I stood there stupidly watching, and it felt like my heart had been ripped open.
I’d already expected this when I agreed to help him pursue my roommate, but seeing it happen still shocked me—still hurt me like nothing else.
They were kissing so intently they didn’t even notice someone standing behind them.
"Tonight at my place?"
Nathan’s voice was hoarse and raw in the quiet night.
That sentence sent my heart plunging into an ice pit, freezing solid.
So they’d already gotten this far?
My roommate playfully tapped him and laughed, "What are you thinking? Tonight I promised Em I’d help her with her thesis!"
They pressed foreheads and chatted for a while longer, intimate and warm even from across the room.
After she went upstairs, Nathan finally turned and saw me.
"Emily?"
He wiped the smile off his face.
I turned stiffly, not daring to look at him, swallowing my emotions as I walked back to the dorm.
The scene I’d just witnessed hit me so hard—an overwhelming tide of sourness and helplessness that nearly took my breath away.
I’d been by Nathan’s side as a friend for ten years. He’d never once treated a girl with any special warmth—and to me he’d always been distant, rational.
So rational I sometimes wondered if, to him, I was nothing more than a companion without a gender.
That kiss was the first time I’d ever seen him look like that—swept away.
And they’d known each other for only ten days.
Ten days.
I’d secretly loved Nathan for ten years—almost my entire youth.
After failing the college entrance exam, I didn’t get into the same school as him. I repeated a year, finally got in, then messed up my application and ended up at another city’s university.
We hardly spoke through college.
Now he’d just started his career and I was buried in my thesis, so our contact was pitifully rare.
Every time I wanted to see him, he refused without hesitation. "Emily, I’m busy."
Sometimes I’d call on video and he’d cut it short after only a few words.
I knew I had no right to complain. To him, I was just a long-time friend.
Then ten days ago my roommate borrowed my phone to take a photo and scrolled into Nathan’s pictures.
She paused, smiling. "This guy’s cute. Emily, do you know him?"
I clearly saw the spark of interest in her eyes.
I made an excuse and left without answering.
Even though logically they shouldn’t cross paths, that night I couldn’t sleep. A fierce sense of crisis washed over me.
My roommate was the campus goddess—bright and stunning, equal parts pure and alluring. She’d caused a stir the moment she arrived.
But she was always nonchalant, hot and cold with people. Few ever made it past her defenses.
I hadn’t expected a photo to make her interested in Nathan.
I hadn’t expected that when I finally mustered the nerve to confess, the cold, aloof Nathan—during a video call with me—would fall in love at first sight with my roommate through the phone.
I remember his eyes lighting up, the corners curving, as if his usual sharp edges softened and all he could see was her.
That look was painfully familiar.
It was love at first sight.
The next day he called me and asked me to help him—"Set her up with me."
His voice was low and beautiful as ever on the phone. "I’ve never liked anyone like this before, Em. Please."
It was the first time he’d asked me for a favor—and the first time he’d called me "Em."
Still, there was no real pleading in his tone; it sounded like he already assumed I wouldn’t refuse.
He’d always had the upper hand with me.
Realizing that made the sourness and heaviness surge through me.
But what could I do? I couldn’t stop him from liking someone else any more than I could stop myself from loving him.
I agreed—like a fool. I agreed to be the ridiculous matchmaker.
So it went: because of me they exchanged numbers and texted till midnight. Nathan, who always said he was busy, took three days off to see my roommate in person. Today was their first real meet.
But judging from earlier, they were already inseparable.
When my roommate pushed open the dorm door she called out, "Em, we’re together."
"Oh, that’s great."
I typed it and forced myself to sit back in my bed and open my laptop to work on my thesis, fingers fumbling until I finally got a single "I" down right.
She laughed. "All thanks to you, our top matchmaker."
My hands tightened on the keyboard, my heart twisted. My fingertips trembled.
Yes. I’d set them up.
I’d told Nathan everything she liked, suggested conversation topics. I’d told my roommate Nathan had never had another woman by his side—that he was completely devoted.
For ten days I watched Nathan care for my roommate. I watched my roommate smile involuntarily whenever his name came up. I watched them fall in love.
Many nights I buried my face in my pillow and still heard his voice from her phone: "Baby, don’t stay up late. Good night."
Soft, amused breath, that low, sensual cadence—things I’d never been given.
