Chapter 3

Ethan jolted awake, dazed for a second before his hands instinctively reached for me. "Chloe? What's wrong?"

His voice was thick with grogginess and genuine panic.

I forced a faint smile, keeping my tone deceptively gentle. "Did you have a nightmare, Ethan?"

He rubbed his face, looking bewildered. "I guess so... That dream felt terrifyingly real."

I took a slow, deep breath, walked over to change my clothes, and said coldly:

"I have an early meeting today. I'm leaving."

Before he could ask another question, I grabbed my bag and walked out.

I couldn't stand being in that apartment for another second.

And I couldn't bear to look at his face for another moment.

...

The second I arrived at the office, my phone vibrated.

It was a text from Clara, her tone softer and more tentative than usual:

[Working late tonight?]

[Just asking. If you're free, come over for dinner? I made beef stew for you.]

Seeing all those incriminating posts hadn't broken me.

Yet reading this simple text from Clara made my eyes sting, and the tears streamed down uncontrollably.

Clara was born one minute before me.

Because we were twin baby girls, our biological parents abandoned us at birth.

An elderly woman who survived by collecting recyclables took us in and raised us.

When Grandma passed away, Clara took over the role of parent.

I still vividly remembered the first pot of soup she ever cooked for me.

She had scavenged wild greens and potatoes from empty lots, throwing them into a dented pot.

She had tasted every single leaf herself beforehand.

If it didn't upset her stomach, she cooked it for me.

If it gave her diarrhea, she ate it alone.

It tasted awful.

Yet in my childhood memories, it was the fullest my belly had ever been.

Back then, she wasn't even seven years old.

She had spent her whole life protecting me, always masking her affection behind a tough, irritable shell:

"This coat is hideous. I'd rather freeze than wear it, so you take it."

"This meat tastes disgusting. Only a dog would eat it. Finish every bite."

"Stop offering it to me! I hate it, and if you hand it back, I'm throwing it in the trash!"

Yet late at night, whenever she lit a candle before Grandma's framed picture, she would whisper softly: "Don't worry, Grandma. I'm the big sister. Big sisters are born to protect their little sisters."

From that day on, no matter how bland or bitter her cooking was, I always finished every drop.

Now, she was asking to make dinner only to find out if I was working late... so she could take my place on another date with my boyfriend.

I stared at her text for a long time, my tears splashing against the glass screen and blurring the light.

Finally, my trembling fingers typed out:

[I'm coming over.]

I paused, then added:

[Clara, I miss your cooking.]

The moment I hit send, her final burner post echoed in my mind.

She had written that her guilt was tearing her apart.

Yet she couldn't stop herself.

And neither could I.

I couldn't stop myself from wanting to hate her.

And even worse... I couldn't stop myself from wanting to forgive her.

My phone buzzed again.

Clara replied instantly:

[Great. I'll simmer it longer so the meat falls apart. Your teeth were always sensitive when you were little. You like it soft.]

I crouched on the bathroom floor, buried my face in my knees, and wept until I couldn't breathe.