I called his name.
"Hmm?"
He answered groggily, then suddenly leaned closer. His alluring almond eyes were clouded with sleep, delicate and handsome.
"Old… wife?"
"Let’s get a divorce."
I took a breath and said it bluntly.
"…"
He stared at me for a long moment, head tilted. His shirt had two buttons wildly undone from when he came in; I couldn’t help looking up and met his drooping gaze.
"Di… divorce what… hmm? Soul leaving?"
"I’m not—my… my soul is right here."
"What is wife talking about…? My three souls and six spirits are all right here…"
"…"
"Ethan…"
I clenched my teeth.
He was ridiculous — he just shut his eyes and slowed his breathing right in front of me.
Before long, he was asleep like it was a serious, practiced thing.
"…Go sleep in the bed, Ethan…"
I had to drag him, pulling him toward the bed. This time he obediently let me lead him, his body half on top of mine like a lump of clay, sticking to me.
I flopped him onto the bed, sucked in a breath, and went to turn off the bedside lamp.
The room went dark.
I lay on one side of the bed, Ethan on the other, his breathing steady as if he were ready for burial.
I had planned to bring up divorce tomorrow when he was awake, but he’d messed it all up.
I slowly closed my eyes to think about how I would say it when he woke.
Then suddenly, someone wrapped his arms tightly around me.
He still smelled faintly of alcohol — not unpleasant. Sometimes I felt hopeless: no matter what Ethan did, I couldn’t bring myself to dislike him.
"Don’t divorce me, Maya…"
His breath hit the hollow of my neck in a messy rhythm; his voice softened, like sleep-talking.
See, he was like this — he could knead someone’s heart to pieces with shocking ease.
The next morning I made breakfast. Ethan rubbed his head and came out of the bedroom in a clean T-shirt and huge boxer shorts.
I must be sick; after all these years I still thought he was handsome.
"Morning, wifey."
He pulled out a chair opposite me, grabbed the milk in front of me and drank from it, sitting in the space where I’d just been.
"Ethan."
"Hmm?"
His tone was casually indifferent; he was still scrolling his phone.
"Let’s get a divorce."
His scrolling finally stopped.
"Did you cheat?"
"…I didn’t."
"Do you like someone else?"
"…No."
"Do you have cancer and don’t want to burden me so you’re going to courageously let me go?"
"…Ethan, are you sick?"
I couldn’t hold back.
"Then why divorce?"
He looked at me directly; his eyes were shallow and unreadable.
"We’re not compatible, and it’s not—"
"Mutually in love."
"…"
He tugged at his mouth, gave a snort, and then actually laughed first.
"Only kids talk about ‘like.’"
"Call it what you want."
I followed his lead, sliding my hands into my pockets and leaning back like that made me a little taller.
"Are you going to divorce me? Does your mom know?"
My mom didn’t know. Ethan and I were pretty well-matched, our families both comfortable; my mom had liked him since we were kids. If I told her I wanted a divorce, she’d pry my head open and ask what I was thinking.
"Let’s table this, okay?"
Before I could say more, Ethan cut things off sharply.
"I’m running late for work. I’m going to change."
As he left he still turned back to pinch my cheek and press a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
Ethan left. I slumped in my chair and opened that social post again.
The post my finger hovered over was one he made yesterday afternoon.
It was by his company’s front door. Two people in the picture — not that close physically, but when they smiled together, they matched perfectly.
He hadn’t blocked me. His caption said, "Ten years later."
Claire Summers is back.
Still beautiful, still dominant, like she could shatter the tiny fragile confidence I’d built for myself through a screen.
High school was a time I never wanted to revisit.
I wasn’t as skinny back then. I wasn’t exactly fat, but I was solid — my mom liked to feed me, my bag was never without snacks.
I’ve always been quiet. I’m still not great at socializing — I hate going to bars and dancing, which Ethan teased me about.
Ethan and I weren’t from the same world.
He’d been wild since he was young, always chasing fun, surrounded by boys; he changed girlfriends a lot from middle school on.
Me? Middle school was fine. I kept to myself. In high school I met Claire.
She and her group ostracized me.
I was used to being alone, but I couldn’t stand them whispering about me, calling me burly, saying I was ugly, spreading rumors that I liked Ethan.