In that moment I regretted everything.
I even thought that if I’d lied to him then—said my roommate already liked someone else—his pride would’ve made him give up. Maybe I’d still have a chance.
"To thank you—"
She slipped up behind me before I could spiral further and wrapped an arm around my shoulder, dragging me back.
"We’re taking you out to dinner tomorrow, Em. You won’t say no, right?"
My throat stopped. Reflexively I wanted to refuse.
She didn’t give me the chance. "Nathan goes back to the company the day after tomorrow. Once he gets his diploma next month I’ll move in with him. After tonight, the three of us probably won’t see each other much anymore."
She buried her face in my neck and nuzzled, her breath warm. Her voice turned soft and casual. "That’s what he wants too."
If I’d still been holding onto hope last night, that all evaporated now. I understood Nathan’s meaning.
At the hotpot place near campus, the broth bubbled and steamed.
Nathan was peeling shrimp for my roommate.
He leaned over slightly, his long fingers cleanly removing heads and tails with a careful, deliberate motion.
I remembered that Nathan had a cleanliness thing—he hated the slimy feel of peeling shrimp. It made him queasy.
Last year on his birthday I drove four hours to see him, bought a cake, clumsily cooked an entire meal and burned my hand doing it.
When Nathan saw my swollen, red skin, his expression went complicated. "Emily, you don’t have to cook if you can’t."
Before I could reply he’d taken my hand, rubbed on ointment, and carefully dressed the burn.
He’d been so unusually gentle with me then that I’d been stunned and a little helpless.
Looking at the plate of boiled shrimp on the table, I half-jokingly asked, "My hand’s not in great shape… could you peel them for me?"
Nathan frowned and refused outright, even with a hint of reproach. "Emily, you know I’m picky."
The mood shifted immediately.
Normally I’d shrug it off. But that time I felt so wronged I couldn’t hold back the tears.
I ignored the pain in my burned hand and, despite it, peeled every shrimp on that plate.
Nathan watched in silence, opened his mouth a few times and said nothing.
I snapped back from the memory and watched Nathan place a peeled shrimp within my roommate’s reach, wipe his hands with a wet napkin, then look toward me.
When our eyes met, it clicked.
He was doing it on purpose.
The old burn had left a small scar—and between us, a gap. Now Nathan was deliberately picking at that scar, pouring salt into the wound, trying to make me give up.
He knew how I felt. He knew I wasn’t just a friend. He’d brought me here, sat across from me while he peeled shrimp for her.
He wanted to tell me, bluntly: stop fantasizing. Don’t interfere with my life.
Something in my chest tightened. I lowered my gaze, avoided his eyes, my chopsticks trembling.
The meal dragged on. No matter how much they showed off their affection, I kept my head down and barely spoke—until a commotion overhead drew my attention.
I looked up to see a guy, face red, apologizing to Nathan.
He explained that at his table they were playing truth-or-dare and the loser had to add the prettiest girl present on WeChat. He hadn’t known my roommate was taken.
Nathan’s face darkened but he couldn’t make a scene in public. The other guy, ashamed, muttered more apologies and left.
I turned to look at my roommate.
She’d always loved hotpot but couldn’t take much spice. Her pretty face was flushed, a sheen of sweat on her smooth forehead, lips glossy and tempting.
Several people around the restaurant were clearly watching her, a few guys openly interested.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall, confident figure approaching.
My lips curved faintly.
For a moment that knot inside me loosened. Youth makes you bold—you take chances even after you’ve been burned.
I glanced back at Nathan; sure enough his expression had grown sullen again.
I set my chopsticks down and lifted my arm—settling into the stance of someone ready to watch the show.
Then I saw the man walk past my roommate at a distance of only a meter, stride around her, and come straight up to me.
I flinched.
He stared straight at me, eyes bright, face a little awkward, but his smile was clean. "Emily, can I pursue you?"
I froze for a second and instinctively looked at Nathan.
Maybe it was my imagination, but his expression seemed colder than before.
For a moment, a rush of thoughts and images flashed through my head.
During this ten-year one-sided pursuit, I hadn’t never wavered—I had, but only quietly.
I’d watched Nathan reject girls who confessed to him with a ruthless efficiency that left no room for ambiguity.
So I guarded my love for him carefully, kept it secret, and willingly became his gentle, attentive friend.
