Chapter 5

"Clara, have you been feeling down lately?"

Chloe sent a voice note in the afternoon.

I didn't play it. I just looked at the progress bar: fifty-nine seconds. Just one second shy of a full minute.

What was packed into those fifty-nine seconds? Care? Testing the waters?

I didn't know, and I didn't want to know.

I sent a text back: "No, just busy with work."

"That's good~ Oh, by the way, has your PTO been approved yet? If you can't make it, I can help you..."

"I'm not coming." I cut her off.

"Oh? I thought you wanted to see Ethan?"

"Plans changed."

Silence on the other end for a few seconds.

"Alright then... don't overwork yourself. Let me know if you need anything."

*Let me know if you need anything.*

Suddenly, a memory flashed in my mind.

Last autumn, I had finally saved up enough days off and excitedly told Chloe I was flying over to see Ethan.

The very next day, she sent me a link: "Oh my god! Cheap flights to Miami! Only $150 round trip! Let's do a girls' trip!"

I hesitated.

She said, "You can see Ethan anytime, but a beach vacation won't wait. This price is crazy."

I changed my plans.

Last winter, I almost got time off again. I mentioned it to her, and she said, "Don't buy the ticket yet. I think Ethan has a business trip. Let me check his schedule for you."

After checking, she told me Ethan was going to be out of town for those two weeks.

So I didn't go.

Now that I thought about it, I had never once confirmed with Ethan himself whether that business trip actually existed.

Every time I tried to get close, she would find a reason to stop me. Cheap tickets, schedule conflicts, urgent projects—every excuse was perfectly reasonable, impeccably considerate.

She wasn't helping me make better plans.

She was blocking my path.

I pulled out my notebook and added two lines to the list of evidence:

*6. The Miami plane ticket last year—stopped my first visit.*

*7. The winter 'business trip'—stopped my second visit.*

Then, at the very bottom, I wrote: *Should I go upstairs?*

I stared at it for three seconds, then crossed it out.

And wrote a new line: *Why should I go upstairs?*

What would going upstairs change?

To walk in and see him and her sitting in the living room, one peeling apples and the other watching TV? To see two pairs of slippers in the shoe rack, one gray and one floral? To see her grocery list stuck to the fridge?

And then what?

Cry, scream, listen to him say "it's not what you think," and watch her squat down with teary eyes saying "let me explain"?

We had already played out that script three years ago.

Same script, same lines, same ending—my heart would soften, and she would stay.

I closed the notebook.

3:30 PM.

The hotel curtains weren't fully closed, letting a strip of light fall onto the carpet.

I looked out the window.

Two people walked out of the apartment building entrance.

Ethan was in front, carrying two bags of trash. Chloe was behind him, looking down at her phone.

There was about half a step's distance between them. Not too close, not too far. They didn't look like lovers, but they didn't look like friends either.

They looked like a married couple.

The kind of domestic, routine synchronization that comes from muscle memory after the honeymoon phase is long gone.

Ethan walked to the dumpster, bent down to drop the bags, and Chloe naturally stood a couple of steps away, waiting. When he turned back, he said something, and she smiled and nodded.

No holding hands. No hugs. No physical intimacy whatsoever.

Yet this unspoken understanding felt more real than any kiss.

You can fake a kiss. You can't fake a routine.

I pulled out my phone and took a photo.

Not to show anyone as evidence, but to look at whenever my heart started to soften in the future.

Three years ago, she cured my suspicion with her teary eyes. I needed to keep a dose of medicine for myself to prevent a relapse.

After taking the photo, I let my hand drop to my side.

The two of them walked slowly toward the gate, looking like they were just taking a stroll.

Ethan walked on the side closer to the street.

That habit used to belong to me. During our first year together, he always walked like that, saying the guy should walk on the outside.

Now, someone else stood in that spot.

My phone buzzed. A Snapchat from Ethan.

"I'm free now. Want to FaceTime?"

I looked down at the message, then up at the window—he had pulled out his phone. He was likely typing it right then.

Chloe was standing right next to him.

He was standing beside her, asking me, "Want to FaceTime?"

Like an employee clocking in at the office, opening his work software to handle remote business because it was that time of day.

I was that remote business.

Their figures grew smaller and smaller as they turned into the side gate.

I stared at the closed iron gate and whispered, "No FaceTime."

I pulled out my notebook, flipped to the page that read "Why should I go upstairs?" and added one last line at the bottom:

*I'm not going upstairs. No phone calls. No confrontations.*

*Not because I'm not angry.*

*But because if I go up there, she still wins.*

I closed the notebook and started packing my suitcase.

My phone lit up. I glanced at it. Chloe’s Instagram story.

A photo of the autumn moon with the caption: "A beautiful night for a warm, cozy reunion."

Location: Ethan's apartment complex.

The first comment below was from my mom: "Happy Thanksgiving, Chloe! Thanks for taking care of Ethan for Clara."

Chloe replied: "Of course, Sarah! Clara is my best friend, after all."

I closed Instagram.

My best friend.

"My best friend lived my life for three years."