Chapter 3

Ethan didn't reply to that one.

Instead, Harper herself left a comment to play it off: Chloe was there too! We all get along great, don't try to stir up drama! followed by a laughing emoji.

There were a few more comments teasing them.

I read them one by one. Finally, my finger hovered over the "heart" button.

And then, I liked the post.

He had never allowed me to appear on his Instagram.

In our two years together, he posted plenty of things—gaming setups, sports matches, late-night complaints about work, drinking with his friends.

But never me.

Once, I half-jokingly asked him why he never posted anything about us on Instagram.

His answer was dismissive: "Flexing your relationship online just ruins it. What's the point? As long as we're happy in real life, that's what matters."

And I believed him.

Yet today, for his childhood friend's birthday, he not only posted a tribute, but he also handpicked a beautiful photo and used such an intimate, teasing tone.

When I got home, I went straight to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on my face.

Then, I pulled out my suitcase and started packing.

As I packed, I mentally figured out how to break the news to Ethan.

Fighting, questioning, screaming—none of it made sense anymore.

By the time I finished packing, it was almost 1 AM.

I changed into my pajamas and lay down on the bed.

The next morning, I was woken up by the sound of the front door opening.

The key turned in the lock, followed by heavy, stumbling footsteps.

The bedroom door was pushed open, and a strong smell of alcohol rushed in, instantly filling the entire room.

Ethan was back.

His hair was a messy nest, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face was pale. It was obvious he had stayed up all night drinking.

He was only wearing a black t-shirt, his bare arms covered in goosebumps from the chilly morning air.

His coat was gone.

It was the charcoal-grey wool blend coat I had bought for him last month, saving up and treating him to it so he’d have something nice and warm for the winter. It was nowhere to be seen.

He stumbled toward the bed. Seeing my open eyes, he froze for a second, then forced a goofy, hungover smile to appease me.

"Chloe, I'm home."

I didn't say anything, just looked at him calmly.

My gaze drifted from his face down to the collar of his black t-shirt.

On the dark fabric, there was a small, barely noticeable smudge. The color was slightly lighter than the shirt, looking suspiciously like liquid foundation.

He took another step forward, seemingly wanting to hug me. But perhaps smelling the foul alcohol on his own breath, or intimidated by my cold gaze, he stopped.

Remembering something, he turned and went to the living room. When he came back, he was holding a plastic bag.

He carefully placed the bag on the nightstand. The takeout container inside was slightly squished.

"I went out of my way to get this from your favorite spot on my way back. Your favorite garlic shrimp."