The night of the World Cup opener, I finally made it back home just before midnight. But when I pushed the front door open, I saw my boyfriend and his childhood best friend had already set up the projector. Ashley was wearing Andrew’s jersey—the authentic, autographed Lionel Messi one that I wasn’t even allowed to touch. There was no room left on the two-seater sofa. The plates of spicy buffalo wings and sweat-beaded bottles of cold beer on the coffee table were a quiet reminder of where I stood. In this three-person dynamic, I was the intruder. My stomach couldn’t handle spicy food or ice-cold drinks; Andrew and Ashley lived for them. I didn’t really understand soccer; they worshiped the exact same teams. Like countless times before, they naturally hadn’t thought to invite me to join. I turned to head back to my room when Andrew called out, “Hazel, turn off the light on your way.” I froze for a second. “Sure.” “Aren’t you going to invite Hazel to join us?” Ashley asked, her voice light. “She doesn’t do spicy food, and she doesn’t get soccer anyway,” Andrew replied, his deep voice carrying clearly through the room. “No need to force her.” His words rang in my ears like a heavy bell, waking me up. The things I couldn’t stomach, the spaces I didn’t fit into… from now on, I wouldn’t force myself to swallow them anymore. … I walked toward the bedroom in the dim, flickering glow of the projector. Despite being careful, I stubbed my toe hard against the doorframe. My sharp gasp of pain was instantly swallowed by a sudden roar of cheers from the living room. I tilted my head back, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over. I finally made it into the bedroom, turned on the light, and pulled out my phone. It took a moment for my eyes to clear before I could message my manager. “Hey, I’d like to cancel my time-off request for this week.” The reply came almost instantly. “You worked a whole month of overtime just to get those two days off. Why are you canceling?” “Plans changed. I’ll save the days for next time.” June was our firm’s peak season. Requesting even a couple of days off required a month’s notice and grueling overtime to cover the hours. To watch the World Cup opener with Andrew, I had submitted my request back in early May, pulling late nights for weeks. I had spent my evenings cramming soccer rules, studying his favorite teams, and watching re-runs of past matches. But he already had someone to watch with. He didn’t need me to force myself. Just a few days ago, while organizing our closet, I had found his prized Messi jersey. I couldn’t resist taking it out to admire it, only for Andrew to snap at me, “Don’t touch that! You’ll get it dirty.” And now, Ashley was wearing that very jersey while eating greasy buffalo wings. I took the notebook filled with handwritten soccer facts from my nightstand, shoved it deep into a drawer, and turned off the light. From the living room, Andrew and Ashley’s laughter and cheers drifted in, causing the sound-activated nightstand lamp to flicker on and off. Andrew had insisted on installing this lamp two years ago. I had teased him back then, saying nobody put sound-activated lights in a bedroom. He had pulled me close, tender and warm: “You have night blindness, and you’re a light sleeper. I don’t want you waking up in pitch black and feeling scared.” I had teased him, “But what about your snoring?” He had seriously pulled out a box of anti-snoring strips. “I’ll wear these. I won’t snore.” Now, the lamp, triggered by the living room cheers, illuminated the dusty box of strips on his side of the nightstand. It felt incredibly blinding. I put in my earbuds and pulled the blanket over my head, but the light still flickered on every few minutes. 1:00 AM, 3:00 AM, 5:00 AM… By the time the morning sun hit Andrew’s pillow, the chatter in the living room still hadn’t stopped. I got up to wash my face, caking layer after layer of concealer under my eyes. But the face in the mirror still looked hollow and exhausted. The bedroom door swung open, and Andrew wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Hazel, can you drop Ashley off on your way to work?” She lived on the West Side. My office was on the East Side. He called this “on the way.” Suppressing the heavy smell of alcohol on him, I asked, “Done watching?” “Yeah, going to catch up on sleep today and do it all over again tonight.” He yawned, his stale breath suffocating me. I pushed him away, my voice flat. “You guys kept me up all night.” He blinked, cupping my face