But endless passion with no response eventually yielded only his chill and restraint.
Over time, the pain and exhaustion of wanting what I couldn’t have nearly crushed me.
When I learned I hadn’t gotten into the same university as him, all those bottled-up emotions reached a peak, and for the first time I thought of giving up.
On the night of the farewell dinner, he didn’t show up.
At the end of the evening, a male classmate confessed to me. I turned him down. He seemed disappointed, but stubbornly offered to walk me home.
I thought about it and realized the route home would pass Nathan’s place. For some reason, I agreed.
The moon was beautiful that night. The boy walked beside me, trying hard to make conversation.
I answered every sentence seriously until a familiar gate came into view.
I stopped without meaning to and looked up to see Nathan standing on the balcony, staring coldly at us.
When I got home and finished showering, I was lying in bed scrolling my phone when I discovered someone had posted a video of my classmate’s confession in our class group.
The audio was noisy and hard to hear; the last frame showed me and him leaving the private dining room together.
Everyone who hadn’t been there started making a fuss in the group.
Then I received a message from Nathan: "Are you thinking of repeating a year?"
I immediately understood the other meaning behind his words—he wanted us to be at the same university.
Even though he didn’t say it outright, to me that was his signal.
My heart felt as if it had been parched for years and suddenly given rain, but it also ached.
He always did this—after piling disappointment on me, he’d give me a sliver of hope.
So now, when he had a girlfriend and was using that dinner to sever things with me, what did his look mean?
Ten Quiet Years, One Brutal Goodbye
As I thought this, my breath stalled. I leaned forward to study his expression, but my roommate suddenly shifted and blocked part of my view, then took his hand, fingers interlacing with his.
Nathan seemed taken aback for a moment, then looked down at her. His eyes and the corners of his mouth softened.
In that instant I realized the last tiny bit of hope in me had been utterly destroyed.
Strangely, a peace I'd never felt before settled over me.
I dropped my gaze and turned my attention back to the other boy.
He met my eyes, startled and even more nervous, and stammered the line again, "Emily, can, can you pursue me?"
The crowd laughed.
He didn't seem to grasp what was happening.
A guy who knew him grinned and teased, "Ethan, you confessed—how are you letting someone pursue you?"
He stared at me like he was finally understanding, his face flushing all the way to his ears. "I—I…"
"Yes."
I cut him off.
This time I didn't look at Nathan's face at all.
Amid the noise, I watched Ethan quietly—the way his Adam's apple bobbed, the red spreading from his ears to his neck.
I smiled and repeated, "Yes."
…Ethan really was the reddest-faced person I'd ever seen.
After I said yes, he grabbed me without asking and pulled me away, taking me to a nearby dessert shop. He ordered a bunch of sweets and put them in front of me.
Under my surprised look, he lowered his eyes and gripped the spoon so tightly I could see his knuckles.
After a while he looked up and smiled, "I saw you weren't eating much at the hotpot place. They say desserts can make you feel better."
I stared at him.
Suddenly I realized that at the dinner—an event I hadn't wanted to stay at for a second—someone had been quietly watching out for me not far away.
He saw my awkwardness and embarrassment, he saw the loneliness and hollow I tried to hide, so he helped me escape.
Something inside me stirred.
Desserts do lift the mood—my whole day improved.
That evening Ethan and I walked on the track. The wind lifted our clothes; the sunset piled the clouds in layers of fire. He carefully took my hand.
I tilted my head and saw only his clean half-profile and the tips of his ears flushed by the sun.
That good mood lasted until Nathan messaged me asking where I was.
I didn't reply.
He didn't ask again.
I exhaled as if expelling years of bottled-up gloom.
Ethan and I stayed out until late. After washing up I revised my thesis, sent the final version to Professor Walker, and finally opened my phone.
At eleven that night Ethan messaged asking if I was free tomorrow.
I hesitated, then replied, "I'm free tomorrow."
Quick reply: "Okay. Good night."
I blinked. The time read three a.m.
I stared at the message a while, then smiled and went to drink milk. Only then did I notice my roommate's bed was empty and her quilt folded neatly.
She hadn't come back that night.
The next morning I slept until ten. After washing up I started doing my makeup. Just as I was putting on lipstick, I heard a key in the door.
My roommate had come back.
