On my birthday, my boyfriend bought me a cheap pack of grocery-store cupcakes and a single wax candle. He told me birthday cakes were nothing but a capitalist marketing trap, a distraction from our real goal: saving every penny for a down payment on a house. I was hurt, but I swallowed my disappointment and agreed. Then, on the evening of my birthday, my best friend breezed through our front door. She bypassed the empty chair and squeezed herself right onto the sofa between us, wrapping her arms around mine and preening. “Oh my god, Dylan is literally the most amazing guy,” Sally cooed, resting her head on his shoulder. “He just put down eight thousand dollars to secure the lease on my new apartment downtown. I got to sleep in until nine this morning. It was absolute heaven!” My mouth went dry. To make it to my office on time, I had to wake up at five in the morning, ride an electric scooter for twenty minutes in the freezing cold, and transfer through three different subway lines. I did it because Dylan insisted that living this far out in the Boston suburbs was the only way to save two thousand a year on rent. Buzz. I looked down at the screen of my phone. [Card ending in 8744: Wire transfer of $400,000 to Sally completed. Remaining balance: $400,000.] Dylan had just transferred the savings we had built together over ten years—our future home—directly to my best friend. I looked up, my chest tightening. Dylan was casually peeling a shrimp, dropping the pink meat directly into Sally’s bowl. His voice was entirely conversational. “Oh, that. It’s to help fund her grad school. We can always buy a house later, Alice. Sally won’t have an income while she’s getting her master’s degree. Actually, I was thinking you might want to chip in a bit, too?” I looked down at my faded, worn-out flannel pajamas. Ten years of devotion, of sacrificing my own comfort, suddenly felt like a joke. “Sure,” I said, my voice completely flat. “I’ll go to the bank right now and pull out everything left in the account.” I would empty the account, and in doing so, I would erase him from my future. 1 “See? I told you Alice is reasonable. She’d never make a fuss over something like this. You owe me twenty bucks,” Dylan said, looking at Sally with an affectionate, indulgent smile. He reached out and playfully pinched her nose. Sally pouted, pretending to be annoyed, and grabbed his shoulder, giving it a playful, teasing bite. “Fine, fine. I admit I underestimated Alice,” Sally said, though her eyes remained locked on him. “I just know how badly she wanted that house.” She turned to me, her voice dripping with sweet concern. “I didn’t hurt him too bad, did I, Alice? I know how protective you get over your man.” They both looked at me, expecting the usual flash of anger. But I simply kept eating my dinner, chewing slowly. Seeing that I wasn’t reacting, the smug satisfaction on Dylan’s face faltered. A shadow of disappointment crossed his eyes, and he cleared his throat. “I’m glad you’re finally learning to be mature, Alice,” he said, adjusting his collar. “I was worried you’d make a scene like you did last time. It’s nice to see you’re finally growing up.” The “last time” he was referring to was our college reunion. During a game of Truth or Dare, he and Sally had been dared to kiss through a thin plastic card. I had stood up, furious, calling out the complete lack of boundaries. Dylan had shut me down in front of everyone, calling me dramatic, insecure, and a psycho. I had cried until my eyes were swollen, and in the end, I was the one who begged for his forgiveness. But sitting here now, I realized I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy. The food in front of me was far more interesting than he was. Before I could answer, Sally gasped. She shifted in her seat, accidentally knocking her elbow against the small ceramic figurine on the edge of the table. It fell. The small porcelain boy and girl, sculpted to look like they were embracing, snapped cleanly in two on the hardwood floor. Dylan’s hands shot out to steady Sally, his eyes wide with concern. He didn’t even look at the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked her, before turning a defensive glare toward me. “Alice, don’t get mad. It was an accident. I’ll buy you another one.” That figurine was the very first gift Dylan had ever given me, back when we first made our relationship official. “No need,” I said quietly. “Once something breaks, it breaks.” If I didn’t want the man anymore, why would I care about a piece of painted clay? Dylan opened his mouth to say something, but Sally let out a soft groan, rubbing her lower back. “Oh, my back is so stiff from moving boxes all day.” Without a second thought, Dylan turned his back on me and began gently massaging her shoulders. I wiped my