His Lucky Number Was Her

My boyfriend Brandon’s lucky number was 3. Everything in his life revolved around three. Whenever I was indecisive, he would give me an answer in exactly three minutes. My best friend, Jessa, used to complain about it: “If he really loves you, why doesn’t he reply instantly? Why does he make you wait three minutes every single time?” I’d smile and defend him. “He’s busy at work. Taking three minutes is just him sneaking away from his desk for me.” Until the day I logged into his work account and spotted a strange pinned chat—a contact saved under a little crescent moon icon. Every single daily option I sent him had been forwarded to her within a second. Accompanied by Brandon’s message: “Which one do you like today? Still option number three?” The Crescent Moon girl’s voice notes were always bright and cheerful: “You know three is my lucky number! Option three, of course!” Her voice was crisp and sweet—a young girl I didn’t even recognize. For three years, that identical exchange had never missed a single day, silently wedged inside the three-minute gap between me and Brandon. My fingers trembled on the keyboard. It was only then, with a dull, excruciating delay, that I realized Brandon had chosen option three every single time. The third dress. The third dinner menu. The third car… Countless “option threes” had built the woman standing in my shoes today. It turned out Brandon wasn’t making those decisions for me at all. And it wasn’t that he couldn’t reply in seconds—he was just saving all his devotion for someone else. The three minutes I waited for every day had never meant a thing. … I hung the slate-blue coat back in the closet and pulled out the off-white trench coat buried in the very back. I had fallen in love with it at first sight while shopping last year. Brandon had told me white made me look washed out, insisting that the third option—the charcoal gray one—suited me much better. In the end, I bought the charcoal coat. The off-white one stayed in my closet, its price tag still attached. The woman in the mirror had a pale, drawn face, yet she looked more like herself than she had in years. I dragged out a small carry-on and packed just one change of clothes. I told myself I was only staying at Jessa’s for a single night. When Brandon got back, we still needed to talk. Four years together—he deserved at least one chance to explain. Yet thirty minutes had passed since I sent him “Let’s talk when you get home,” and he still hadn’t replied. On his work account, however, he had asked Serena what she wanted for lunch just one minute ago. I dragged my suitcase to the entryway and looked at the three keys sitting in the wooden tray. The first key was to my sedan, the second was to Brandon’s SUV, and the third belonged to an old beat-up scooter with faulty brakes. Four years of habit acted faster than reason. Before I snapped back to reality, I had already taken a picture of the keys and sent it to Brandon. A second later, it appeared in Serena’s chat box. “Cami’s heading out. Which one should she take?” Serena only noticed the Pikachu keychain attached to the third key. “Option three, obviously! That keychain matches mine!” Three minutes later, Brandon texted me back: “It’s raining today, traffic will be awful. Take the scooter. It’s slick out there, drive safe.” I reminded him: “The brakes are broken. I told you last week.” He didn’t reply. On the other side, Serena suddenly remembered: “Brandon, wait, isn’t that scooter broken? Will your girlfriend be okay riding it?” “She’s fine. She won’t actually ride it.” “She’s too timid. She’ll end up taking her car anyway.” So he remembered. He knew full well that option three could put me in danger, yet he sent it to me anyway—just so he wouldn’t spoil Serena’s mood. I picked up the first key. For the first time in four years, I didn’t follow his choice. By the time I reached the restaurant, Jessa had been waiting for a long time. She looked at the suitcase by my feet and frowned. “Did you get into a fight with Brandon?” “No. Just wanted to stay at your place for a night.” “Your eyes are swollen. Who are you trying to fool?” I looked down, stirring my warm water for a long moment before asking, “If you realized that everything you loved over the past few years wasn’t actually what you loved at all… what would you do?” Before Jessa could answer, my phone rang. It was Brandon. “Did you leave the apartment?” His tone was gentle as always. “It’s raining outside. Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?” “How do you know?” “The smart lock sent a notification.” He chuckled softly. “Don’t eat seafood, and don’t drink anything iced. If your stomach starts hurting while I’m not there, nobody’s going to take care of you.” A sudden sting hit the back of my nose. He remembered my allergies, remembered my sensitive stomach, remembered that I always forgot my umbrella. Maybe these four years weren’t entirely a lie. “Brandon…” “By the way, are you wearing that off-white coat?” “Yeah.” “Didn’t I say that one makes you look heavy? Next time, stick to the charcoal gray I picked.” The tiny spark of warmth that had just flared up turned ice-cold in an instant. As soon as I hung up, a new message popped up on his work account. Serena: “Brandon, the courier is at your