I watched my reflection in the mirror, calm and composed, no outward tremor.
The last time I caught them kissing, the pain nearly stopped my breath. It felt like I had been pulled apart and put back together—bones crushed and reassembled.
But knowing last night they might be doing more intimate things stirred only a small sourness. The tear-the-heart-out pain I'd imagined didn't come. I fell asleep quickly and dreamed nothing.
I didn't know if that meant I was finally letting Nathan go or giving myself a break, but I knew it was a start.
I pressed my lips together to even out my lipstick. My roommate's voice, tired, came from behind me: "He went back to the company."
I turned and found her pale and haggard.
I reached out as if to check her forehead, but she turned away and avoided my touch. "I'm fine."
I frowned.
She stared at me and, voice raw, said, "I slept with him."
I looked at her and said nothing.
After a long silence, a complicated expression crossed her face. "Em, is there a chance between you and Ethan?"
I was silent—thinking seriously. After a moment I met her eyes and smiled, "Yes."
She was startled; the gloom in her eyes lifted and was replaced by a visible relief.
Going downstairs, I found Ethan waiting at the dorm door.
He held soy milk and breakfast buns in his left hand, a bowl of congee in his right—broad shoulders and long legs, standing there like a human billboard. More than one girl looked his way.
I walked up. "When did you get here?"
He lowered his lashes and blushed. "Not long."
Then he said quickly, "I bought two kinds. You pick; I'll eat the other."
I glanced at the food and said, "I want congee."
I paused.
Ethan froze, heat flooding his face, his Adam's apple moving. He looked at me as if surprised.
…I hadn't expected Ethan to take me to the aquarium.
The lights inside were dim. Fake seaweed and coral lined the walkways, fish lingered near the tunnels like curious onlookers.
I tapped the glass of a tank and a transparent little jellyfish darted away. I couldn't help smiling.
I turned to speak to Ethan and found him holding up his phone, taking pictures of me.
I moved closer. "Let me see."
The photo was a half-body shot—me in a white dress, collarbone and shoulder bare, skin pale against blue water, a few strands of hair lifted in a natural, messy way.
He'd captured the light and angle perfectly.
I started, "So you're good at—"
My words stopped. Ethan's eyes were very deep and very near.
So close I felt the tension in his body, the warmth of his breath, the faint scent he wore.
Suddenly my face felt hot and my breathing sped up.
Around six-thirty we took the bus back to campus. The window was open, the wind whipping past.
My mind kept flashing back to the moment when his lips nearly brushed mine, then pulled away with restraint.
He had been slightly breathless and told me seriously that he could wait.
I looked to find him sitting upright, composed, looking forward—a picture of a gentleman.
I thought of how I checked the school forum last night and found dozens of confession posts about him, people listing his competitions and awards.
After watching him for a while I asked, "Why do you like me?"
Ethan looked surprised at the question and froze.
I held his gaze, biting my lip. "You're so outstanding. Why would you like me?"
His handsome brows knit in a way I hadn't seen before. He turned serious. "Emily, why would you think that?"
I said nothing.
He pressed his lips tight, then sighed. "The first time I saw you wasn't at the hotpot place. It was at the aquarium."
I was stunned. "The aquarium?"
"Yeah," he said softly. "That day you were holding two skewers of candied fruit, like you were waiting for someone."
I watched your expression shift from hopeful to disappointed, the corners of your eyes reddening, but you held it in.
Until a little girl accidentally bumped into you. She covered her nose and cried loudly in pain. You crouched down, flustered, pulling out tissues to wipe her tears. As you wiped, your own tears wouldn’t stop.
So there you were, both of you crying and using the same handful of tissues to wipe each other. When you ran out of energy, you split a skewer of candied fruit and ate it together.
The image of you then—
Ethan paused, thinking, his face flushing. “Pitiful, and so endearing.”
I lowered my eyes, feeling heat bloom inexplicably across my face.
I remembered that day: Nathan happened to be on a business trip nearby. He’d promised to take me to the aquarium after he finished work.
I waited for him with my heart full of joy—and got a single text instead: “Sorry, I woke up late. Might miss the express train, I have to go.”
Nathan never rearranged his plans for me.
I looked up at Ethan, surprised that he’d known me since then.
