Chapter 2

My memories began to rewind frantically.

Six months ago, our ER had indeed taken in a highly sensitive case.

I remembered Ethan coming home very late that night, looking exhausted.

When I asked him what happened, he only said he dealt with a difficult patient.

"What kind of patient?" I had asked casually.

"A young female with a severe vaginal laceration. Word is she’s a hostess at a VIP lounge," he had replied dismissively. "It took a long time to stitch her up."

"Was it that bad?"

"Pretty bad. Looks like she was... abused by a client," he hesitated. "But she’s stable now."

I hadn’t thought twice about it. I even comforted him, "That’s the ER for you. You see everything."

He muttered an agreement and pulled me into his arms. "Clara, I’m so glad you’re normal."

I had laughed. "What does 'normal' mean? Do you want me to end up in your ER too?"

He was silent for a long moment before whispering, "I just want you to be safe forever. I don’t want you to ever get hurt."

He held me incredibly tight that night, as if he were terrified of losing me.

I thought it was just his professional empathy showing after dealing with a traumatic case.

How laughable.

I curled up on the living room sofa, staring at the photos on the wall.

There was a photo from our vacation last year. His arm was draped over my shoulder, his smile bright and clear.

We bought this house together two years ago. We split the down payment fifty-fifty, and both our names were on the deed.

We fought over the decor, we argued over what brand of appliances to buy, and in the end, I was always the one who compromised.

I thought that was what a mature relationship looked like.

Friction, compromise, and moving forward together.

But I was wrong.

As dawn broke, I made my decision.

I took screenshots of everything, saved them, and backed them up to three different cloud drives.

Then, I dialed Ethan's number.

It rang seven or eight times. Just when I thought he wouldn't answer, the call connected.

The background was silent. He wasn't in the doctors' lounge.

"Clara? Why are you calling at this hour? Is something wrong?"

"Ethan," I asked, "where are you?"

"Where else would I be? The on-call room. I just closed my eyes for a second. We had a critical patient earlier."

He yawned, his acting natural and smooth.

"Why are you still awake? Did you finally cool down? I told you, about the gold jewelry—"

"I want to see you," I interrupted.

"What?"

"FaceTime me. I want to see you," I repeated.

Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds.

"Clara, stop playing around. There are other doctors in the lounge. It doesn't look professional. Let's talk about this tomorrow, okay?"

His tone softened, carrying a faint, barely noticeable trace of irritation.

I used to think this tone was gentle. Now, I knew it was pure calculation.

"FaceTime me, Ethan. Right now." I insisted.

"I told you I'm on duty! Clara, can you please be mature for once and respect my job?"

His voice spiked with defensive anger.

I didn’t know when it started, but whenever I didn't play by his rules, the labels of being "immature" and "unsupportive" were immediately slapped on me.

"Ethan," I heard my own voice trembling, "I'm driving to the hospital right now. I'll be there in thirty minutes. See you then."

"Clara! What the hell is wrong with you? It's five-thirty in the morning—"

I hung up.