On the day I snagged the International Violin Gold, a five-year-old video of mine mysteriously resurfaced. In the clip, torrential rain lashed down. I was kneeling beside a man, covered in blood, lying on the ground. I screamed, my voice raw, begging for help, my face a mask of terror and despair. That very night, Adrian, who hadn’t contacted me in the five years since we broke up, called. His voice, raw with disbelief and a painful uncertainty, cracked: “You… you actually cared about me? Why, for all these years, did I never know?” I discovered the five-year-old video had been leaked just as I was leaving a celebration dinner, hailing a ride-share to go home. In our music studio’s SnapChat group, someone had forwarded the leaked video. Several people were tagging me. “Is that really you, Iris? Must be a rumor, right?” “Iris has always been so reserved, so cool and composed. The person in the video might look a little like her, but it can’t possibly be our senior.” “Am I the only one curious about who the guy on the ground is?” The group chat buzzed with speculation. When I didn’t reply, the conversation slowly shifted back to congratulating me on winning the International Violin Gold. I sent a quick “Thank you” in the chat. No response to the video questions. As the city lights flickered on, the night air grew cold and sharp. I opened the video, watching that heart-wrenching version of myself. She felt like a stranger, distant, like a ghost from a past life. My phone rang just then—a long string of unfamiliar numbers. I usually didn’t answer unknown calls and was about to hang up. But watching that video had me distracted. My thumb slipped, and somehow, I hit “answer.” On the other end, Adrian, whom I hadn’t heard from in five years, spoke, his voice clearly agitated: “Is that really you in the video?” That all-too-familiar voice, cool yet laced with undeniable urgency, hit me unexpectedly. It was like an unseen hand suddenly, violently, clutched my heart. My breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as if a dark, humiliating secret had been yanked into the light. I fumbled, almost dropping the phone, desperate to hang up. His voice on the line seemed to tremble: “You… you actually cared about me? Why, for all these years, did I never know?”
My finger, poised to end the call, froze in that instant. The evening street pulsed with a relentless tide of traffic. My throat felt dry and tight. I stood rigidly on the sidewalk. After a long silence, I spoke softly: “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He seemed to let out a short, bitter laugh on the other end. “Doesn’t matter?” “Right, for someone like you, what could ever matter besides yourself?” A brutal, sudden ache tore through me, and for a moment, I lost my bearings. It wasn’t until a piercing car horn blared beside me that I snapped back to reality, realizing I was standing in the middle of a crosswalk. The green light for pedestrians had long since turned red. A car screeched to a halt right next to me. The driver rolled down their window, yelling something, their face contorted in anger. I didn’t hear a word. Perhaps it was the deepening twilight, or some other reason. My eyes burned, and my vision blurred. When the world around me stabilized, I walked to the other side of the street. The call had already ended. That familiar, long-unheard voice was gone from my phone. It felt like nothing more than a fleeting illusion.
After he hung up, I caught a ride-share home. When I arrived, my mom called, no pleasantries, just down to business. “I’ve arranged a solo recital for you at the Vienna Golden Hall at the end of next month. “Get ready. Don’t you dare embarrass me.” I walked through the door, my violin case on my back, fumbling in the dark entryway for the light switch. Then, I responded coolly: “I’m not going.” On the other end, my mom’s voice was filled with furious disbelief: “What did you say? Don’t you dare forget your grandmother’s ashes…” I hung up before she could finish. My father’s stepdaughter had just given a piano recital in London last week. That was why my mom was so frantic to get to me. After tidying up, I lay on my bed. Moonlight seeped through the sheer curtains, spilling across the floor. Suddenly, I remembered years ago, someone holding me close, murmuring softly: “Sweet Iris, sweet Iris, you look so unhappy.” “Sweet Iris, sweet Iris, tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you, okay?” That person’s voice and shadow flickered in my mind. In my dreams, it was the year he declared his love for me to the entire world.