Yes, I liked Ethan.
Who wouldn’t? Someone with a sunny smile, a nice voice, a good personality you saw every day.
But liking Ethan was a fragile, cowardly secret I had always hid.
Thanks to Claire and her crew, my crush on Ethan became the school joke. Everyone knew.
I remember when Ethan first heard — he still smiled that careless, rippling smile.
"Damn, you like me? Scared now."
He could crush my little dignity so effortlessly.
Oh, and Ethan and Claire dated.
She was the longest one of his relationships. I knew he’d actually fallen for her. If I were her, I’d steal his heart too.
Claire was pretty and student-body president — so loud and brazen they seemed made for each other. She led the taunting, the nickname assignment, the isolation, telling teachers I brought cheat notes, dumping my books out the window.
She openly said she hated me because she didn’t like my look.
They bullied me until I hid in the classroom and cried. Ethan came to find Claire and saw me.
"Hey, don’t cry. Who bullied you? I’ll get them back."
He crouched beside me, half-serious. I must have looked horrible crying; girls care about appearances in front of the ones they like.
I hated showing my weak self in front of Ethan.
At that age, first crushes feel like everything. Ethan was both poison and honey to me.
He knew who bullied me.
He still stood by and made snide comments.
Because Ethan and Claire were the same kind of person — loud, mean — and they looked so right together.
Then they broke up.
When I heard, I was at least a little thrilled.
But Ethan looked terrible for days.
He cared so much about Claire. He didn’t show this after his other breakups. Those days he was moody and quiet, his eyes dark.
Even after all these years of marriage, I’d never seen him look like that again.
One day I was stuck after class doing chores alone. When I finished, the sun had already set. I stepped out of the classroom and saw Ethan slouched over the stair railing smoking.
Tall, leaning lazily, half his face swallowed by smoke, eyes looking nowhere.
He’d obviously smoked a lot.
"Cut down."
I walked up to him.
He looked down at me and rasped an answer.
"You broke up?"
He raised an eyebrow, stubbed out his cigarette, looked at me for a while, then said, "Yeah."
His voice was a little hoarse.
"Are you… okay?"
"Fine, I guess."
"…"
We didn’t speak after that.
At the stairwell, Ethan stopped.
He tilted his head and I had a bad feeling.
"Want to play something fun?"
"…"
"Sure."
If it made him happy… The game was rock-paper-scissors. Loser had to carry the winner home.
Stupid, I know. But when it came time to carry Ethan, it wasn’t just stupid.
First to two wins, Ethan dominated.
Honestly, carrying a guy who’s nearly six feet was tough.
And he wasn’t exactly passive — his fingers brushed my ear; there was a teasing laugh in his voice.
"Maya, you’re amazing."
He had no intention of getting off me, and for some reason I managed to carry him all the way home.
I trudged, he hummed softly on my back.
By the time we reached my doorway I was gasping.
He jumped off, looked down at me without a word. The contrast between his calmness and my embarrassment was sharp.
After a while he spoke, casually calling my name.
"Maya."
"Mm?"
"If you can slim down to ninety pounds, I’ll let you be my girlfriend."
That sentence carved itself into me.
How deeply it affected me, I don’t fully know — but it stayed.
I started losing weight. First diet pills for weeks with barely any result; then every method I could find online.
I’m not a persevering person, but this time I stuck to frog jumps up the stairs for months.
When I ran laps in the yard, I didn’t even know why I was doing it.
It started from what might have been Ethan’s teasing joke.
I ran against the setting sun until I couldn’t breathe.
Early dieting was agony. My mom’s food smelled so good; sometimes I’d cry into my blanket from hunger.
I didn’t know better and followed random internet fads: sometimes only drinking water, sometimes eating only eggs, plus excessive exercise. I ended up in the hospital.
I’ve had stomach problems ever since.
But it worked: I dropped from 350 pounds to 180 — from ‘big’ to skinny.
And the part I hated to admit was that even slim, I wasn’t as pretty as Claire.
It felt like no one noticed the change.
Even Ethan didn’t.
"Why did you call me out?"
He leaned with his hands in his pockets, back to normal after three months since the breakup, though he hadn’t dated anyone since.
"Do you see any change?"
"…Seems… slimmer?"
He tilted his head to appraise me.