mouth with a napkin, stood up, and slipped into my coat. “Enjoy your dinner. I’m going to the bank.” As I stepped into the hallway to put on my boots, Dylan’s hesitant voice drifted over. “Hey… we haven’t even blown out the candle yet. Make a wish before you go.” I didn’t look back. There was no birthday cake. Just cheap, dry cupcakes and a single candle bought from a convenience store. He had claimed real cakes were a capitalist trap, yet every year on Sally’s birthday, he spent hundreds of dollars ordering custom, multi-tiered artisanal creations from the best bakeries in the city. I shut the door behind me. The bitter, freezing winter air hit my face, making my eyes water. As I walked past the dumpster at the end of the block, I pulled the silver ring off my left hand. It was a cheap, ten-dollar ring he’d bought off Amazon years ago, but I had treated it like a priceless heirloom. I tossed it into the trash. I took a cab to the bank and arrived just minutes before the lobby closed. I withdrew every single cent of my portion of our shared savings, opened a brand-new private account, and deposited the money there. When I was done, I drove to the Prudential Center. I walked straight into a luxury French boutique patisserie, bought the most expensive, beautifully frosted champagne-berry cake in the display, and took myself to a bustling hot pot restaurant downtown. When the staff gathered around my table with a glowing sign, singing “Happy Birthday,” I didn’t feel embarrassed. I smiled, blew out the sparkler, and carved out the largest, sweetest slice for myself. By the time I got back to the apartment, my phone was buzzing with a FaceTime call from Dylan. “Hey,” he said, the camera shaking as he walked around Sally’s apartment. “Sally mentioned seeing some sketchy guy loitering near her building earlier. She’s terrified to be alone, so I’m going to crash on her couch tonight to make sure she’s safe.” Sally popped into the frame, her arms looped casually around his neck. She gave a playful wink. “Alice, you’re my savior! Let me borrow your boyfriend for just one night to protect a damsel in distress!” She knew I had never been able to say no to her. We had been best friends for seven years. Dylan adjusted his camera, briefly looking at my screen. “Make sure you lock the deadbolt. Don’t fall asleep with the stove on.” Sally patted his cheek. “Oh, don’t worry about her. Our Alice is the toughest girl I know.” But I wasn’t tough. When we first moved to this isolated suburb, I had been followed home from the subway station twice. I had called Dylan, sobbing and hyperventilating in the dark. He had told me I was overreacting, that I was just trying to create drama. Eventually, I bought pepper spray and a small taser to carry in my purse, convincing myself that he was just a typical, unobservant guy who didn’t know how to handle fear. He wasn’t incapable of worry. He was just incapable of worrying about me. I swallowed the sudden, sharp lump in my throat and forced a polite smile. “You’re right. I’m tough. Enjoy your night.” Before they could respond, I hung up. I walked to the closet and began gathering every single gift Dylan had ever given me. A five-dollar red string bracelet from a street vendor. A plastic phone case he got for free with a promotion. A pair of cheap, knockoff wireless earbuds. He had always told me I was a “sensible girl” who didn’t care about material luxuries, that we needed to save for our future. Yet for Sally’s birthdays, he bought Van Cleef & Arpels bracelets, luxury La Mer skincare sets, and the newest, most expensive iPhone. When I had confronted him about it, he had cupped my face and looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Babe, I only buy her those things to make you look good. If your boyfriend is generous to your best friend, it makes you look high-class. Since I spent so much of my personal cash on her, maybe you could help me out with rent this month?” I threw every single one of his cheap trinkets into a heavy black trash bag. Then, I dialed my father’s number. “Dad,” I said when he picked up. “The family matchmaking setup you mentioned… I’m ready to come back to New York and meet him.” 2 The next morning, while waiting for the train, a local lifestyle video popped up on my feed. It was a candid clip filmed inside the Louis Vuitton boutique downtown. The caption read: “Obsessed with this couple! Look at how he looks at her. Where do I find a guy like this?” In the video, Dylan was draped over Sally, carefully adjusting the strap of a luxury handbag on her shoulder, his face glowing with a sweet, adoring smile. While I was sitting alone in a restaurant celebrating my birthday, he was playing the doting boyfriend in a designer boutique. I watched the video three times. Then, I liked it. When I