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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