to look closer. “Yeah, you do have some dark circles.” Then he hugged me again. “My bad, babe. The game was just too exciting. I forgot you’re a light sleeper.” “When did you start forgetting?” I walked into the living room to find a total disaster. Crumpled napkins, empty beer cans, and greasy takeout boxes were scattered everywhere, with sticky sauce dripped all over the table. Ashley looked at me with sheepish eyes. “Hazel, sorry about the mess. Why don’t you head to work, and I’ll clean this up before I leave?” “No, let Hazel drive you home first,” Andrew said protectively, looking at her with warm concern. “You’ve been up all night. Don’t push yourself too hard.” I hadn’t slept a wink either, and now I was expected to drive his childhood friend all the way to the West Side before starting my own workday. My dry eyes ached with a sharp, burning pain. I navigated the morning traffic to drop Ashley off. In the backseat, she lay sprawled out, smelling of stale beer, with several dark grease stains clearly visible on the prized jersey. I pulled my gaze away and forced myself to focus on the road. As she got out, Ashley suddenly turned back. “By the way, Hazel, Andy and I are heading up to Lake Tahoe next week to beat the heat. Are you coming?” Seeing my blank expression, she gave an awkward smile. “Oh, did Andy not tell you?” “Well, the food up there is mostly heavy, rustic barbecue and chili. Andy probably figured you wouldn’t enjoy it, so he didn’t want to pressure you.” Of all the getaways in the country, they had to choose one defined by food I couldn’t eat. Was he worried I wouldn’t have fun, or was he just worried I’d show up? I forced a tight smile. “I’m not going.” An uninvited guest shouldn’t go, and frankly, doesn’t want to. At the office, a coworker handed me a warm coffee. “You look exhausted. Fight with the boyfriend?” “No.” We barely even spoke anymore. How could we fight? Across the room, a young intern sighed, rubbing her cheeks. “Men are so exhausting. I stop replying to his texts, and he still won’t leave me alone.” I smiled weakly at her frustration. “Maybe he just wants a clear answer.” “Everyone has their phone glued to their hand these days,” she grumbled. “If I don’t reply, isn’t that answer clear enough?” I looked down at my phone. My pinned chat with Andrew had been quiet for three days. My last text was asking him what he wanted for dinner. He never replied. Yet, at that exact same hour, Ashley had posted a photo on Instagram asking which of two dresses she should wear to dinner. Andrew had commented within seconds: “The one on the left suits you better.” My smile froze. I guess silence really is an answer. A sip of hot coffee burned its way down my throat, settling in my stomach like a dull ache. When I got home that evening, the apartment was pitch black. I groped around to find the light switch. The mess from this morning was still exactly where it was. Andrew didn’t let Ashley clean it, but he had no problem leaving the disaster for me. Leaning against the front door, I dialed his number. It rang a dozen times before he finally picked up. “Hazel? You off work? I didn’t want to wake you up at home, so I took Ashley out to a sports bar to catch the match.” The background was deafening. Before I could speak, another roar of cheers erupted. “Hello? Andrew!” He didn’t reply. The line remained open, filled with the loud chatter of a crowded bar. He must have forgotten to lock his screen. Just as I was about to hang up, I heard a male voice near his mic. “Hey Andy, is Hazel off work? Why don’t you tell her to come meet us?” “Nah, she’s too high-maintenance,” Andrew’s voice cut through, laced with irritation and exhaustion. “She can’t eat this, can’t drink that. It ruins the vibe for everyone. It’s just too much of a hassle.” I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and ended the call. Three years ago, to help his startup secure its first round of funding, I—a complete lightweight—drank an entire bottle of hard liquor to appease an investor. I spent the night huddled over the toilet throwing up blood, and by the time I was rushed to the ER, I had a perforated ulcer. During my two-hour emergency surgery, Andrew sobbed outside the operating room the entire time. When I woke up, his eyes were swollen like cherries. He squeezed my hand gently, whispering, “Hazel, I promise I’ll take care of your stomach. I’ll never let you hurt like this again.” For a long time after that, no matter how busy he was, he made sure to cook gentle meals for