Scarlett, don’t be scared! I’ll be right there!” He ignored me, started his car, and sped after the police vehicle. I went to the hospital and got a medical report for the injury. All the way, my phone vibrated frantically. When I didn’t answer, messages popped up one after another. All from Ethan, demanding answers. [Answer the phone.] [Why did you call the police? Scarlett was drunk, it wasn’t intentional, and besides, you pushed her first!] [Go to the police station right now and drop the case.] [If she gets a criminal record, her life will be ruined. Can’t you be a little kinder?] Kinder. I touched my still-throbbing cheek and made a decision in my heart. Back at Ethan’s apartment, I pulled out my suitcase. Three years, but not many personal items. I neatly folded my clothes, and threw away my used toothbrush. Finally, I opened Ethan’s laptop. I deleted the few, precious photos of us together from his cloud storage. Those were the only few photos from our three years together, proof that I hadn’t imagined this relationship. The login ID auto-filled. The page refreshed, and just as I was about to delete, I clicked on the folder named “Archive” by some strange impulse. The mouse wheel scrolled down. No end in sight. Over ten thousand photos. All of them Scarlett. Waves crashing, she ran barefoot on the beach, the camera capturing her flying hair as she looked back. Cherry blossoms like snow, she stood under a tree laughing joyfully, his hand reaching out to support her waist. In a field of flowers, he held a cake, gazing at her deeply, his eyes brighter than starlight. Their past was intimate and unrestrained. And me? Three years into our relationship, I always felt like a shadow. I used to think trust was the most important thing in a relationship. He blocked all her contact methods, hated her so much he wouldn’t even order her favorite dishes or listen to her favorite songs. That meant it was completely over. I had strong self-esteem; I wouldn’t snoop, I hadn’t even asked for his phone password. Even if his replies to my messages were always brief and cold. Even if I gave him gifts, he would always give gifts of similar value in return. I lied to myself, thinking it was his politeness and boundaries. But now, the screen displayed countless saved chat logs, like a giant spiderweb. That was their daily life back then. He’d say: [I saw a cat on the street today, it looked a lot like yours.] She’d say: [The clouds today look like marshmallows, you have to buy them for me after work.] He’d say: [My little greedy cat.] Meaningless chatter back and forth, he’d reply to all of it. Even when they fought, he’d write lengthy messages, every word carefully chosen, arguing with her endlessly. He even gave her his salary card, playfully begging her: [Babe, can I have some spending money?] I looked at those photos, those records. It felt like a dull blow to my chest. A long, sinking feeling of helplessness washed over me. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand romance, or that he was inherently cold. It was just that his passion, his indulgence, his boundless affection, he had always been stingy about sharing even an ounce of it with me. To him, I was always dispensable. That’s why, with me, he thought even arguing was a waste of time. I closed the laptop. The moment the screen went black, it reflected my pale face and swollen red eyes. My phone buzzed on the table, its screen lighting up and darkening. Ethan sent another message: [I’ll wait for you for half an hour. If you don’t come drop the case, we’re breaking up.]
The elevator doors slowly closed. I looked down at my phone screen, his threat pricking my eyes like needles. For three years, he had always been a decent boyfriend. It was only when Scarlett was involved that every argument between us felt like he became a different person. I remembered last week, he waited in line for half an hour to buy the drink I wanted. Just as he handed it to me, Scarlett appeared. She stopped us, pouting petulantly: “I want one too, Ethan. You promised you’d only ever buy drinks for one woman – me.” Without a word, he took the cup from my hand, inserted the straw, and handed it to her. I looked at my empty hand, but he casually put his arm around me: “It’s just a coffee, give it to her, or she’ll make a scene again.” In our second year of dating, I took him home for the first time. My parents prepared for three days, cooking a table full of his favorite dishes. Halfway to my place, Scarlett called, saying her car had been in an accident. He turned the car around and left. I was left alone with a table full of cold food and my parents’ awkward silence. Later, he coaxed me: “She’s never handled these things before, don’t be mad. I’ll make it up to your parents another day.” When that “another day” came, he was having dinner with my parents. His phone rang, an unknown number. He stood up to answer it, speaking into the screen with extreme impatience: “Scarlett, are you done yet? What is it now?” My mom’s hand, holding a dish, froze in mid-air, and my dad put down his wine glass. After he hung up, I quietly reminded him that it wasn’t very polite. He frowned, stating matter-of-factly: “If I don’t answer, she won’t stop. Your family won’t mind this.” Our biggest argument erupted when I had acute appendicitis. I was about to go into surgery, when Scarlett called, drunkenly screaming, “If you don’t come in ten minutes, I’m ordering three male escorts.” He hesitated for three seconds, then chose her. When I woke up, he was standing by my hospital bed, looking exhausted, with blood marks from her scratches still on his neck. He explained: “She was drunk, I was afraid she’d do something she’d regret.” “You’re fine now, aren’t you? I’ll take time off to take care of you for the next few days.” They say a good ex should be like they’re dead. But his ex was everywhere. Like air, like a virus. Every time, he’d say dismissively: “I’m annoyed too, what can I do?” Making me feel like I was the petty, unreasonable villain. The elevator descended, the numbers constantly changing. I sent Ethan one last message. [Okay, let’s break up.]