Adrian and I got together seven years ago. Other male celebrities, freshly famous, avoided relationships and rumors like the plague. But he, on the very night he won the Best Actor award, at the peak of his career. Held up his trophy on that grand, public stage, and the first words out of his mouth were: “First, I have to thank my girlfriend…” He announced, with passionate devotion: “My sweetheart is an incredibly talented violinist.” His fans screamed protests. Overnight, Adrian lost over a million followers. Yet he remained unrepentant, immediately posting publicly: “If I have to choose, I can give up my career, but I will never give up the one I love.” His agency was furious, practically spitting blood, and completely blacklisted him for over half a year. After being blacklisted, Adrian lost his career, his future. He became the laughingstock of the entire industry. At his lowest point, dazed and disoriented, he got into a car accident. He lay in the hospital for over ten days, weak and frail, calling me. But he never once saw me, not even for a moment. Several months later, his stomach ulcer flared up, sending him back to the hospital. That night, he called me repeatedly. The man who’d always been so wild and carefree, for the first time, pleaded with me like a lost child. He said, “Sweet Iris, I’m in pain. Please come see me.” At the time, I was sitting in my practice room, working on a piece. My fingers, mid-strum on the violin strings, barely paused. I asked, my voice flat, “Is it critical? Is your life in danger?”
The other end of the line fell silent, a long, heavy pause. After a while, he simply said two short words: “No.” I looked out at the deepening night sky, then replied, “Then can I come tomorrow? It’s pretty late now.” Adrian forced the words out, his teeth practically grinding: “Iris Clarke, I was in the ER.” I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me, so I added, “Oh. So you’re out now, right?” After a moment of dead silence, a violent crash erupted, the sound of something being brutally smashed. My hand, resting on my violin, trembled. After the commotion subsided, his voice came through, cold as ice: “I’m out.” “So, you’re still planning to come tomorrow?” I thought about it: “Tomorrow afternoon, maybe. I still have…” He cut me off abruptly, his voice chilling: “Iris Clarke, did you ever love me?” My expression froze in an instant. I heard Adrian’s voice, filled with crushing disappointment: “Why are you always so calm? “Why, when it comes to everything about me, everything about *us*, are you always so collected?” He paused, then let out a soft, mirthless laugh: “No, not calm. It’s cold. You’re cold.” I opened my mouth, but my throat felt choked with cotton. No words came out. Time stretched on, feeling like an eternity. Finally, I heard Adrian calm himself, letting out a sigh: “Iris Clarke, let’s break up.” With a sudden *thump*, my violin slipped from my grasp and hit the floor. I scrambled up, bending to pick it up, only to find my hands shaking uncontrollably. The call duration was still ticking. I picked up the violin, sat back on the sofa. Outside, the night was a suffocating, impenetrable black, as if all light had been swallowed whole. After a long, drawn-out moment, I softly said, “Okay.” On the other end, Adrian laughed, a hollow, bitter sound: “Okay, hahah, okay.” “Iris Clarke, Iris Clarke, what is your heart made of?” After that, Adrian left the country, and we never saw each other again. Two years of a relationship, and we didn’t even have a face-to-face goodbye.
I tossed and turned all night. When I finally woke up late the next day, the first thing I saw on my phone was news of Adrian’s return to the country. The man who had been rumored to be single for five years. This time, unusually, he was with a young woman. The girl wore a mask, so her face wasn’t clear. But I had a strange feeling her eyes looked familiar. For the past five years, the internet had buzzed with rumors. Adrian remained single, they said, because he hadn’t moved on from that mysterious violinist. But now, he’d forgone the airport’s VIP lounge. Instead, he walked through the regular terminal with the girl by his side. Fans at the airport, thrilled by the rare chance to see their idol up close, went wild. Security couldn’t hold them back; the crowd surged toward Adrian multiple times. Adrian instinctively reached out, naturally shielding the girl by pulling her closer to his side. The scene was like a new discovery, screams rising in pitch. Undoubtedly, Adrian’s first new romance in five years would soon explode across the trending topics. I looked at the familiar, long-unseen face in the news, momentarily lost in thought. A sudden, sharp pang shot through my chest, abrupt and without reason. I had thought my connection with Adrian had ended with that last phone call. Someone I hadn’t seen in five years, I never expected to see again. But the very next day, when my teacher called me to the set, there he was.