me. But “a long time” was temporary. Eventually, he started telling me to just order takeout. Then, he stopped asking if I had eaten at all. And now, I was “high-maintenance.” I was a “hassle.” Suppressing the wave of nausea in my chest, I cleaned up the sticky mess on the coffee table. I made myself a simple bowl of plain oatmeal, finishing it by midnight. After staring at my screen for a long time, I finally text him: “When are you coming home?” The text sank like a stone. By 2:00 AM, there was still no reply. I scrolled up through our chat history. It was mostly me reaching out, met with brief, one-word replies—or complete silence. I exited the chat, opened my email drafts, and pulled up my transfer request. My finger hovered over the send button for a few seconds. Then, I tapped it. The next evening, Andrew pulled up to pick me up from work. “Sorry about yesterday, Hazel. It was too loud, I didn’t see your text.” “Okay.” He looked surprised by my coldness, but quickly forced a smile. “Come on, I’m taking you to Jade Garden.” Jade Garden was the Cantonese spot we used to love. The mild, savory flavors were perfect for my stomach. But for the past year, I had only ever eaten there alone. At the restaurant, he requested a private booth. “I’ve been so busy lately and haven’t taken you out. Let me make it up to you tonight.” He ordered a massive spread of my favorite dishes, piling food onto my plate. For a brief second, it felt like years ago, back when he would order everything I liked, and I never had to worry about waste because he would gladly finish whatever I couldn’t. For one fleeting moment, I thought to myself: “Maybe we should give this one more try.” But the illusion shattered when his phone rang. “Andy! I found this amazing Szechuan joint right near Jade Garden. I ordered that spicy cumin beef you love. Hurry over!” Ashley’s voice blared clearly through the receiver. He hung up, and a text vibrated with her location. My eyes caught their chat history. It was a constant back-and-forth. The most recent message, sent thirty minutes ago, was Andrew sending her our location at Jade Garden. Even our quiet dinner together had to be reported to her. The snow peas in my mouth suddenly tasted incredibly bitter. I swallowed, choking slightly. Andrew stood up and patted my back, looking torn. I wiped the involuntary tears from my eyes, my voice raspy. “Go if you want to. The food will get cold.” He gave me a brief, apologetic hug. “I’ll just run over and check on her. I’ll be right back.” “Okay.” I didn’t beg him to stay like I used to. I didn’t cry. Though he hesitated for a second, he ultimately turned and walked out quickly. I sat alone in that private booth for two hours. He never returned. I had grown quite used to this kind of endless waiting. I called the server over and had everything packed into two large bags. This food would last me three or four days. As I reached the door, the elderly host said in his gentle, accented English, “Young lady, that is a lot of food for one person. Don’t force yourself to finish it all.” I smiled. “I won’t. Not anymore. Thank you.” I won’t force myself anymore, and I won’t force anyone else either. The next morning, Andrew finally remembered to text me. “Hey Hazel, Ashley ended up inviting a bunch of friends last night and it got late. I assume you went home early?” “Yeah.” How late was it? Late enough that he didn’t come home at all. I locked my phone and picked up my transfer approval. The company was opening a branch in Miami, and they needed experienced staff to spearhead the office. My transfer had been approved. My start date was the 3rd of next month—exactly one week away. My coworker was stunned when I told her. “Hazel, are you out of your mind? Moving to Miami means starting from absolute scratch. All the local clients you’ve built up here, your connections… your boyfriend… you’re just throwing it all away?” “I don’t want them anymore.” I had six days of accrued paid time off saved up over the last two years. Our relationship had begun with a road trip planned by our friends. It felt fitting to end it with a trip of my own. Even though I knew he already had plans with Ashley, I still sent him an invite: “Andrew, I have six days of leave. Let’s take a trip together.” This time, the reply was instant: “Hazel, I already promised Ashley I’d take her to Lake Tahoe. I don’t have enough vacation days left. Next year, okay? Next year, we’ll go wherever you want.” He had ten days of paid leave. Four were spent on the World Cup, six