Chapter 2

"Sweetheart, do you want to go upstairs and wait? Chloe will be back soon."

Mrs. Gable kept chatting behind me.

I gripped the handle of my suitcase.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Gable. I think I got the wrong building."

"The wrong building?" Mrs. Gable leaned over to look at the door number. "No, this is Unit Four. Ethan lives right here..."

"I'm not looking for this complex."

I forced a smile, turned around, and dragged my suitcase toward the main gate.

My phone buzzed.

A Snapchat message from Chloe: "Happy Thanksgiving! Did you get your PTO? If not, I can bring Ethan some pumpkin pie~"

Followed by a smiley face.

I stared at that smiley face for ten solid seconds.

She had used this emoji for three years. I used to think it was sweet and caring—a warm gesture bridging the 800 miles between us. Now, every curve of that smile felt like a slap in the face.

I didn't reply.

I opened my chat with Ethan. My last message, "Just landed, giving you a surprise!" was sitting at the very top. Read. No reply.

Maybe he was in a meeting. Or maybe he was eating the breakfast she made.

I long-pressed the message and hit "Delete."

The system notification popped up and disappeared. Three seconds. It took only three seconds to erase a surprise I had planned for forty-seven days.

I hailed an Uber at the gate.

"Where to, miss?"

"Is there a hotel nearby? Somewhere cheap."

"Take a left at the next intersection. You don't live here?"

"No."

The front desk clerk asked how many nights I'd be staying.

I said I didn't know.

She glanced at me and handed over a key card. Sixth floor.

The moment I pushed the door open, I gasped—the window faced Ethan's building directly. I could clearly see his window on the fourth floor. There was a pot of ivy sitting on the sill.

I had mailed that ivy to him two years ago. Ethan said on FaceTime that he couldn't keep it alive, so I told Chloe to look after it.

She said no problem.

The ivy was living a much better life than my relationship.

My phone rang again. Chloe.

"?? Clara, why aren't you replying?"

I typed two words: "Busy working."

"Busy with what? Oh, by the way, Ethan said he's working until eight tonight, so don't wait up for his FaceTime. I made cinnamon rolls, and I'm going to drop them off for him as a late-night snack."

*Help you.*

She always said she was "helping me."

Helping me pick up packages, helping me bring him stew, helping me bake cinnamon rolls, helping me care for the ivy, helping me spend Thanksgiving with him.

It was as if all I had to do was say "thank you" from 800 miles away to fulfill my duties as a girlfriend.

"Clara?"

"Yeah, thank you."

The moment I sent those three words, my fingers recoiled as if they had touched hot iron.

Three years. How many times had I said thank you? Every time I said it, she got another chair, another pair of slippers in that home. And every time I said it, I took a step back from my own life.

My phone buzzed a third time. Ethan.

"Just finished a meeting. What are you doing?" followed by his usual cat-stretching sticker.

Looking at that cat, I remembered that Chloe’s canvas tote bag had the exact same cat printed on it.

I had given it to her for her birthday last year.

Mrs. Gable said she carried it to the farmer's market every morning.

The birthday gift I gave my best friend had become her grocery bag for acting as the lady of the house at my boyfriend's place.

"Clara?" Ethan sent another message.

I turned off the screen.

It wasn't that I didn't want to reply; I just didn't know who I was anymore.

His girlfriend? His neighbors didn't even know me. The entire building thought another woman was his wife.

So who was I?

Outside, fireworks were going off. It was Thanksgiving—someone else's Thanksgiving.

Chloe sent a photo. Cinnamon rolls on a white ceramic plate, with the familiar dining table in the background.

"All baked! Waiting for Ethan to come back and eat~ Don't worry."

*Don't worry.*

I stared at the dining table in the photo. At the corner of the table, there was an open book. I couldn't read the title, but that spot—it was the spot to Ethan's right, where I used to see him eat during our FaceTimes.

That spot was now occupied by someone else's book.

"Okay," I replied with a single word, then flipped my phone face down.

Outside, the fireworks exploded and faded, casting flickering lights across the hotel ceiling.

Just like my trust over the past three years—brilliant while it lasted, but leaving nothing but ash when it fell.