Ethan met my gaze calmly, his eyes gentle. “Later, the college held a lecture and I saw you on stage. That’s when I realized you were a year ahead—Emily Hart from the Finance Department.”
…By the time I got back to the dorm it was past nine. The lights were off; everything was dark. My roommate seemed to have gone to bed earlier than usual.
I didn’t turn on the light either. I buried my face in the pillow and felt emotions rise like a storm, almost too intense to hold back.
Only today did I realize how much insecurity had driven me chasing Nathan all these years.
Even when I did everything well, his repeated indifference and disregard, his teasing on a whim—those wore me down until I doubted and denied myself. Like a larva spinning a cocoon, I’d sealed myself up, shrinking away from light.
I never imagined someone like Ethan would appear and gently, solemnly tell me, “You’re great. Why can’t I like you?”
Something in me felt seared, then warmth spread slowly, little by little.
I inhaled deeply, sat up, and posted to my Moments: “You’re great too,” with the photo Ethan had taken earlier.
Seconds later, Nathan messaged: “You took him to that aquarium?”
Then: “Are you with him?”
The accusation in those two messages was painfully obvious—maybe even a little jealous.
My heart skipped a beat.
Then Nathan called.
Seeing that number—so familiar it felt carved into my chest—I frowned.
Back when I would've been thrilled at even a perfunctory text from him, I now felt a strange resistance to his call.
It seemed I’d even lost interest in talking to him.
I stared at the number for a few seconds, then silently closed my eyes and pressed hang up.
He called several more times; I hung up without hesitation each time.
After a few rounds, annoyed, I typed: “I’m in the dorm. Your girlfriend’s asleep.”
That line seemed to flip a switch—Nathan finally quieted.
After that, Ethan and I grew closer.
We ate together every day, studied in the library, walked the track, and saw new movies. We became so comfortable with each other that silence wasn’t awkward, and when we talked, there was always something to say.
But our relationship remained a sheet of rice paper—intact, not yet pierced.
Meanwhile, something seemed to be wrong between Nathan and my roommate. I hardly ever saw them call now. The clinginess they used to have had receded like the tide.
My roommate put on a cheerful front, but I’d heard her stifled sobs late at night more than once.
I guessed it might be because of me.
After hesitating, I took Nathan off my block list and called him.
He picked up quickly. Hearing the rasp in his voice, the lines I’d rehearsed crumpled in my throat.
He said, “Em, you finally answered.”
I blinked. That’s a line I’d said to him so often before.
But my tone back then had been more tentative, more helpless—like someone grinding pride and dignity into dust, shrinking into the dirt.
Thankfully, someone had pulled me out in time.
Ethan’s clear, gentle face flashed through my mind and I couldn’t help but smile a little.
“…Em, are you listening?” Nathan’s voice was hoarser.
I came back. “…What did you say just now?”
Silence on the other end.
I thought awhile, then said calmly, “Nathan, I liked you for ten years.”
There was a heavy breath, then Nathan answered, “I know.”
I’d suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed still hurt—like a dull object probing into my chest.
Not because of him, but because of the ten years I’d wasted on such a fumbling, foolish crush.
I drew a steadying breath. “But after that dinner, I realized I don’t like you anymore. I only have blessings for you. And someone has appeared beside me—someone I want to hold onto.”
I sighed softly. “Nathan, we both should cherish the people we have.”
His silence lasted longer this time.
Just when I thought he wouldn’t speak, he asked in a tone that sounded resolved and relieved all at once, “Emily, are you with him to get back at me?”
That question lodged in my chest like a stone.
It wasn’t guilt or shame. It was flat frustration—how low had I stooped for him to assume I’d sacrifice my feelings just to spite him?
Even though I immediately blocked him again after that, the irritation lingered.
That night, Ethan and I were walking back from a movie. Near the dorm entrance, Nathan’s words flickered through my head and I stumbled over a stone, nearly falling. Someone’s hands steadied me.
Ethan’s worried face met me and I smiled.
A sharp pain stabbed my ankle and I gasped.
“Twisted it?” Ethan frowned.
I nodded.
He helped me sit on a bench and checked my ankle.
“Thank goodness it’s not dislocated. Let me rub it, Em.”
Before I could react, a cool touch pressed against my ankle.
His fingers were gentle and measured as he kneaded. A tingling warmth ran up and involuntary, I made a small sound.