were reserved for Ashley. I was left with “next year.” But ever since Ashley returned to the country, I had heard “next year” at least a dozen times. And this time, I really didn’t want to wait anymore. On the kitchen calendar, June 28th was circled in red marker. It was our anniversary. Every year when Andrew bought a new calendar, he circled that date first. He always said he was terrified of forgetting it. But despite that bright red circle, he forgot. I didn’t receive a gift, or even a call. Just a text: “Boarding my flight now. Text me if you need anything.” Then Ashley’s contact popped up on my feed. “Don’t worry, Hazel! I’ll take good care of Andy.” Attached was a photo of Andrew sleeping soundly, his head resting gently on her shoulder, a soft smile playing on his lips. Andrew always insisted she was just like a little sister to him. But I refuse to believe he was blind to how possessive she was of him. He simply chose to allow it. I took a flight to Miami. In this unfamiliar, sun-drenched city, I spent my days rushing between corporate buildings and rental properties, eventually securing our office lease and finding a small apartment for myself. My boss told me to relax and enjoy my time off, but I knew myself. I couldn’t let my mind wander. Right now, being busy was my only shield. Strangely, Andrew started checking in constantly. He sent a selfie of them standing by a waterfall in Tahoe. “It gets freezing here in the mornings and evenings, Hazel. Good thing you didn’t come, you definitely wouldn’t have tolerated the cold.” In the photo, the girl leaning into his chest was wearing his jacket, her face glowing with happiness. He sent a photo of their dinner—a table covered in heavy, spicy dishes. “So good. Too bad you can’t eat spicy food.” Yes, it was a shame. A shame that for your sake, I never cherished myself. On the day I returned to prepare for my move, he texted me a photo of a delicate beaded bracelet. “I’m so sorry, Hazel. I just realized I missed our anniversary last week. Here’s a little something to make up for it.” I had already seen that bracelet on Ashley’s social media. It was a free souvenir given out to visitors who completed a small prayer walk at a chapel in Tahoe. I had also seen her post about their trip—watching the sunset over the lake, walking along the docks, hiking the falls. Ashley had posted a perfect nine-photo grid. The center photo was a screenshot of a shared digital bucket list with checkmarks next to almost every item. Her caption read: “Finished our yearly bucket list six months ahead of schedule with my favorite person. Thanks for always keeping your promises. Here’s to us.” The first item on that list was “try 30 new restaurants.” The second was “travel to a new city together.” The third was “fulfill one big wish for each other.” There were twenty items in total, and they had completed them all. The lock screen on my phone with Andrew was also a bucket list. It had only six items. We wrote it three years ago, and we hadn’t even finished half of them. How ironic that back then, he had proudly set his background to that exact same list. I wonder if he ever thought about our unfinished list while he was crossing off items on Ashley’s. But it didn’t matter anymore. I walked into my dark apartment late at night. The motion-sensor nightlight in the entryway had broken months ago, and Andrew had never bothered to fix it. I could tell myself I was no longer afraid of the dark, but I couldn’t change the fact that my eyes struggled to adjust to the pitch black. Ficking on the lights, I packed my clothes and came across the anniversary gift I had bought for him. I took a photo of the authentic, autographed Lionel Messi soccer ball and listed it on eBay. I had gone to great lengths and paid a hefty premium to secure it for him. It was a shame about the custom-engraved leather shin guards I had made for him; because they had his name on them, I couldn’t resell them. I swept them into a trash bag and threw them down the chute. Taking one last look at the place we spent years building together, I opened my chat with Andrew. I focused on keeping my fingers steady as I typed: “Andrew, we don’t share the same tastes, we don’t share the same interests, and we shouldn’t force this anymore.” “Let’s end it.” As the flight attendant’s soothing voice echoed through the cabin, his name flashed across my screen. A second later, the screen went dark. I turned off my phone. The plane took off.
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