Chapter 3

Ethan’s face went dead white.

"You went through my things?" his voice was raspy.

"I found it while packing up your stuff. In my apartment. Do you really want to argue about privacy right now?"

He fell silent.

"I admit... I haven’t completely forgotten her," he whispered.

"But I truly wanted to build a real future with you, Elena. Just give me some time—"

"You want to build a future, but I don't."

Ethan stood frozen. His hands hung limp at his sides, his fingers twitching slightly.

"You..."

"I'm closing the door now."

I took a step back and shut the door in his face.

He knocked softly from the other side.

"Elena, I'm sorry."

I didn’t say a word.

"I know I’m a jerk. Everything you said is true. I shouldn't have hidden those gifts from you, and I shouldn't have kept those photos. But I do love you. I really do."

I slid down and leaned against the door, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"You can kick me out, but can you at least listen to me for one minute?"

"Go ahead," I said, my voice hollow.

"Chloe and I were together for six years. She was the one who broke it off. It took me a long, long time to get over it—or at least, I thought I was over it."

"Then I met you. You felt like the right person. You were different from her. You were mature, sensible, and you never made unnecessary drama—"

"So you thought I was easy to fool."

"No! I mean, being with you felt comfortable and safe. I thought time would heal everything. I thought as long as I built a quiet, good life with you, I would eventually let her go completely."

"But did you ever stop to think," my voice cracked, "that I am a human being too? Why do I have to be the collateral damage while you try to heal?"

"Elena..."

"Just go. It's late."

The hallway went dead quiet.

I checked my phone's smart-lock camera feed.

He was dragging his storage bin into the elevator.

I walked over to the sofa and lay down.

Five years.

I still remembered the night we met at a friend’s birthday party.

He was wearing a simple white tee, sitting in the corner with a drink, barely talking.

A friend introduced him as an architect who had just wrapped up a massive project and was running on pure exhaustion.

I was working as an acquisitions editor at a publishing house back then, living in my own world of words.

He added me on Snapchat.

The next day, he asked me out for dinner.

On the third day, he gifted me a hard-to-find book I had been wanting for months but couldn't bring myself to buy.

At the time, I thought he was the most thoughtful man on earth.

Falling into a relationship with him felt natural, like water flowing downstream.

He had told me his last breakup was messy and that he might need some time to adjust.

I told him it was fine. I said I’d wait.

Over the five years, we had our share of petty arguments.

But every single time, he was the one who apologized first.

He would buy my favorite pastries, or take care of the dishes without being asked.

I used to think, "well, no relationship is perfect."

I had even started looking at wedding rings, thinking we were finally ready for the next step.

I guess I didn’t need to worry about that anymore.

I rolled over, facing the back of the couch.

Draped over the cushions was his gray hoodie—the one he had casually thrown there yesterday.

I had planned to wash it, but I had returned home too exhausted from overtime and forgot.

I grabbed the hoodie, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it hard onto the floor.

I unlocked my phone, opened our chat, and took a deep breath.

"Ethan, let’s end this. Don't contact me again."