Chapter 4

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

He tapped frantically on the glass from the outside, his mouth moving, but I couldn't hear a word over the engine's roar.

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

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

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

I pushed the door open.

His slippers were sitting in the entryway. Black ones, bought on a "buy one, get one free" sale. Mine were pink.

His suit, which he had picked up from the dry cleaners last week, was hanging on the coat rack. He had told me he needed it for an important meeting tomorrow.

On the coffee table sat his half-finished can of soda, right next to his gaming controller.

His favorite grey blanket was draped over the sofa. He always said it was the coziest thing to wrap himself in while watching TV.

On the nightstand in the bedroom lay his pack of cigarettes, his lighter, and a mystery novel he was halfway through.

His presence was everywhere.

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

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

My phone buzzed.

It was a Snapchat from him: *She's leaving tomorrow. Once she’s gone, I’ll come over so we can talk this through.*

I stared at it for a long time.

Then, I clicked on his profile and hit block.

The chat history vanished.

Five years of "good morning" and "good night," five years of "I love you" and "I miss you," five years of daily banter—all gone in an instant.

I began to pack.

His clothes, his books, his video games, his skincare products, his toothbrush, his towels.

I shoved everything into two large suitcases.

By the time I was finished, it was 3:00 AM, and the apartment felt half-empty.

The floor lamp was still glowing.

Staring at the pattern on the lampshade, I remembered the day we went to the home decor store. He had told me that when we finally bought our own house, he would put tons of lamps in the living room so we could adjust the brightness at night.

I had smiled and said yes, because I loved warm light.

I stood up and switched the lamp off.

The room plunged into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the window.

The next day at noon, a loud pounding on the door woke me up.

I didn't even know what time I had finally fallen asleep. My phone had died and shut down overnight.

The pounding started again, louder and more urgent this time.

I looked through the peephole.

It was him.

He was holding a bouquet of red roses wrapped in cheap, tacky paper.

I decided to ignore him and turned to walk back to the bedroom, but the knocking only grew louder.

"Chloe, I know you're in there. Open the door!"

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

I stood behind the door, refusing to move.

"Mom, you talk to her," his voice called out.

I froze.

I cracked the door open slightly. He was standing there, but right next to him was his mother. His father stood a few paces behind them.

I had met his mother many times.

Whenever I visited them during the holidays, she was always polite. She would give me cards with cash and tell me we should get married early so she could help take care of the kids while she was still young.

When my parents came to the city, our families had dinner together. His mother had held my mom's hand, promising, "Don't you worry, Sarah. Once Chloe marries into our family, I'll treat her like my own daughter."

"Chloe, dear, open the door. Let's have a chat," his mother said.

I opened the door fully.

His mother walked in, scanning the living room. When her eyes landed on the suitcases piled near the sofa, her lips thinned.

"Oh, come on. Is all of this really necessary? Why make such a big scene?"

Ethan held out the flowers. "These are for you."

I didn't take them.

His father stood by the doorway, refusing to step inside, his face completely expressionless.

His mother sat down on the sofa, patting the spot next to her. "Come, Chloe, sit down. Let's talk."

I stood my ground.

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

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

His mother’s smile faltered. She glanced at Ethan, then back at me.

"Chloe, look. We know our family is in the wrong here. We should have told you sooner. But think about it—how could we possibly bring this up? The girl was pregnant, and her family came banging on our door. We couldn't just ignore it, could we?"

I remained silent, listening to her excuses.

"And besides," his mother paused, "you can't put all the blame on him. Think about it. You two have been together for so many years, but your mother's financial demands for the house and the wedding... weren't they a bit too high?"