No matter what Ethan sent me next, I firmly refused to reply. Of course, I didn’t go to drop the case. But the next morning, a call woke me up. Through the receiver, Scarlett’s voice was triumphant, almost floating. “Chloe, so what if you called the police? Ethan still couldn’t bear to see me suffer!” “He contacted his dad last night and bailed me out.” I instantly sobered up. Ethan and his estranged father, who had abandoned his family, hadn’t spoken in over a decade. It was the deepest scar on his heart. Now, for Scarlett, for a mere 48-hour detention, he had humbled himself to beg that man. Seeing my silence, her laughter grew even more jarring. “Doesn’t that count as Ethan publicly slapping you in the face?” “So what if you’re his girlfriend? His first choice, the one he loves, will always be me.” I hung up the phone, and the screen lit up. It was a screenshot of Scarlett’s Ins story. That private list, visible only to three people, was once filled with her presence. When he was with her, he updated it daily. Sweet moments, arguments, making up—all updated. But for me, he had never officially announced my existence, saying only that showing affection on social media was childish. For every one of their anniversaries, he would meticulously prepare surprises. Because he was afraid “my little princess wouldn’t be happy, and would cause a scene again.” Yet for our three anniversaries, he was absent due to Scarlett’s various dramas. I once tried acting out like Scarlett. He frowned impatiently: “Chloe, I broke up with her precisely because I was tired of her capriciousness. Are you going to be like that too?” I loved him too much, so I could only swallow my grievances and back down. At noon, the lock turned. Ethan came in, carrying a large bouquet of champagne roses. Seeing the unpacked suitcase in the hallway, he smiled helplessly. “Baby, yesterday was my fault. I spoke out of turn.” He walked closer to me, his tone indulgent as he explained. “I didn’t mean to favor her. You know her personality; I was worried she’d keep causing trouble if you hit her back.” “You’re usually so gentle, you’d get the short end of the stick in a fight.” I looked at him, feeling both absurd and amused. My 6’1″, eight-pack-abs boyfriend was right there. But I still took a slap for nothing, didn’t I? “So, you sought out the person you despise the most, to bail her out?” At the mention of that man, Ethan’s expression hardened. “If you hadn’t insisted on making such a big deal out of it, would I have gone to beg him?” “Scarlett’s mom and my mom are best friends, we grew up together. Now my girlfriend put her in a police station, how are our families going to interact in the future? What will my mom think of you?!” “I used to think you were sensible, but this time, you just acted so recklessly.” He kept talking. “Chloe, does it make sense for you to always be jealous because of her? That’s just her personality, you know I’ve blocked her, what else can I do?” Listening to his string of accusations, my heart grew colder. Yes, he had blocked all her contact information. But he never missed a call from those unknown numbers. “You should go.” I heard myself say. “I agree to break up.” “I already said I was impulsive and spoke wrong. Can’t you just let it go?” He tugged irritably at his collar. “Chloe, I’ve told you many times, I will never get back with Scarlett. Her temper is too fiery, we simply can’t make it work.” Saying this, he took a velvet box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was the diamond ring we had custom-made together. “Once we’re married, she’ll finally give up and stop bothering us.” “From the day I started dating you three years ago, I knew you were the perfect wife for me.” I looked at the diamond ring I had dreamed of so many times. Now, the light it reflected was no longer dazzling, only blinding. He said so many words about “suitable,” “wife,” and “stability,” but he never once mentioned love. The refusal was on my lips when my phone rang at an inconvenient moment. It was my mom. Her voice was excited and relieved. “Ethan just brought so many gifts to the house, and he and your dad set the engagement date. This weekend sounds good.” I was stunned, instinctively refusing: “Mom, I don’t want to, it’s too rushed…” “You child, you’ve been together for three years, it’s time to move forward. What more could you want from a good man like him?” Mom’s rambling faded as she hung up. Ethan hugged me from behind, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Your mom is very happy about our engagement.” His voice was coaxing: “She just slapped you, right? I’ll let you hit me back for her, as much as you want, okay?” “Let’s not quarrel over such a small thing.” I remembered my mom, just a while ago, wiping away tears and holding my hand when she found out she needed heart surgery: “Mom’s biggest worry is that no one will take care of you.” I stood there blankly, letting him slide the ring onto my ring finger. Like a beautiful set of shackles.
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