arrived at the office, I walked straight to my manager’s desk and handed in my two weeks’ notice. My work bestie walked over to my desk later, holding two mugs of tea. “Alice, what’s going on? Why are you leaving so suddenly? Yesterday you were literally talking about saving up to buy Dylan that new MacBook for his office.” I looked at the screen of my computer, where the video of Dylan and Sally was still paused. I smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach my eyes. “He’s someone else’s boyfriend now. He doesn’t need my gifts.” An hour before my shift ended, my phone rang. It was Dylan. “Is something wrong with you today?” he asked, his tone laced with irritation. “No. Why?” “You haven’t texted me once. No updates, no phone calls. Nothing.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. I hadn’t even realized. For the first time in ten years, I hadn’t spent my day wondering what he was doing or if he was safe. In the past, if he had stayed overnight at another woman’s house, I would have spent the entire day calling him, crying and demanding reassurance. “Did you need something?” I asked. There was a long silence on the other end. “Don’t take the subway,” Dylan said, sounding uncharacteristically awkward. “I’ll drive down and pick you up after work.” Ever since he bought his car, he had insisted I keep a low profile at work by taking public transit. He rarely offered to drive me, though he frequently went “out of his way” to pick up Sally. “Okay,” I replied. When I opened the passenger door and got in, Dylan didn’t even look up. He was staring at his phone, typing rapidly, a soft smile tugging at his lips. My dad called. I picked up immediately. “Everything is set, Dad. My resignation is processing. I’ll be back in New York next week.” I hung up, and Dylan finally tossed his phone into the cup holder. “What’s happening next week?” “Nothing.” I reached down to adjust my seat and brushed against something soft. I pulled out a pair of pink lace underwear from the crevice of the passenger seat. Dylan’s face went pale. He snatched them out of my hand, stuffing them into the glove box with a clumsy, panicked laugh. “Sally… you know how she is. She’s so disorganized. She must have dropped them when we were moving her things.” I simply nodded, turning my gaze to the window. He nervously turned on the radio. An indie-pop song—one of Sally’s favorites—filled the car. He skipped it, but the next song was by the same artist. And the next. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “Just leave it.” Dylan’s hand froze over the dashboard. The nervous smile on his face slowly dissolved. “Alice, you’re acting weird. You usually hate this kind of music.” Before I could answer, his phone rang. He answered it on the car’s Bluetooth speaker. “Dylan…” Sally’s voice whimpered through the speakers. “My cramps are getting really bad. I don’t think I can walk to the pharmacy.” Dylan cut the call, pulled over to the side of the road, and looked at me with an apologetic, pleading expression. “Alice, can you hop out here and take the train? I need to go get her some medicine. You know how fragile she gets during her cycle. You care about her, right?” I sat quietly for a moment, staring into his eyes. “Dylan. Do you even remember whose boyfriend you are?” His face instantly flushed with anger, his eyes narrowing. “What does that have to do with anything? Why do you always have to be so incredibly selfish, Alice? She’s your best friend!” He reached over and unlocked the passenger door. “Get out. I don’t want her waiting in pain because of your jealousy.” I didn’t say another word. I grabbed my purse, stepped out into the cold, and watched the taillights of his car disappear into the evening traffic. By the time Dylan got home, it was past ten. He walked into the kitchen with a sheepish, placating smile, holding out a small bakery box. “Don’t be mad, babe. Look what I brought you.” Inside was a slice of salted caramel peanut cake. Sally’s absolute favorite. I didn’t touch it. “I’m severely allergic to peanuts, Dylan.” His face drained of color. “Oh… God, Alice, I’m sorry. I forgot…” This was the man who, during our first year of dating, used to painstakingly pick every single stray peanut out of my takeout food. Now, he couldn’t even remember the allergy that could send me to the ICU. To cover his guilt, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, elegantly wrapped gift box. “Here. Sally and I picked this out for you. Consider it a belated birthday gift.” I opened the box. A silk Louis Vuitton scarf lay inside. I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and showed him the TikTok video I had liked earlier. His expression went from embarrassed to defensive in a fraction of a second. “Sally is starting her graduate