Ethan paused. From my angle I could see his Adam’s apple bob. My face warmed.
Slowly, the pain eased. I heard him ask softly, “Does it still hurt?”
“N-no,” I rasped. My throat felt hoarse.
He smiled a little and set my foot down while looking up at me.
Under the moonlight his eyes were deep, nose straight, lips full and red—the kind of look that was steady and intent.
A thought bubbled up in my chest.
Oh no.
Before I even knew who moved first, my arms had gone around his neck and his hands found my waist.
It was our first kiss.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that. He pulled back a little, breathing hard, his gaze burning into me until I felt as if I might melt.
“Em…”
Something inside me snapped at that whisper.
I was about to answer when a big hand yanked me off the bench so hard I cried out.
I turned and found myself staring into a pair of familiar, bloodshot eyes.
Honestly, I was surprised it was Nathan.
He stood there pale and furious, shock and anger contorting his face as if I’d betrayed him.
It was absurd and somehow laughable.
He’d gotten used to my decade of steady devotion and my willingness to give without asking. Now that I refused to kowtow and my eyes no longer looked to him, he was displeased.
Worse—he could distance himself from me, treat me coldly, but he wouldn’t let me walk away and live. He seemed to resent seeing me happy.
The arm he clutched felt painfully tight. I glanced down: it was reddening.
I tried to move, but he squeezed harder, giving me no chance to wriggle free.
He stared at me a long moment, then his gaze snapped to Ethan, burning with an emotion like he wanted to devour him.
I turned slightly and stepped in front of Ethan.
Nathan froze, eyes rimmed red. After a long while he croaked, “Emily, we’ve known each other for ten years. How long have you known him? You’re defending him like that?”
I looked at him evenly. “Ethan is my boyfriend.”
Nathan’s face went ashen.
I watched his pale lips and warned, “You’re hurting my arm.”
He seemed to come back to himself and slowly released his grip.
No sooner had he let go than my balance faltered and I stumbled right into Ethan’s arms.
A searing pain shot through my ankle. Looking down at the swollen joint, I realized that Nathan’s yank from the bench really might have dislocated it.
For a second I wanted to laugh—and I did, a little hysterically.
Nathan looked at my ankle, confusion and a hint of helplessness flashing across his face.
After a long moment, he said, “…I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want to deal with him. I tugged on Ethan’s sleeve. “Take me to the hospital.”
Ethan nodded and crouched. “I’ll carry you.”
I was about to climb onto his back when Nathan’s hand shot forward, hesitated, fingers trembling, stopping just millimeters from my wrist.
I looked up into Nathan’s eyes. The usual coldness was gone—there was a stunned, lost look in them.
He pulled his hand back and, his voice hoarse, said, “Em, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
I quickly declined. "No need to trouble yourself. Thank you."
Then I leaned against Ethan's shoulder and wrapped my arms around his neck so he could carry me.
When we rounded the corner, I stole a glance back at Nathan.
He stood there in a white shirt and black slacks, motionless as he watched us. Tall and straight-backed, but with a hollow, desolate air about him.
We took a cab to the nearby hospital. The doctor set the bone, prescribed some circulation and bruise medicine, and glanced over Ethan and me with a neutral look. He warned me to rest for the next two weeks and avoid any strenuous activity.
My face stayed flushed from the cab ride until we got out.
I pressed my cheek to Ethan's back, feeling his warmth, and heard him say, "Emily, for now, move into the apartment I rented."
The doctor's words flashed through my head and my heart started pounding. "W-what? Move in with you?"
Ethan's step faltered and he smiled. "I mean, your dorm is on the fourth floor and your foot is injured. Climbing stairs would be inconvenient. My place has an elevator and it's decent. Move in there and I can take care of you during the day. As for nights—"
He let out a low laugh. "I'll move back to the dorm."
I felt my face go bright red and mumbled a soft, "Okay."
By the time we returned to the dormitory it was around eleven-thirty. I hadn't expected Nathan to still be there.
He opened his mouth as if to say something; I furrowed my brow and turned my head away.
As we passed him, Ethan suddenly said, "Em, just pack a few clothes tonight. I have everything else at my place. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning."
I glanced and saw Nathan physically shudder.
"Okay," I answered.
When Maya heard I was moving to Ethan's rented place, she wasn't particularly surprised. She just smiled and said, "Ethan's a good guy."