place, but your girlfriend isn’t home. How do I get the dress?” Brandon: “I’ll tell her to go back.” My heart constricted. There was only one dress at home worth sending a courier to pick up. That white custom dress—he had given it to me on our first anniversary. There had been no three choices back then, no three-minute wait. He told me he had designed it specifically for me, one-of-a-kind in the world. It was the only proof I had in a sea of lies that Brandon had once loved me. Ignoring Jessa’s frantic questions, I rushed back home. The courier had already taken out the white dress. I stopped him and took the shipping receipt. In the recipient column, it read: “Serena.” At the same time, a girl’s clear voice sounded from my open laptop: “Brandon, my senior design thesis dress… she’s been wearing it for years. Isn’t it time to give it back to me?” I made an excuse about needing to dry-clean the dress first to send the courier away. In less than a minute, Brandon called. “Did someone just stop by to pick up the dress?” “Yeah.” “The company is holding a temporary exhibition and needs to collect past works,” he said, his tone entirely natural. “I’m borrowing it for a few days. I’ll bring it right back to you.” I clutched the hem of the dress tight. “But you said… you designed it specifically for me.” There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Of course I did. It’s precisely because it’s my proudest piece that I want to showcase it.” If I hadn’t seen his work chat, I probably would have believed him again. After hanging up, I searched “white dress” in his chat log with her. Serena had taken dozens of photos wearing it. She had complained that the waist was too boxy and the skirt lacked movement, casually messaging: “My thesis is already graded anyway. If you can’t bring yourself to throw it out, just give it to someone else.” Half a month later, Brandon took in the waistline and handed it to me. I had been so deeply moved that he stayed up late altering it for me, completely unaware that from its very inception, the dress was never meant for me. And now that Serena wanted it for an exhibition, he was taking it right back from my closet. The single item I had cherished for three years was nothing more than her discarded draft that she could reclaim whenever she pleased. I wanted to throw the dress straight into a trash bag, but my hand froze halfway there. I had worn it when I met Brandon’s parents. I had worn it in our engagement photos. The gift was fake, but the happiness back then had felt so real. At least back then, I truly believed we were going to grow old together. I sat on the floor, clutching the dress, until my arm accidentally knocked over a perfume bottle on the nightstand. Glass shattered, and a cloying, sweet scent filled the air instantly. I reached out instinctively to pick up the pieces, and a jagged shard slashed straight across my palm. Blood welled up, dripping onto the pristine white fabric of the dress. In a state of panic, my body acted on pure instinct—I snapped a picture and sent it to Brandon. A second later, my phone rang. There was no three-minute wait. “Don’t move!” His voice was laced with a panic I had never heard from him before. “Is there glass in the cut? Raise your hand high, I’m calling a doctor right now.” Tears blurred my vision instantly. So he “could” reply in seconds. When he saw me hurt, he didn’t even have time to ask Serena first. “Brandon, it hurts…” “Don’t be scared, I’m right here with you.” He softened his voice, comforting me over and over. “The doctor will be there soon. I’m staying on the line.” A pathetic, shameful sense of relief bloomed in my chest. Maybe when it really mattered, I was still the one he cared about. Then, in the very next second, he asked, “Did any blood get on the dress?” My crying stopped dead in its tracks. “Yes.” Silence fell over the line for two seconds before he spoke. “It’s okay. It can be washed out. Just… don’t touch the dress anymore.” At the same exact time, a new message popped up on his work account. Brandon: “The dress got blood on it.” Serena sent a crying emoji: “That dress is still around? I thought you threw it out ages ago.” Brandon: “I couldn’t bear to.” Four short words crushed the last spark of hope I had just reignited. The thing he couldn’t bear to throw away wasn’t the gift I had worn for three years. It was the very first piece Serena had ever created for him. A doctor arrived at the apartment and put two stitches in my palm. Throughout the process, Brandon kept the video call active, constantly reminding the doctor about my drug allergies. Looking at his familiar features on the screen, I still couldn’t stop myself from wavering. He remembered every single detail about me. How could he have never loved me? Right then, Serena sent a text. “Brandon, I’m feeling a little dizzy. I think my blood sugar dropped.” Brandon immediately turned to the camera and said to me, “Something urgent came up at the office. I’ll come home to keep you company later.” The video call disconnected abruptly. A second later, he placed a voice call to Serena. “Why didn’t you eat lunch again? Just lie down, I’ll order some warm sweet porridge for you.” I had just gotten two stitches in my hand. She had simply skipped lunch. Yet he abandoned me