"…Do you still remember you—"
I couldn’t finish the rest.
He clearly didn’t remember.
I felt like I was about to cry.
"Oh— I remember now."
But then his hand hovered over the top of my head and he ruffled my hair twice.
"Did I ever tell you to be my girlfriend?"
He looked at me. I could never deny that his eyes always seemed to hold whole galaxies, and when he smiled the whole sky around him shimmered with tiny stars.
"Nice to meet you, girlfriend."
And just like that, I started dating Ethan Carter.
Ethan took me to meet his buddies, to drink, to dance at a club—a world I’d never known.
Flashing lights hit the people around us; thumping drums rattled my eardrums. Ethan leaned close and spoke into my ear.
"Do you like it?"
No, I didn’t.
That was Ethan’s world—loud, showy, restless and raw.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the crowded room.
I watched him light a cigarette, his head bowed, the city lights painting his face in colors.
They outlined the perfect shape of him.
"Why not go back in?" I asked.
He flicked a glance at me, a cigarette dangling from his lips, sparks blinking in the dark.
"You good at dancing, huh?"
"I can dance," I said. "Not only can I dance, I can—"
The city kept screaming with noise, neon blazing. I snatched the cigarette from Ethan’s mouth, inhaled, and pale smoke clouded my face.
One side of him blurred into shadow; his eyes held the glow of a thousand lights.
"I want a divorce from Ethan."
After work that afternoon, guessing he wouldn’t be home for dinner, I invited a friend out.
Sophia Park had studied law with me in college. I wanted her to draft a divorce agreement.
"Divorce? So sudden. I thought your husband was nice."
"…"
"Nice my foot."
"…"
"So… did you fight?"
I thought for a second. In all these years, Ethan and I had rarely fought.
We ate, worked, slept—played the model couple for everyone else—but we were never truly close.
There was an uneasy equilibrium that kept us from falling apart.
Until Claire Summers showed up.
"Actually, our problem’s been there all along." I tapped the rim of my glass; it rang crisp and clear. "I just kept hiding it."
"Come on. Come drink with me."
Head hot with impulse, I grabbed Sophia’s hand.
I’d hardly ever been to a club before. I never imagined I’d end up drinking away my troubles in one. But alcohol made sorrow duller.
"Hey, Maya, slow down," Sophia warned.
"Don’t. You’ll feel awful tomorrow."
"Why won’t you listen? If you keep drinking I’ll call your husband."
"Call him! Go ahead and call him! He’s probably drinking too! If he shows up I’ll change my last name to his…"
I lost count of how many drinks I downed. People blurred into clumps, the lights spun and throbbed, and booze numbed my nerves.
"I’ll take his name! I’ll call myself…Yeah—call myself Sophia—no, wait—Maya Park, right? Maya Park, that’ll do…"
"Yeah, Maya Park sounds nice."
The voice across from me changed. I looked up—couldn’t make out the face, saw only a flash of white shirt. I grabbed the arm and frowned.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Your husband."
He leaned close, tucked the stray hair behind my ear. His eyes were dark and unreadable.
"That ‘he’s probably drinking too’ husband of yours."
"…"
He sat beside me, took my drink away, swirled it, propped his chin on his hand and studied me.
"Tell me. Why do you want a divorce?"
"Because you’re an asshole."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Blame it on the booze."
I traced his face with my fingers. His features were soft in the club light—the person I’d liked for a very long time. I pressed my hand along his brow.
He didn’t move. My hand slid down his eyebrow to his eye, down the bridge of his nose, to his mouth. I drew his face in full.
"Don’t think I don’t know your ‘white moon’ came back."
"White moon?"
"Yeah. You two even took photos—you posted them, you laughed together."
"You mean Claire Summers?"
He finally reacted. "How did she become my ‘white moon’?"
"You’ve always liked her!"
"…"
Then he laughed—the sort of laugh you can’t stop once it bursts out.
His fingers brushed my cheek and pinched it.
"Maya, you’re so funny."
Then, suddenly, he pulled me into his arms, pinned my head down and murmured hoarsely into my ear, "Especially when you’re drunk."
His chest was warm against me. Alcohol had already fuzzed my brain. After a long moment I remembered I couldn’t just lie there letting this jerk hold me.
"Ethan, let go. I want a divorce!"
