Chapter 5

I didn't answer. I got back in, shut the door, and started the car.

She banged on the window from the outside, her mouth moving, but I couldn't hear a word she was saying.

In the rearview mirror, she chased the car for a few steps before being swallowed by the darkness of the night.

When I got back to my rented apartment, I stood at the door for a long time, unable to go in.

A sliver of light peeked through the crack beneath the door—I had forgotten to turn off the living room light before leaving.

I pushed the door open.

In the entryway stood her pink slippers. They were bought on a "buy-one-get-one-free" sale; mine were black.

On the coat rack hung the dress she had picked up from the dry cleaners last week, saying she had an important event to attend the next day.

On the coffee table sat a half-drunk cup of iced coffee she had left behind, right next to a magazine she had been reading.

On the sofa lay her favorite pink throw blanket. She always said it was the coziest thing to wrap herself in while watching TV.

On the bedroom nightstand were her skincare products, her hair clips, and her half-read romance novels.

Her traces were everywhere.

I sat on the sofa, staring at the warm floor lamp.

She had picked out the lampshade herself, saying the warm yellow glow made the place feel like a real home.

My phone vibrated.

It was a Snapchat message from her: "He’s leaving tomorrow. Once he goes back upstate, I’ll come over and we can talk things through."

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then, I tapped on her profile picture and blocked her.

Our entire chat history vanished.

Five years of "good morning" and "good night" texts, five years of "I miss you" and "I love you," five years of shared daily life—all gone in a second.

I started packing her things.

Her clothes, her books, her skincare products, her hair clips, her toothbrush, and her towels.

I packed everything into two large suitcases.

By the time I finished, it was 3:00 AM. Half of the apartment was empty.

The floor lamp was still glowing.

Staring at the patterns on the lampshade, I remembered the day we went shopping at IKEA. She had said that when we finally bought our own house, she wanted to put tons of warm lights in the living room so we could adjust the brightness at night.

I had smiled and agreed, telling her I loved warm lighting too.

I stood up and turned off the lamp.

The room fell into complete darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside.

The next day at noon, I was woken up by a loud knocking on the door.

I didn't know what time I had finally fallen asleep last night, and my phone had died and shut off.

The knocking became louder and more urgent.

I walked over and looked through the peephole.

It was her.

I decided to ignore her and turned to walk back to the bedroom, but the knocking started again.

"Leo! I know you're in there! Open the door!"

"If you don't open it, I'm not leaving!"

I stood behind the door, motionless.

"Mom, you talk to him."

A familiar voice echoed from outside.

I froze.

I opened the door slightly. She was standing there, with her mother right beside her, and her father standing a bit further back.

I had met her mother, Mrs. Peterson, many times.

Whenever I visited their house, she was always very polite to me. She used to say we should get married early so she could help take care of the kids while she was still young.

"Leo, sweetie, open the door. Let's have a chat."

I pulled the door open.

Mrs. Peterson walked in, looking around the living room. When her eyes landed on the suitcases stacked by the sofa, her lips curled down in disapproval.

"What is all of this? Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing?"

Her husband stood at the door, refusing to come in, his face completely expressionless.

Mrs. Peterson sat down on the sofa and patted the space next to her. "Come on, Leo, sit down. Let's talk."

I stood my ground and didn't move.

"Why are you just standing there? Come, sit."

"If you have something to say, just say it here."

Mrs. Peterson paused, the fake smile slipping from her face. She glanced at her daughter, then looked back at me.

"Leo, look, what happened was wrong on our part. We should have told you beforehand. But think about it—how could we possibly bring something like this up? The other guy is extremely wealthy.

He has properties, luxury cars, and his family came directly to us. We couldn't just ignore an opportunity like that, could we?"

I listened, my heart turning cold.

"And besides," Mrs. Peterson continued, pausing for effect. "We can't put all the blame on Chloe. You need to think about your own financial situation..."

"The only reason she drank too much that night was because she was stressed out about how little money your family has. Don't you think so?"