Having won the International Violin Gold and making my first public appearance, my online presence was currently sky-high. Director Miller, a renowned filmmaker, personally called, inviting me to cameo as a violinist in his new movie. My teacher urged me to take it, saying it was a fantastic opportunity. I didn’t want to go. She tried to persuade me: “Iris, you can’t stay hidden forever. “That whole affair, it was years ago. No one remembers it anymore. “Look, when you revealed your face after winning the gold, no one recognized you, did they?” She had mentored me for over a decade, always considering me her most brilliant student. Naturally, she hoped I would shine. I hesitated all night, but in the end, I went. I just never expected Adrian to be there. When I noticed him, he was lounging in a director’s chair, lazily soaking up the sun. The man once blacklisted by his agency had long since reclaimed his top spot in the entertainment industry. He seemed to sense my gaze. He turned his head, glancing at me. It was a casual, fleeting look, his face devoid of any expression. Instead of seeing him as an ex I hadn’t seen in five years, it felt more like we were complete strangers. But at that moment, what truly captured my attention wasn’t him. It was the girl sitting right next to him—the same one he was with at the airport yesterday. Now, the girl had taken off her mask, and I recognized her face. It was Chloe Clarke, my father’s stepdaughter. I couldn’t even remember how many years it had been since I last saw Chloe. Her face suddenly crashing into my line of sight felt like a needle violently piercing my brain. My stomach lurched, churning violently. The bright sunlight hit me, and I swayed, almost collapsing in front of everyone. In that dizzying moment, I vaguely saw Adrian’s expression change as he looked my way. One hand, casually draped over the armrest of his chair, tightened, as if he were about to spring up.
But just as quickly, his clenched hand relaxed. The intense emotion that had momentarily surged across his face rapidly dissipated, as if nothing had happened. Before I could fall, my teacher, with lightning-fast reflexes, reached out and steadied me. My teacher knew all about my family affairs. She recognized Chloe, and couldn’t help but curse under her breath. Her tone was utterly disgusted: “How did *she* end up here?” I forced myself to stand steady, to calm down. Then I replied, “She must be… with Adrian now.” My teacher quickly put it together: “The one photographed at the airport yesterday, that was her?” I nodded. My teacher’s expression grew even gloomier: “What a coincidence. This Adrian, is he trying to spite you on purpose?” I quietly denied it: “I don’t think so.” Not only had Adrian and I broken up years ago, but he had no reason to waste his time trying to annoy me now. Besides, he had no idea about my family situation, he didn’t know my family. I had a bad feeling that Chloe would stir up trouble for me. Sure enough, that afternoon, while I was practicing violin in the cast lounge. Director Miller came to find me, with Chloe in tow, looking clearly uncomfortable. As they entered, Adrian stood in the doorway of the lounge, watching me with a smirk that wasn’t quite a smile. His expression even held a hint of schadenfreude. Director Miller hesitated, then started: “Um, Iris…” “Ms. Chloe Clarke says she discussed it with you. “She says the scene where you play the violin in the church… you agreed she’d perform it instead? Is that right?” Chloe didn’t even wait for my response, smiling brightly: “Yes, I’ll play the piano instead. “A piano performance in the church would have an even better atmosphere, don’t you think?” I cut her off directly: “She never discussed switching roles with me.” Director Miller’s face immediately turned awkward. From the doorway, Adrian’s voice, laced with coldness, drifted in: “Well, she’s telling you now.”
Chloe’s face was alight with undisguised triumph. Her demeanor was arrogant, yet her voice remained sweet and soft: “Adrian said if the production team isn’t willing to give me even such a small role, “Then he might have to reconsider playing the male lead.” Director Miller instantly struggled to suppress his anger, glaring at Adrian in the doorway. Adrian, however, looked completely unfazed, a faint smile in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe. He was clearly indulging Chloe’s mischief. Director Miller’s face was ashen with rage. After a long moment, he could only manage a furious “This is absurd!” He couldn’t bring himself to tell me to leave, but he was powerless. I picked up my violin, stood, and said flatly, “Just give it to her. I don’t mind.” Chloe’s smile grew even wider, more triumphant. Director Miller stormed off, fuming. I slung my violin case over my shoulder and walked out. As I passed Adrian, I couldn’t help but say, “She’s not right for you.” It wasn’t a critique, but an uncontrollable urge to warn him. I said it and moved to leave. But Adrian suddenly reached out, his palm gripping my arm. When I looked down, I saw the veins bulging on the back of his hand.