without a single moment of hesitation. I folded the white dress neatly, placed it inside an empty cardboard box, and wrote Brandon’s name on the top. Then, I put my passport, ID, and bank cards into my suitcase. My phone rang again. It was a confirmation call from a high-end restaurant. “Miss Camille, Mr. Brandon has reserved a table for your fourth anniversary dinner tomorrow evening.” I froze. So he still remembered. Then, the receptionist asked politely, “Mr. Brandon reserved a table for three. Will the third guest, Miss Serena, be joining you as well?” The next day, I showed up at the restaurant right on time. I wanted to see the girl who had occupied four years of my life using countless “option threes” with my own eyes. Three sets of silverware were laid out on the table. A card sat in the middle: “Cami, happy fourth anniversary. Even though I can’t be by your side, my heart is always with you.” Footsteps approached. “Cami!” I looked up. Serena was wearing a white knit sweater, a red hairpin, and a crescent moon pendant around her neck. Every single item was an “option three” Brandon had chosen for me in the past. “Brandon was worried you’d be sad spending the anniversary alone, so he asked me to keep you company.” Her smile was bright and innocent. “You don’t mind, do you?” “Not at all.” I looked at her necklace. “It’s very pretty.” She touched the pendant, her eyes curving into sweet crescents. “It was a welcome gift from Brandon when I joined the firm. He said I’m like the moon—not blindingly bright, but glowing with my own soft light.” My fingernails dug violently into my palm. The exact same necklace. The exact same words. Brandon had told me I was his sun, and he was the moon that orbited me. But the moon he had kept safely treasured in his heart was never me. When the waiter served the food, Serena routinely moved the ice water away from my plate and asked the waiter to send back the soup because it contained cilantro. “You have a sensitive stomach, and you don’t eat cilantro, right?” I stared at her. “You know a lot about me.” “Brandon brings you up all the time.” She rested her chin on her hands and laughed. “He says you’re great at everything, except you have zero opinions of your own. You even have to ask him what to wear every morning.” It felt as though a hand had slammed into my chest, squeezing my heart dry. The reliance I had thought was intimacy was nothing more than a joke shared between them over coffee. Halfway through the meal, Serena pulled out three gift boxes. “These are the anniversary gifts Brandon prepared for you. He wanted you to pick one yourself.” The first was a pearl bracelet, the second was a pair of earrings, and the third was a crescent moon brooch. Without missing a beat, I picked up the first box. “I like this one.” Her smile stiffened for a second. “The first one?” “Yeah.” “But… Brandon said you’d definitely pick the third one.” She picked up the brooch, reaching out to pin it to my collar. I blocked her hand. “I said, I don’t want it.” The air went dead silent. Serena’s eyes welled up with tears in an instant. “Cami, I just wanted to help Brandon make you happy. If you don’t like it, I won’t do this anymore.” She lowered her head and sent a text. In less than three minutes, my phone rang. The moment I picked up, Brandon demanded, “You didn’t like the gift?” “What if I say I didn’t?” He let out a heavy sigh. “If you don’t like it, just tell me directly. Don’t make things difficult for Serena.” “She canceled her date tonight just to keep you company for me. She ran to three different boutiques to find that brooch.” “Even if it’s just out of respect for me, you shouldn’t give her an attitude.” I looked over at Serena. Her head was bowed, but a tiny, triumphant smile curled at the edge of her lips. “So I “have” to pick the third one?” “It’s not that you have to,” he softened his tone. “I just think the third one suits you best. Cami, don’t be unreasonable.” Yesterday, when my hand was stitched up, he gave me barely ten minutes of his time. Today, Serena’s eyes got a little red, and he couldn’t wait to demand justice for her. It turned out that the person who was truly loved never had to wait. And she never had to be sensible. “Fine.” I took the third gift box. “I’ll take it.” Brandon visibly breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s my girl.” The moment I hung up, Serena’s bright smile returned instantly. “I knew you were the most understanding person, Cami.” Before leaving, she suddenly turned and asked, “Oh, by the way, for the third draft of the light fixtures in the studio at your new condo… did you ever decide on changing them?” My footsteps stopped cold. “What studio?” Serena’s expression froze slightly, but she quickly covered it up with a laugh. “Oh, I must have gotten my projects mixed up!” She hurried away. I sat there in silence for a moment before dropping the crescent moon brooch straight into the trash can. Back at the apartment, I pulled out the design files for our future home. On the final sign-off sheet, right next to Brandon’s signature, were three written letters: “S.Y.E.” — Serena’s initials. And the small room next to the balcony—the one Brandon had always referred to as the “nursery”—had only two words listed in the notes since the very first blueprint: “Art Studio.” The next day, the interior designer asked me to do the final walkthrough for the condo’s furnishings. Before heading out, I packed all my legal documents, bank cards, and the jewelry my late mother had left me into my suitcase and handed it over to Jessa. Jessa looked at the heavy bandage on my palm. “Do you want me to come with you?” “No need.” I pushed the suitcase to her. “Just hold onto these for me first.” Before I officially laid all my cards on the table, I couldn’t let Brandon suspect a thing. When we bought the condo, the realtor had shown us three floor plans. The first was close to my office, the second was spacious, and the third featured a massive open-air balcony. I hated the third one. Balconies were a pain to maintain, and I was terrified of heights. But three minutes later, Brandon had told me: “You love plants. Let’s take the third one. I’ll turn the balcony into a garden for you.” Because I believed he was holding my happiness in his hands, I happily put down half of the down payment. After the renovations, I spent two years filling that balcony with greenery. I had spent two years believing he had built that future for me. The designer pushed open the balcony door and smiled warmly. “Mr. Brandon cared most about this space. He specifically requested that the easel be placed right where the lighting is best.” My step faltered. “An easel?” “Yes, the height was even customized according to Miss Serena’s measurements.” The designer realized her slip of the tongue a second too late and awkwardly bit her lip. I pushed open the door to the small room next to the balcony. There was no crib, no children’s furniture. Just an entire wall fitted with custom art frame storage and an easel. The height of the desk had been signed off by Serena. The wall color was the third shade of soft sage green she had selected. The light fixtures, curtains, and area rug were all from option three. She had long since carved out her own sanctuary inside our future home. My phone rang right on cue. Brandon called on video, asking with a smile, “Are you doing the walkthrough? Do you like it?” “I like it.” “Once I get back, we can finally move in.” He spoke tenderly about our future—placing a lounge chair on the balcony to soak up the sun together on weekends, leaving the small room empty for now until we had a baby. If I hadn’t opened that door, I might have actually believed he was sincerely planning the rest of his life with me. The designer brought over three mock-up photos for the ceiling lights. In the past, I would have sent them to Brandon without a second thought. This time, I pointed straight to the first image. “I want this one.” Brandon blinked on the video screen, slightly caught off guard. “Are you sure you don’t want to look around more?” “No need. I like the first one.” He smiled warmly. “Great. Look at you finally making up your own mind. The first one it is.” Three seconds after the video call ended, his work account popped up with a notification. All three lighting mock-ups had been forwarded to Serena. “Which ceiling light for the last room?” Serena replied within seconds: “Option three, obviously! It matches the studio best!” Brandon: “Got it.” Three minutes later, a new text from Brandon landed in my personal chat. “Cami, I took another close look. The light from the first one is a bit too harsh. Option three actually fits our home much better.” I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment, leaving it unanswered. Even when I clearly stated what I wanted, he would still overrule me for Serena. It wasn’t because I was indecisive, nor was it because I lacked opinions. It was simply because what I liked had never mattered as much as her lucky number. I didn’t argue about the lighting, nor did I cause a scene. I simply photographed every single design document and slid the proof of my financial contributions into my tote bag. When I got back to the apartment, my most important possessions had already been taken away by Jessa. I packed the white dress, the crescent moon necklace, the yellow Pikachu keychain, and all those “option three” gifts into three large cardboard boxes. Some things were too big to fit inside a box. Like our future home. Like four years of my youth. Like the love I had once believed would last a lifetime. Just because I couldn’t carry them away didn’t mean I had to leave them behind. Jessa sent a text: “I’m downstairs.” I put on my off-white coat and grabbed the first set of keys off the tray. Just before I walked out the door, Serena’s chat flashed with a new message on Brandon’s work account. “Brandon, once the studio is all set up, can I be the very first person to use it?” Brandon replied instantly: “Of course. It was designed to your taste anyway.” The very last shred of lingering regret in my chest vanished into thin air. For three years, Brandon had made countless choices on my behalf. The third coat, the third dinner option, the third gift, the third floor plan. This time, I decided to give him three options of his own. I opened our personal chat box and typed out every single word carefully: “I’m giving you three choices, too.” “1. Break up now.” “2. Break up when you get back.” “3. Let Serena pick how we break up.”

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