"Come on. I won’t have any contact with Claire, okay?"
"…"
"No!"
"I want a di—"
"That’s not even Claire’s fault."
I hung my head; the words wouldn’t come out. He peered at me for a long beat and then noticed tears slipping down my face.
"You’re crying… Maya?"
He cupped my chin and tipped my face up, hurried fingers brushing away my tears. But the more he wiped, the more I cried, and he panicked.
"Stop crying, stop, I’m sorry…"
"I’m sorry. Don’t cry, okay? Maya?"
I’d never seen Ethan like that—crouched before me, a little flustered, light and shadow making him look unreal.
"Maya, stop drinking. Let’s go home."
He turned and let me lean on his back. I wrapped my arms around his neck and suddenly laughed.
"Ethan, remember? I used to carry you like this."
"…"
He paused.
"How dumb was I, to carry you the whole way."
"Yeah, I was dumb."
Streetlights jittered past. I stared at the crescent moon—suddenly exhausted.
"Ethan, when we get home, let’s get divorced."
"No."
"You don’t get to decide that."
"Watch your mouth."
He tilted his head. The streetlights caught his profile and for the life of me I couldn’t hate him.
"Did you hear me? Divorce!"
I yelled in his ear.
"No."
"Why do you get to say no? You ignore me, you stink at paying attention—"
My voice grew smaller. I clutched the back of his jacket until I drifted off to sleep.
It was the summer after senior year.
Ethan’s grades were actually excellent—just shy of the thresholds for those two top schools. I chased him desperately and still trailed him by more than thirty ranks in the late senior year.
When the acceptance letters came, we both got into the same university.
Harborview University was my first choice, and his second choice.
He had applied to Pinecrest University as his first, but missed by two points.
When I learned we’d both been admitted to the same school, I was genuinely happy.
When I went to tell him, he only said casually, "We’ll be at the same school."
He stared down at his phone and mumbled.
"Yeah."
"Ethan?"
"…"
"Is it because you didn’t get into Pinecrest—"
"No."
"Harborview is still great. I’ll…"
"Can you not stand in front of me if you’re not gonna do anything? I’m in a bad mood."
He looked up, brow furrowed.
"…"
—and I never said, I’m at Harborview too.
I never said that.
That summer Ethan and his buddies camped out in internet cafes for two months.
Later I found out why—Claire had gotten into Pinecrest.
See how little I meant to him? I didn’t even know whether to be glad he didn’t go to Pinecrest with Claire.
Between Claire and me, he’d always choose Claire.
—Back then I understood that clearly.
I woke the next day with my head splitting.
Worse, I saw a silhouette sitting beside my bed.
—Ethan.
"You’re something else. How many bottles did you drink last night?" he said.
"Huh? Maya?"
He dragged out the name at the end like a note—pretty, grinding at my nerves.
"…"
I clutched the quilt. I couldn’t remember, and my head throbbed. I met his dark eyes and suddenly realized he was serious.
"…"
"Not saying anything?"
"Ethan, you can’t boss me."
"Can’t boss you?"
He almost laughed at that. "I’m your husband—can’t I?"
"Not for long."
I stared at him hard, trying to look stern.
"Okay, let’s not argue now. Maya, did you even know your limit last night? You were just drinking like crazy."
"…"
It was my mistake. Without Ethan and Sophia I don’t know how bad last night would’ve been.
"Okay, I won’t drink like that again. Happy?"
"Maya…"
He suddenly moved closer, his voice softer than usual, restrained, fingers rubbing my face with unwonted gentleness.
"I don’t think I can stand a life without you."
"…"
I knew then divorce wasn’t going to be that easy.
Maya, you’re just soft. You make a decision and then he turns everything upside down.
I was slumped over my desk, rubbing my head in frustration, when my phone rang.
Unknown number. I answered half-heartedly, thinking it was a spam call about real estate or classes. But the voice on the other end nearly made my fingers freeze.
It had been years. Hearing her voice still unnerved me.
It was Claire.
"Hello, Maya. Long time no see."
Her voice carried that same proud tone. I squeezed the phone tighter.
"… Yes?"
"Our old high school classmates are having a reunion this Saturday at the Willow Garden Hotel. Are you coming?"
"No."