program. She needed a professional bag to make a good impression! Why do you always have to compare yourself to her? If you don’t want the scarf, then don’t take it!” He slammed the box onto the counter, marched into the bathroom, and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. A few minutes later, his phone buzzed on the kitchen island. I looked down. [Sally: Is it okay that we gave Alice the free promo scarf? I felt a little bad, but I really, really loved the bag.] [Dylan: Don’t worry about it. A designer logo is a designer logo. It’s more than enough for her.] I didn’t feel the tears fall, but I felt the cold trail they left on my cheeks. Later that night, Dylan climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in my hair. This was his routine—his way of apologizing without ever having to say the words. In the past, I would have softened instantly, turning around to hold him. But tonight, his touch made my skin crawl. I gently but firmly pulled his arms off me and rolled to the far edge of the mattress. He went stiff. After a long, tense silence, he grabbed his pillow and walked out to the living room. Our sofa was small and stiff. In the past, I would have lain awake, consumed by guilt, before finally going out to pull him back to bed. But tonight, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. 3 When Dylan woke up the next morning, I was already in the living room, packing my books into cardboard boxes. He rubbed his eyes, looking around the messy apartment. “Where’s breakfast?” Dylan had a sensitive stomach and got severe acid reflux if he didn’t eat right away. No matter how badly we fought, I had always woken up early to make him a warm meal. “I already ate,” I said, tape-sealing a box. “If you’re hungry, make something yourself.” He stared at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and wounded pride, but I didn’t look back. Ping. Our shared group chat lit up. [Sally: Oh my god, look at this new brunch place downtown! It’s so aesthetic. We should all go this afternoon!] Dylan glanced at me, his fingers flying across his screen as he typed his reply. [Dylan: Let’s just go the two of us. Alice is clearly too busy with her packing projects.] Usually, the fear of leaving them alone would have driven me crazy. I would have dropped everything, begged him to let me come, and the fight would have ended in a fragile compromise. But now, I simply picked up my phone. [Alice: Yeah, I’m busy. Have fun, guys.] Dylan lingered by the front door for a long time, adjusting his coat, waiting for me to say something. When I kept my back turned, he let out a frustrated sigh and slammed the door behind him. By three in the afternoon, my hands were dusty, and the apartment was mostly bare. I checked my social media. Dylan, who hadn’t posted a photo since college, had uploaded a picture of him and Sally sitting close together at a candlelit table, holding up their drinks. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was waiting for me to call him, furious and crying, so he could play the reasonable partner and graciously invite me to join them. But I felt nothing but exhaustion. I locked my phone and went back to packing. Dylan didn’t come home that night. The next afternoon, he called me, his voice sharp and demanding. “Did you wire the money to Sally’s account yet?” “No,” I said calmly. “And I’m not going to.” There was a heavy pause on the line before he let out a condescending chuckle. “Come on, Alice. I know you’re just doing this to get my attention. It’s classic you.” He paused, his voice softening into a patronizing hum. “How about this? I’ll take you to see that movie you wanted to watch tonight. After the movie, you can transfer the money to Sally. Deal?” I sighed, realizing how useless it was to argue with someone who refused to hear me. “Sure. Let’s meet at the theater.” A proper breakup deserved to be done in person. When I arrived, Dylan was waiting near the ticket booth holding a bucket of popcorn. He reached out to take my hand, but I slipped my hands into my pockets, stepping past him. The movie started, but I couldn’t focus. The onscreen drama felt incredibly trivial compared to the quiet, heavy reality of my own life. Dylan kept shifting in his seat, checking his phone under his jacket. Finally, he leaned over. “I have to step out for a quick call. I’ll be right back.” He never came back. When the lights came up, I walked out of the theater and into the bustling plaza outside the mall. And there they were. Sally and Dylan, standing close under the streetlights, laughing as they shared a single waffle cone. Sally’s hand was resting casually on his hip. I felt a strange sense of relief. It was like watching a movie I already knew the ending to. When they spotted me, Sally’s smile froze. She quickly