Chapter 3

Rachel was Summer's cousin and my college classmate.

When she found me, I was running a high fever in my rental, hadn't eaten in three days.

She didn't lecture me. She just made me some soup, sat on the bed, and said calmly:

"Clara, if I were you, I'd live well. I'd live better than everyone else and make those who wronged me watch. Show them I'm fine without them."

"Dying is easy. Living is hard. Do you dare to choose the hard way?"

I looked at her and suddenly started crying.

After that, Rachel visited often. She took me out to eat, forced me to leave the house, even helped me find a new job.

She said:

"You need to stand up, Clara. Not for anyone else. For yourself."

I thought I'd finally found a lifeline.

But just as I was getting better and preparing to start a new life, something happened to Rachel.

A car accident.

The other driver was drunk. Hit her car head-on. She died instantly.

I went to the morgue to identify the body. The police handed me a charred phone, said they found it in the car. The last message was to me, never sent.

It read:

"Clara, I found something wrong with Daniel's fire. It might be connected to Sum..."

The rest was never typed.

I gripped the phone, my whole body turning cold.

At Rachel's funeral, Summer came too, crying so hard she nearly fainted:

"Cousin... how could you just leave like this..."

Daniel's parents patted her back consolingly:

"Summer, dear, stay strong. You're still young. You have to look forward."

In that moment, I suddenly felt like there was an invisible net that had trapped me long ago.

And every time I struggled, it only tightened.

"You okay? Why are you throwing up so much?"

Daniel handed me a bottle of water, then pulled at his expensive suit sleeve, trying to wipe the corner of my mouth.

His movements were as gentle as a considerate husband.

I found it bitterly ironic.

He was indeed a husband. Just not mine.

"Clara..."

Summer had followed us out.

She'd changed into comfortable postpartum clothes, her hair messy, tear stains still on her face, the baby in her arms.

"What happened back then... we wronged you. You can hate me however you want. Hit me, yell at me, I'll accept it all..."

She choked up, her voice soft as cotton.

"Even... if you still want to be with Daniel, I... I can step aside. I'll raise the child myself."

I opened my mouth, wanting to say I never thought that way.

Five years later, I couldn't even muster the energy to hate anymore.

But Daniel interrupted first, his tone stern:

"Summer! What are you saying!"

"That's all in the past. Clara's doing well now. Stop bringing it up. You're only making it harder for her."

Summer looked relieved, wiped her tears, and reached for my hand with concern.

"Actually, I've been worried about you these five years. Afraid you'd do something... I..."

She stopped mid-sentence.

Her gaze fixed on my wrist, where several pale white scars crisscrossed like ugly centipedes.

Daniel's breathing suddenly became heavy. He silently pulled out a cigarette pack, lit one, and took a deep drag.

In the swirling smoke, no one spoke.

I remembered he didn't used to smoke.

Summer said softly:

"He smokes when he's stressed. Just never let you know. It's... a habit between us."

She looked at Daniel, her eyes tender and affectionate.

Between them, there were always so many habits I could never be part of.

When we got back in the car, Summer and the baby took the front, so I was squeezed into the back seat.

"Sorry, Summer can't be in a draft."

The window slowly closed.

I had severe claustrophobia. Ever since that fire, enclosed spaces made me feel like I was suffocating.

The car drove for a long time in deathly silence.

Daniel finally spoke, trying to break the awkwardness:

"How are your parents? Haven't seen them in a while."

"Mom died of a heart attack last year. Dad moved back to his hometown. Said the city made him uncomfortable."

My voice was so calm I could've been talking about strangers.

The car screeched to a halt. I nearly slammed into the front seat.

Through the rearview mirror, I saw Daniel's hands shaking. Cigarette ash fell onto his pants without him noticing.

My parents had opposed our relationship at first, thinking firefighting was too dangerous.

It was Daniel who visited repeatedly, changing light bulbs and fixing pipes for them, playing chess with my dad, massaging my mom's shoulders.

When my dad finally relented, he said:

"This kid really cares about you. Fine. As long as you're happy."

When my mom was dying, she held my hand and said:

"Clara, Mom's sorry. We shouldn't have pressured you back then... You're alone now. Take care of yourself."

Daniel didn't dare ask more.

Because he knew. My mom's illness came from years of anguish, from her daughter becoming "the murderer who killed her husband," from being unable to hold her head up among the neighbors. It killed her slowly.

The air froze.

Summer quickly jumped in, her voice trembling: "So... where are you living now? We'll take you home."

"Riverside Psychiatric Hospital. Inpatient ward, third floor. Bed 307."