"Oh? Really? Ethan promised he’d come last time."
"…"
"Oh, and I just heard you got married to Ethan."
"…"
I hung up. I couldn’t listen to any more.
I called Ethan.
"Hey, wifey?" he answered quickly.
"Ethan, go to the City Marriage Office."
"…"
"We’re getting a divorce."
"What’s wrong, babe?" he asked.
"Ethan, stop messing me around. Let’s be clear—how hard is it to get a divorce?"
"…"
Silence on the other end.
His voice dropped, suddenly low.
"Alright, sweetheart. Then wait for me by the flowerbed outside the City Marriage Office."
"…"
The government moved the redevelopment, and although the flowerbed by the office was nicely landscaped, hardly anyone was around. I waited fifteen minutes before Ethan showed up.
He drove. It was the first car we bought after we got married. We’d both agreed not to keep asking our families for money. Back then Ethan hadn’t been a director yet and I was still an intern teacher. I remember the thrill of finally owning that first car.
Later, we got a second car, a third—but none of that ever brought back the giddy excitement of two people squeezed onto a couch counting down how long until we could afford one.
He was still in his suit, his tie crooked, hair a little messy. He ran up when he saw me.
"I had a meeting, honey…"
"Enough. Let’s go."
I couldn’t stand his crooked tie. I straightened it and started walking.
But he didn’t move from behind me.
"Sweetheart, can we talk this through?"
"…Ethan."
"I know—I thought about it. I can be…a real jerk. I can’t go back to how I used to be. If I could—"
"You know what? I’d really like to go back and beat the crap out of past-me."
"…"
"Ethan, this is pointless. I’ve said it straight—I don’t want to forgive you."
"…"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Is there really no going back for us?"
"It’s long gone."
"Is that so."
He looked up at me. The corner of his eyes tilted; his gaze was clear and gentle—calm but full of longing. My heart skipped, of course it did. Damn it, Maya Lin, you’re soft again.
The next second he lunged and held me tight.
Or rather, he scooped me up and ran.
"What are you doing! Ethan! Put me down!"
I struggled. He had one arm around my waist, squeezing.
"Don’t move."
I knew how this would go—the soft act failing, he’d go hard.
"Do you want me to scream?"
"Scream, then. There’s hardly anyone out here. If someone sees us, I’ll take the blame."
"Ethan!!!"
He executed it like a plan—got in the car, closed the door, pinned me into the back seat.
Still smoothed a stray hair from my face.
"Sweetheart, be good. Calm down."
"…Keep stirring the pot, Ethan."
"Angry?"
He leaned in. When his almond eyes curved into that small smile, it sent ripples through me.
"Ethan, do you remember the first time I mentioned divorce?"
I didn’t want to smile.
"Hm?"
"That night you had come home after midnight for the fourth night in a row."
"…"
"I know, I know—you’re busy. Sure, marriage has its sacrifices. I used to think I could bear it. Then I realized I couldn’t keep living like that."
My Childhood Promise, His Hidden Heart
"Every night you told me you had events. Okay, you socialize—fine. But what’s the difference between me sitting alone at the table every night and being divorced?"
"Maya, listen—"
"You took pictures with Claire and posted them. I admit I got jealous. Look—was there ever a version of you in your feed that included me?"
I was fiddling with his shirt collar when the first tears slipped out.
Maya Lin, you're pathetic.
"Don't cry, Maya. Please, hear me out—"
"These years I lived like a ghost, didn’t I?"
"Have you ever noticed me, Ethan? Or was it because I behaved, because I loved you so much you figured you could treat me any way?"
"You don't know I have stomach problems, do you? You don't know that over these years I've had flare-ups and gone to the hospital alone."
"I booked the appointments myself."
"You never suggested taking me out—anywhere. An amusement park, a hike, the beach—couldn't you have taken me once? We’ve been married five years."
"You’ve always been at work. Yeah, great—director now. Finally important enough to collaborate with an ex, right?"
"You were happy to see Claire, weren’t you? Ten years since you’d met—what, you almost invited her to a hotel that night?"
"Ethan!"
I glared at him, not caring how fierce I looked. His voice softened instantly.
"It wasn’t like that, Maya—"
"Could you go back? Sure. Go run after your ex. Skip class reunions, go find her—"
My last sentence climbed to a shout.