Watching her recover some color, I asked, "And you and—?"
"We broke up."
She seemed to know what I was going to ask. Her face was calm, her eyes steady. "After that night, when he called you thirteen times, I decided I no longer liked him. I broke up with him the next day."
I blinked. "How did you know—?"
I hadn't even answered his calls.
Maya pressed her lips together. "I accidentally found out you had set a 'love story' ringtone just for him."
I stayed silent.
She smiled. "That ringtone never went off again. You probably changed it—or blocked him."
I nodded. That night I didn't only block him; I changed the ringtone to 'goaway.'
Maya's gaze lingered on my face for a while, then she sighed softly. "Em—he's not worthy of my feelings. He wasn't worthy of yours either."
…I couldn't deny that Ethan took care of people really well—at least he took care of me.
In the little over two weeks I lived at his place, besides preparing for my thesis defense, I played games and ate the meals he made. I gained a few pounds from being spoiled.
I put down the mirror with mock indignation and looked up at Ethan as he peeled an orange for me.
He'd been running back and forth from his dorm a lot these days. He'd lost some weight; his features were smooth and unexpectedly handsome.
I blinked, leaned into him and buried my face in his chest. "When my foot's completely healed, I'm going to lose weight!"
Ethan smiled without answering and fed me a slice of orange.
That night a sudden storm started. As Ethan grabbed the umbrella to leave, I closed my eyes for a moment and whispered, "Maybe… don't go back tonight."
He watched me for a beat. When I didn't say anything more, he tightened his grip on the umbrella and, voice low, said, "Okay."
Around midnight a muffled thunderclap woke me. I turned my head; Ethan was still sleeping heavily beside me.
I smiled and meant to go back to sleep, but noticed the window wasn't fully closed. The drizzle outside was drifting in.
Ethan had bought me a protective shoe online because he worried I'd bump the foot. My injury wasn't that bad anymore; in the past two weeks it had almost healed, and I could walk a few steps without the big shoe.
I put on my nightdress, went to close the window, and accidentally glanced down. I saw a familiar figure.
My fingers paused.
The night was deep and dark. Under the dim streetlight I could see his pale face and the glow of a cigarette at his fingertips. He was smoking.
I'd loved Nathan for ten years. I knew he didn't usually smoke; he'd only light up when he was restless, when he was at his most agitated.
Lately I'd been seeing him near my place almost every weekend. He seemed idle—so idle I wondered if he'd lost his job.
I knew Nathan had seen me, too.
But I didn't want to look again. I closed the window and drew the curtains, then walked slowly into the living room to get myself a glass of water.
That's when the phone—left on the table last night—started ringing.
An unknown number.
I hesitated, sighed, and answered.
His voice on the line was low and hoarse, threaded with a kind of bewildered restraint. He didn't say anything but kept calling my name, again and again: "Em, Em…"
Suddenly I felt sorrow.
It wasn't pity, pain, or hatred. It was a dry tightness in my chest that only the word 'sad' could describe.
I thought of the line from "Love Story": "Cause we were both young when I first saw you."
When I first saw him, we'd both been young.
Back then, I was drawn to that cold, taciturn boy. I'd pretend to pass his classroom door and memorize vocabulary day and night just so I could get into his class.
I didn't care about results then. Just catching a glimpse from afar made me happy.
Over time, I became cautious and needy, worshipping him from a distance like he was a god.
He neither rejected nor drew close.
Slowly his hurts evened out the wonder and strength he once gave me.
Now, with him calling my name over and over, all my feelings—miraculously—dissolved in an instant.
Finally I heard myself say, "Nathan, I used to—really, really—like you."
"But now, I truly, truly, don't love you anymore."
After I hung up, I lay back down. Suddenly an arm slid around my waist and pulled me close; my head rested against his chest.
"There's a new chain fish-noodle place downstairs," Ethan said. "Apparently it's a ten-year-old shop, very flavorful, lots of regulars. How about we try it for breakfast tomorrow?"
He sounded calm, but I caught an edge in his words.
I raised an eyebrow and hurried, "No—no—no!"
Ethan paused and tousled my hair. "What, you don't like fish noodles?"
I lifted my face and hooked my hands around his neck, stifling a laugh. "No, I don't. I like porridge!"