Chloe walked over, her face a picture of grievance, calling out softly, “Adrian.” Adrian’s expression became incredibly irritated. He spoke, suppressing his temper: “Go wait outside.” Chloe glared at me hatefully, but she left. It had been years since Adrian and I had been alone, and my palm was already slick with sweat. I couldn’t pull my hand free, so I lifted my gaze, trying to look at him calmly: “I was just giving you some friendly advice. Believe it or not, it’s up to you.” Adrian’s face darkened. He yanked my arm, pulling me roughly back into the room. Then he lifted his foot and kicked the door shut with unprecedented force. *Bang!* The door automatically locked. My heart hammered in my chest, and a sudden prickle of fear ran through me. His large hand pressed onto my shoulder. My back was against the door, and I felt his gaze on me, like a knife, seemingly trying to bore a hole straight through me. “She’s not right for me. Then who is? *You*?” “Iris Clarke, what have you meant all these years? Am I just some game to you?!” His grip tightened, relentlessly, on my shoulder. A sharp ache shot through me. I watched the intense resentment and stubborn bitterness surge in his eyes, no longer concealed. I drew a shallow breath. “Adrian, it’s over between us. Please, calm down.” “If what I just said upset you, then I apologize. Pretend I never said it.” The anger on his face deepened, his ragged breaths seeming to carry a hint of hatred. “What’s said is said, what’s done is done. “Iris Clarke, why should I pretend it never happened just because you say so?” I had never seen Adrian so relentless, so insistent. Five years ago, when he gave up on me entirely and broke up, it was just one sentence. I agreed, and then I left. After that, we never spoke. This kind of entanglement, it wasn’t like him at all. A sudden headache began to throb behind my eyes. “What exactly do you want from me?”
Adrian’s hand, still pressing on my shoulder, began to tremble slightly. He stared at me, his gaze piercing: “Five years ago, when I had that car accident, you cried beside me in the pouring rain. Why? “Someone as heartless as you, who doesn’t even need a goodbye to break up, why did *you* cry?” His face was almost distorted with anguish, yet I remained perfectly calm. I watched him, watched his emotions spiral out of control, almost roaring with fury. But my voice remained steady: “Adrian, this isn’t you.” He visibly flinched. Then he finally let go of me, his thin lips even starting to tremble. It was as if something was lodged in his chest, threatening to make him explode. The man started smashing everything he could see, *bang, crash, clatter*, until nothing was left. Finally, still not satisfied, he kicked over the coffee table and chairs. I huddled against the wall, trying to take up as little space as possible. No matter how hard I tried to stay calm, my body couldn’t stop trembling. Many, many years ago, I had faced this exact scene. The bedroom, a wreckage, like the end of the world. Adrian lifted the last stool from the vanity, about to smash it to the ground. He finally turned his head, noticing me huddled in the corner. Our eyes met. My face, at that moment, was probably far from good. His angry, ashen face froze the instant his gaze met mine. The stool in his hand never hit the floor. He looked at me, curled in the corner, his expression strange. He held the stool, motionless, for a long, long time. After an unknown duration, he finally put the stool down, his face dark. He walked past the wreckage, silently heading for the door. I clutched the nearby curtain, my hand shaking violently. But the man at the doorway paused. He didn’t turn around, his voice low and weary: “You should go home. Don’t bother coming to the set anymore.” I slowly sank to the floor, curling into myself, and stayed in that lounge for a very long time.