"…"
He kept his eyes down, silent.
"Ethan, if you were a man about it, the divorce would be clean and quick."
"Can I say I’m not a man?"
He looked up, his eyes misty; I couldn’t see clearly in them.
"Ethan!"
"I didn’t bring my ID."
"…"
He said it without looking at me, still not letting me go.
"You’re something else."
I wrenched free with all my strength. Maybe he worried I’d be hurt if he held on, because he loosened his grip.
I slammed the car door and walked away.
"Monday my divorce papers will be emailed to you."
I wasn’t going back to Ethan’s house. I packed and went back to my mother's.
When she saw me, she didn't have that "long time no see" warmth—she had questions.
"Did you and Ethan fight?"
"Not a fight. Divorce."
She was washing dishes. She came out rubbing her hands with a towel, baffled.
"What did he do?"
"He didn’t exactly do anything."
"He just—decided to split? That kid from the Carters—are they letting you make scenes?"
"It’s not a scene."
At my mother, the tears finally came. Seeing me cry made her realize I meant it; she hurried over to pat my back.
"Don’t bawl now, you’re a grown woman."
"Are you my mother?"
"That Carter kid really picking on you?"
She peered at me, suspicious, then asked carefully, "Could he be seeing someone else?"
"…"
I didn’t answer.
"Hey! Are you telling me it's true?"
She looked like she’d reach for a knife in the kitchen. I grabbed her hand.
"Don't meddle. Let me be. This is my problem."
I lay on my childhood bed. After all these years my mom still kept a room for me—"just in case," she said. That old comfort made me feel smaller and older at once.
I stared at the ceiling, tired in a way I hadn’t been in a long time.
Outside, the old neighborhood bustled—kids yelling as they left school, bicycle bells jangling, vendors calling out. The sounds stretched time thin.
I told my mother not to get involved. She actually went down to dance with the other women like nothing was wrong, as if her daughter getting a divorce wasn’t happening.
I could have stayed home alone, but my stomach began to hurt.
At first it was a dull ache. I’ve had stomach issues before; I fumbled through my mom’s medicine cabinet, swallowed a pill with hot water, and lay down.
Then it intensified.
Worse than anything I'd felt before—even worse than the stomach trouble during the high school dieting phase. I couldn’t walk.
I reached for my phone but it slipped from my fingers to the floor. I knelt, clutching my belly, with nothing left in me but pain.
My thumb fumbled my contacts. The first name at the top was Ethan—he had once added an "a" before his name on my phone so his contact would be first.
It was Saturday. Was Ethan at that stupid reunion after all?
The call connected quickly on the second ring.
"Hello? Maya?"
There was noise on his end—men and women yelling, beer bottles clinking. I even heard someone call his name. Every sound came through clear as day.
I didn’t say anything and hung up.
The phone slipped from my hand and two things occurred to me.
One: my stomach shouldn't hurt this much.
Two: how do I divorce him cleanly?
…
"Maya, don’t sleep—where does it hurt?"
Someone shook me. I opened my eyes slowly, blurred shapes, nothing clear.
He held me, massaging the back of my neck, but my stomach still ached. I managed a small sound.
"Can you get on my back?"
He turned away and I crawled up; he lifted me and went downstairs.
The street wind hit us; I curled into him. The lights swung. I could only see the shortness of his hair.
"Ethan?"
"Yeah."
"How did you know where I was?"
"You only go to a few places. When you were a kid and upset, you'd hide in your room and cry."
"…"
"I really regret it, Maya."
"I do too, Ethan."
"If I’d realized I liked you sooner, would we have avoided all this?"
"Kids talk about liking each other," he chuckled, testing my weight.
"You're so petty."
"Ethan…"
"Hm?"
"Don’t play dumb. You know I don’t like Claire. So why'd you go to that reunion she organized?"
He was quiet.
Streetlights poured long shadows. I knew he had no honest answer.
I woke up to the sound of people passing by.
I was in a hospital corridor, IV in my hand. The drip plinked down. Ethan sat beside me.
"Maya, I’m a jerk."
He said it suddenly, without preface.
"…"
"That doesn't help now. The divorce still has to happen."
He smiled faintly.
"How much are you afraid I won’t be able to divorce you, Maya?"