pulled her hand away from Dylan’s waist and jogged over to me, grabbing my wrists. “Alice! I swear I just wanted to try a bite of his ice cream! You’re not actually mad, are you?” I pulled my hands back, looking at her with a disgust that had been building for years. “If you think that’s normal, go ahead. But I don’t share food with other women’s boyfriends.” I took a deep breath, my voice steady despite the cold. “Dylan, we’re over. Sally, we’re done.” 4 I turned to walk away, but Dylan lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me back. “Are you serious right now? Stop being so incredibly childish! You can’t just throw around words like ‘breakup’ every time you get jealous!” “Sally literally just explained it to you!” he yelled, his face contorting. “It’s just ice cream!” As we struggled, a delivery scooter suddenly whipped around the blind corner of the plaza, speeding directly toward us. Instinctively, Dylan’s arms shot out—not to grab me, but to pull Sally tightly against his chest, shielding her with his body. In the process, his elbow shoved me hard. My heel caught on the uneven pavement, and I crashed violently onto the concrete. I sat there, the palms of my hands scraped and stinging, staring up at the man I had loved for a decade. Even though I had already decided to leave, watching his back as he shielded another woman still sent a sharp, physical pain straight through my chest. Sally pushed Dylan away, her face filled with horror as she looked at me. “Dylan! What the hell did you push her for?” She scrambled down to my level, her worry genuine. “Alice, are you okay? Oh my god, you’re bleeding.” “What are you standing there for?” Sally snapped at Dylan. “Help me get her to the hospital!” Dylan hesitated, looking down at his watch. “But… doesn’t your manager need that report submitted by midnight?” I looked at him, and the last lingering ember of my love finally went cold. I wiped the tears from my face, stood up on my own, and flagged down a passing taxi. I went to the urgent care clinic alone, got my scrapes bandaged, and took a cab to a hotel. The next morning, Dylan was waiting outside my office building. “Alice, let me drive you to work. Let’s talk.” “There’s nothing to talk about. We broke up.” Dylan let out a frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Over a bite of ice cream? Over an accident where I tried to keep everyone safe? You’re completely fine, Alice! Look at you, you don’t even have a scratch. Stop playing these ridiculous mind games. My patience has a limit.” I looked at him, feeling nothing but pity. “I’m not playing games, Dylan. It’s over.” He stared at me, searching my face, before letting out a smug, knowing chuckle. “Right. This is your new tactic, isn’t it? Playing hard to get.” He checked his watch. “Sally and I have a five-day business trip to Portland. Use this time to calm down and think about your attitude. When I get back, wire the money to Sally, and I’ll bring you something nice.” Before I could correct him, his phone rang with Sally’s ringtone. He answered it, muttered a quick “I’m on my way,” and hurried off toward his car. Over the next five days, I quietly packed up the rest of my life in Boston. During that time, I received two sets of daily notifications. The first was a constant stream of texts from Dylan, detailing what he ate, what he saw, and how much he missed me. The second was from Sally’s “Close Friends” Instagram stories, which she had specifically allowed me to see. It was a curated gallery of her and Dylan: holding hands on the beach, sharing room service in their hotel, laughing over drinks. I liked every single one of her stories, took screenshots of them, and forwarded the entire gallery to Dylan’s chat. Then, I blocked them both. On the morning of my flight to New York, my phone rang. It was Dylan’s mother. “Alice,” she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. “I think it’s highly inappropriate for a girl from your background to be living rent-free in my son’s condominium when you aren’t even engaged yet.” My blood ran cold. “Your son’s condominium?” “Yes. Dylan bought that place years ago with our family’s help. I hope you aren’t taking advantage of his kindness.” I hung up, my hands trembling. I pulled up my banking app, screenshotting every single monthly rent payment I had sent to Dylan’s personal account over the past three years—rent he told me went to a “strict, greedy landlord.” I forwarded the screenshots to his mother, along with a simple message: “I’ve paid exactly half of your son’s mortgage every single month. Feel free to ask him where that money went.” I blocked her number, switched my phone to airplane mode, and watched the Boston skyline fade into the winter clouds.
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