By the time I left, Adrian and Chloe had already gone. News quickly broke online that Chloe would be replacing me in Director Miller’s new film. As for the reason, Chloe posted on Ins: “A last-minute invitation. Thank you, Director Miller, for your trust.” As soon as that post went up, public opinion quickly turned against me. They said I was throwing my weight around after winning the gold medal, ditching the film crew. That Director Miller had been forced to find Chloe as an emergency replacement. Someone was clearly orchestrating this, and the voices criticizing me grew louder and louder. I recognized one of the most aggressive accounts—it was likely Chloe’s alt account. Chloe had always had it out for me. But on her own, without Adrian’s help, she couldn’t have stirred up such a massive storm. I had never seen Adrian abandon his principles and boundaries to indulge someone like this. The online noise became unbearable. I simply disconnected my phone from the internet, and then, completely turned it off. As evening approached, my mom stormed over. The doorbell rang frantically. When I opened the door, she raised her hand and slapped me across the face. Her face was trembling with rage: “To be made a fool of, like a goddamn monkey, by that hussy’s daughter! How could I have given birth to such a pathetic, spineless waste like you?!” Half my face stung, burning. My head snapped to the side, but I didn’t utter a sound. My mom seemed completely unhinged. She grabbed my face, forcing me to look at her. Indeed, for years now, she had lived like a madwoman. Her tone was filled with scorn: “To have even this small role snatched by that hussy, and your ex-boyfriend too! “You deserve to be tormented by that hussy and her daughter your whole life, to lose your own father…” I looked up sharply, cutting her off with a piercing cry: “Mom, that’s enough!” My mom seemed to snap back to reality herself, a flicker of unnaturalness in her expression. She finally stopped talking. She spat out “Useless!” and slammed the door shut behind her. That night was a torment, haunted by nightmares.
I was twelve years old when my mom took me from my grandmother’s house in the small town. On the day she took me, her voice was laced with a morbid frenzy: “My sweet girl, now you can finally get revenge for Mommy!” “Let those hussies see who the real genius is! “What’s so great about her daughter playing the piano?” After that, I never saw my grandmother again. My mom said that once I won first place in the school violin competition, she’d let me visit Grandma. Later, when I won, she said I had to win first in the city. Until I was nineteen, when I won the national gold medal. But my grandmother had passed away that very morning, the day I won the award. My grandmother had received the news, knowing I would come to see her once I won. So she clung to life, holding her breath until the day of my competition, but ultimately, she didn’t make it to the moment I could see her. Seven years of longing, and in the end, all I could embrace was an urn of ashes. From then on, my emotions seemed to go numb. I didn’t quite know how to love anymore. Nor did I know how to express affection or liking. My mom and I had a huge fight. She cursed me for being ungrateful, sending me off to my father’s house, throwing me into another abyss. That night, my father, reeking of alcohol, burst into my bedroom. He held me, tearing at my clothes. But the name he whispered was Chloe’s. My world completely shattered.
At the last moment, my father was struck on the head by a lamp I grabbed, which barely brought him back to his senses. By the time my mom arrived, I was desperately wrapped in a blanket, almost naked. Chloe and her mother stood in the bedroom, their faces etched with guilt and panic. I never knew such disgusting things could exist in this world. Chloe’s mother, who had been the mistress years ago, slowly grew older. Seeing my father with a new lover, she feared being cast out. She had actually convinced her own daughter to throw herself at him. I sat on the bed for a very long time, violently gagging. My mom smashed everything in the bedroom, cursing Chloe and her mother with the most vicious words. Yet not a single word was directed at my father. Not a single word was in my defense. The room was a disaster zone, a wreck that felt apocalyptic. But in the end, everyone tried to persuade me to make peace and let it go. But I refused. I had a camera in my bedroom, originally intended to record myself practicing violin to send to my teacher. By a twisted stroke of fate, it had captured something vile. I took the video to the police station. But the officer who watched it had a very strange expression. He advised me, “After all, it didn’t go all the way. “A young lady has her reputation to think of. Maybe it’s best to just… let this go.” I didn’t understand. I wasn’t the one who did something wrong, so why should *I* be afraid of losing my reputation? When the police wouldn’t help me, I uploaded the video online and contacted media reporters. The internet exploded. Countless people remembered my nineteen-year-old face. Many sympathized with me, but more, far more, watched as if it were a sick joke. Online public opinion was relentless. My father lost his job and was detained for three months. My mom went mad, her face distorted as she yanked at my hair. She cried and screamed at me: “Aren’t you ashamed?! “Do you even know what shame is, what dignity is?!” I let her scream and hit me, feeling only a profound confusion. It seemed I had not only lost the ability to love, but also began to lose my sense of dignity and shame. All that remained was a chillingly detached logic, guiding me on how to simply *function*. My mom shrieked at me, “Do you have any heart at all?” Just as years later, on the day Adrian and I broke up. He, utterly disappointed, had demanded of me, “Iris Clarke, do you have any heart at all?”