"…"
I stayed silent. So did he. We watched the hospital hallway: people moving, the petty swirl around us somehow enclosing both of us.
"Claire's company approached ours about a big project," he said softly out of the blue.
"Maya, I'm shallow as hell."
"Posting on social media, going to the reunion—that was all part of currying favor with her."
"This project had stalled forever. My dad’s other 'golden son' had linked up with them too. I needed to get closer."
"That post—I didn’t mean anything romantic by it. Mostly I wanted competitors to see that I had a history with the person in charge of the project."
"The party too — I went to her party, drank her wine. That means she has to loosen up on the partnership."
"I admit… in high school, I didn't like you."
"But after being with you, I realized I really did like you. More than I imagined. I can't control myself; I don't want to leave you anymore."
"I'd gotten used to you being so well-behaved, not causing trouble, not throwing fits, not sulking. Later I found out you were holding it all in for me."
"I can't ask you to come back now, can I? Can you wait for me? Wait while I climb up step by step, wait until I don't have to plaster on a smile and kiss asses at the table, wait until I sit in a place where people look up to me — then I'll come marry you again, okay?"
He looked at me quietly, with a hopeless, calm look in his eyes.
"…"
"You say it so plainly, Ethan. In the end, you chose your career over me, right?"
He stared at me for a long while.
His eyes had always been beautiful, once carrying some indefinable gentleness. Now there was nothing in them — a hazy, gray resignation, like he'd given up.
Suddenly he reached up, cupped the back of my head, and kissed me.
It was deep, but over quickly.
He stormed my walls, then retreated as I startled awake.
He lifted my chin and kissed the corner of my mouth again.
"Ethan!"
This time I pushed him away.
"Yeah."
His eyelids drooped. Wind moved through the corridor; his voice was faint, as if it could be carried off any second.
"I chose my career."
"Looks like the divorce's finally settled then."
I nodded. I wanted, more than anything, to yank the IV out and leave right that second.
"But one thing, Ethan — I won't wait for you. I won't ever wait again."
POV shift — "Mr. White, pleasure doing business."
Outside the Willow Garden Hotel, one by one the tables were clearing out at this hour. Men in suits, some smelling of alcohol.
"Director Carter, still thinking about the deal even after drinking like that?"
A middle-aged man was half supporting a younger guy. The younger man's lashes drooped; a faint smile curved his mouth.
"How could I forget? Uncle Li, thanks to you we got the deal… uh, if it weren't for no glasses, I'd offer you another drink!"
Ethan squinted. He couldn't control his face; he tried to make his smile more ingratiating.
"So, how are you getting home? Taxi?"
"What's your address?"
The middle-aged man helped steady Ethan and hailed a cab as he spoke.
"Home…"
Ethan's voice dropped low.
When the man looked at him, he only saw Ethan slumping, his mouth pulled down a little.
"Where do you live? I'll get you a car."
"I can't go first… Uncle Li, you sit, you sit. My place isn't far; I can walk."
But a second later he put his smile back on, still a little tipsy, and helped wedge Uncle Li into the taxi, blocking the wind from his neck.
The middle-aged guy couldn't help thinking this kid was too meticulous; he must be exhausted.
He prodded again. "Where's your place? If it's on the way we can go together."
"Hah, really—"
"No worry, Director Carter, let my driver take you."
A woman's voice cut straight in.
Claire was wearing a fitted sheath dress that showed off every curve. She leaned forward slightly; a few strands of hair fell loose.
She knew how to show men her best angles.
Ethan narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, then that's perfect. I'm off."
The middle-aged man reacted first, smiling as he flung the taxi door shut.
The taxi peeled away, and the winter wind stung at Ethan's neck.
"Ethan, are you even drunk?"
Claire's voice beside him opened, splitting the cold like a knife.
"Heh. Not drunk. Only a few drinks. Can't be drunk yet."
"Come on, get in my car. I'll drive you home."
"No, Ms. White, you shouldn't personally drive me. I'll walk. You just focus on the deal."
"Ethan, can you stop with the fake politeness?"
Claire's tone shot up. The two of them stood there on the street; Ethan kept his head down so you couldn't see his expression.
"I know you and Maya are divorced. She's not worthy of you. I don't think you haven't noticed I'm into you."