I had no heart. So I was unworthy of loving, and unworthy of being loved. The night terrors tortured me, leaving me aching and exhausted. Due to the online backlash, my teacher asked me to cancel my schedule for the next few days. I spent many days at home in a daze. Washing my face one morning, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My pajama collar was low, revealing a small tattoo beneath my collarbone. A small, unassuming tattoo: a delicate heart intertwined with ‘Adrian’. Whenever I went out, my clothes would meticulously cover it. For all these years, no one but me knew it was there. Just as my heart, burning bright and fervent, had been hidden in the shadows. But it had never once been offered up for anyone to see. I had endured too much suffering; I dared not love again, dared not speak of love. Once, I said I loved my grandmother. Yet I left her alone and waiting for me for seven long years. Later, I loved my mother. I painstakingly sewed her a scarf for New Year’s. What I got in return was a slap across the face and a lecture for wasting my time on meaningless things. Even later, I loved my father. What I got in return was the most vile and unspeakable truth. After Adrian and I broke up, for a long time, I reflected deeply. I realized I *had* loved him. I would break down and cry when he was in a car accident. I would want to share my victories with him, like winning a major award. I would travel for over ten hours straight, rushing to the city where he was on business. I would endure excruciating pain to get his name tattooed, despite being allergic to anesthetics. But I couldn’t express my love with my eyes, couldn’t say the words “I love you.” I slowly extinguished the passionate, fiery heart he had carefully offered me. Many times, he would excitedly tell me he loved me, but all I felt was a bewildering emptiness. I thought, I must not be normal. After Adrian and I broke up, my mentor introduced me to a psychologist, and I went for a few sessions. Only later did I learn that I truly wasn’t normal. The doctor said I had Emotional Detachment Disorder. He said it was a psychological condition. Emotional detachment, a dulled reaction and perception of emotions.
I underwent a long period of therapy. And slowly, I began to feel a sense of shame about having publicly revealed the incident with my father at nineteen. Fortunately, my appearance now differed significantly from when I was nineteen. Plus, so many years had passed, no one would truly recognize me anymore. But I remained restless. It wasn’t until recently, at my teacher’s urging, that I dared to perform on stage without a mask for the first time. After therapy, I gradually began to understand Adrian’s past accusations and disappointment. No one can tolerate pouring out their entire heart for so long, only to receive no response. But I had, in fact, responded. I just didn’t understand it back then. So many things I had quietly done for Adrian, I never mentioned, thinking I didn’t need to. After many days at home, my fridge was empty. I had no choice but to go out and buy groceries. I hadn’t checked my phone in days, so I didn’t know I was being relentlessly cyberbullied online. I had underestimated Chloe’s hatred for me. Using Adrian’s indulgence, she relentlessly twisted and amplified the story of me no longer starring in Director Miller’s film. Then she fabricated countless other stories, wildly slandering and defaming me. She claimed I had questionable character, indecent behavior, and that my awards were undeserved. And my many days of not checking my phone, of not responding, were twisted into an admission of guilt, a fear of showing my face. A massive wave of paid trolls hired by Chloe, combined with a crowd of misled internet users, even began clamoring to ‘dox’ me. They demanded to dig up my past, my family situation, and every experience I’d ever had. I knew nothing of this. I had assumed the online commotion from a few days ago had long since died down. When I went to the mall, I didn’t even wear a mask. But as soon as I entered the mall doors, I felt someone staring at me from behind. Before I could even turn around, Adrian, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, grabbed my arm. By the time I fully processed it, he had already pulled me into a fire escape stairwell. Peeking through the crack in the door, I saw a large group of reporters rushing past. Their anxious voices vaguely reached my ears: “She definitely ran this way, how could she disappear?”
I looked, confused and bewildered, at the reporters rushing past. Then I tilted my head, looking at Adrian beside me. Adrian, I suppose, still understood me. So with one glance at my reaction, he knew I was still completely in the dark. He pulled out his phone, flipping through pages of overwhelming news, displaying them before me. Only then did I realize I was being cyberbullied. Adrian put away his phone, staring at me in the dim stairwell. His gaze was almost like a full-blown interrogation. “Iris Clarke, you know full well what you’ll face if I open this door.” I didn’t quite understand. Was he threatening me? But what did I have left that he could possibly threaten me with now? Adrian saw my silence, then gritted his teeth and continued: “So, are you still planning on telling me nothing?” My voice was full of doubt: “What do you want me to say?” Adrian abruptly took a step closer, his body almost touching mine. He spoke in a low, urgent voice: “Tell me why you cried when I had that car accident. “You cried, so why didn’t you tell me?” I looked at him silently. He grew even more impatient: “Iris Clarke, are you still going to play dumb? “Did you, back then, actually care about me, actually love me?” My hands, hanging at my sides, silently clenched into fists. I whispered, “It’s all in the past.” Adrian’s eyes suddenly turned bloodshot. It was as if I had uttered words that deeply provoked him. His voice was almost a snarl, filled with hatred and stubborn resentment: “It’s not in the past! For me, it’s not over, and it never will be!” A throbbing pain started in my head. I looked at him, and suddenly, I felt a pang of sadness too: “What if I did love you? Adrian, it’s long over between us. Can we really start over?” I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but I saw a flicker of hope light up in the eyes of the man before me. He stared at me intently, his voice trembling: “What if we start over? What’s stopping us?” I looked at Adrian, nearly hysterical in that moment. For an instant, I had the strange illusion of being transported back in time. To when he, heedless of any consequences, publicly declared our relationship on the awards stage. Five years had passed, yet his eyes seemed unchanged. My throat suddenly tightened. Somehow, I found myself asking: “How far have things gone between you and Chloe?”
Adrian was visibly stunned; he probably never expected me to ask that. But he quickly replied, “Every step. “Holding hands, kissing, living together. Every single step.” In my heart, something utterly shattered, crashing to pieces. My mind replayed a specific afternoon. I pushed open a door, only to see my father pinning Chloe against the sofa. An image seared into my memory, never to be forgotten. My stomach lurched, churning violently. For the first time, I felt a wave of disgust toward Adrian. Adrian continued to stare at me intently: “Iris Clarke, are you jealous? “You said Chloe wasn’t right for me before. You love me, you’re just jealous, aren’t you?” As he spoke, he reached out to grab my arm. But I suddenly snapped back to reality, jolted as if by lightning, quickly pulling away from his hand. I even stumbled back a few steps, frantically creating distance between us. Adrian froze, his face confused and bewildered. Having put enough space between us, I looked up at him, my heart now completely devoid of emotion. I spoke, almost enunciating each word: “Adrian, I never loved you. “Not then, not now, not ever.” I watched the light in his eyes, like a falling flame, die out. He even shook his head, looking lost: “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.” My mind was filled only with the imagined scenes. Scenes of him and Chloe, entangled, intimate. I felt almost suffocated, yet I forced myself to look at him calmly: “Believe it or not. “Whether I loved you or not, didn’t you see it most clearly five years ago?” If he hadn’t believed back then, hadn’t been resentful, that I had never loved him, He wouldn’t be this bitter, this hateful toward me even now. Adrian’s expression was dazed. After a long moment, he seemed to finally regain his composure. Only coldness remained on his face, his voice laced with mockery: “Right. I should have known. I was just a damn fool.” I watched as his eyes reddened. His words, like daggers, pierced my heart. “Iris Clarke, I was such a damn fool for even coming back to ask you.” I closed my eyes, consumed by silence. From outside the fire exit, Chloe’s voice drifted in: “Adrian, are you and Ms. Iris Clarke in there?” Adrian didn’t hesitate for another second. His face was a mask of frost as he directly reached out and opened the door. By the time I remembered the reporters outside and tried to stop him, it was too late. The door swung open, and reporters swarmed in, engulfing me.
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