"We're unmarried. If you had my family's assets, you could easily crush your brother."
"Ms. White sure has done her homework."
Ethan's voice stayed flat, tucked into the night where it was hard to make out.
"Stop calling me Ms. White. You can call me… Claire."
Claire stepped closer, pale fingers tracing Ethan's collar. He didn't move. His gaze stayed down, thinking of something else.
The air grew taut. Claire got bolder and stood on tiptoe; the distance between them tightened.
Ethan pushed her away. Hard enough that she staggered.
"Don't, Claire. This wine's about to make me puke."
Alcohol dulled Ethan's mind. When Claire leaned in, his thoughts flashed to someone else.
Maya had never demanded a kiss from him.
He felt like he was going insane, associating everything with her.
"Ethan!"
Claire's voice held a sting.
"What am I lacking compared to Maya? We were so close in high school!"
"High school… who remembers after so many years?"
He remembered the silhouette of the sun sinking over the hill, someone hunched but carrying him home, back when he was a broken kid. It hurt.
"Claire, remember what we did to Maya in high school? Nowadays they'd call that bullying."
He habitually reached for a cigarette, realized he hadn't smoked in a while — probably since marrying Maya.
He frowned, but his mind lazily drifted back to her.
"I wonder if you regret it… I regret it now," he murmured. "I regret it so much."
Hands in his coat pockets, he gave Claire a cold look. She instinctively took a step back.
Without another glance, Ethan walked off into the dark.
Past midnight, the streets were empty; shops were shut. Car lights sliced the night into white lines.
Ethan aimlessly walked, thinking about what Maya might be doing. No matter how late he came home before, she seemed to be waiting. When she fell asleep she'd leave a lamp on by his bedside.
Now? Would she go to bed early? He lay awake thinking about her every night.
Habit is a terrible thing.
He passed a jewelry shop and glanced at the window, then stopped.
The store was closed but the display lights were still on.
He'd always thought jewelry looked pretty but mostly the same. Female coworkers wore them sometimes; he couldn't tell the difference.
He recalled when they were choosing wedding things and he sat on the couch watching her try on gowns. When she pinned her hair up, her neck looked pale and long. The clerk asked if they wanted a custom jewelry set.
He couldn't remember his answer. He probably didn't care. Maya didn't ask for it later either.
Did she want it then? The question nagged at him. Maybe she hoped he'd give her something just for her. At the time he didn't care. He really didn't.
He pulled out his phone and dialed her.
The line went dead, then a string of busy tones, each one splintering his heart.
"Maya."
He cradled the phone, his voice nearly blown away by the wind. He knew she had hung up, but he kept going.
"I saw a jewelry shop. There's a necklace that would suit you."
Only the busy signal answered. His head fuzzy from drink, he kept pleading into the night.
"Come home, Maya. Come back, please?"
No one answered. Wind whistled. Ethan kept repeating her name, but the night had spread out and the person he called would never return.
Three years later.
Graduation season was near. Maya had just gotten promoted and accepted a teaching position at her alma mater. She barely had time to be happy before complications started piling up.
"What's wrong? You look exhausted these days."
During an empty moment in the cafeteria, coworker Lisa sat down beside her.
"What's up? Students unhappy with finals? Begging you not to fail them? I swear, if I can give them a pass I do."
"That's how it is every year."
"Skipping class and then begging? Typical. Right, Professor Lin?"
Maya didn't answer. She looked absent.
"Professor Lin?"
Lisa followed her gaze and saw, not knowing when they'd arrived, the college leaders approaching — big names, all surrounding one man.
He wore a trench coat, hands in pockets, expression calm. The assembly of fifty-something administrators were all smiles.
"That's who!"
Lisa suddenly remembered. "That CEO who came as an honorary alumnus speaker."
"Wow, he's handsome. Have you ever seen the dean so deferential? His name's Carter… Ethan Carter, right?"
Maya quietly finished the name Ethan Carter.
"Yeah, yeah…"
She lowered her head and ate quickly, barely looking up. Her motions were brisk — clearing her tray, washing up, all in one smooth action.
"I've got class this afternoon. Gotta run."
Like she was fleeing a contagion.
Maya hadn't expected to run into Ethan here.
After the divorce, she threw herself into work. When the chance came to return to her alma mater as a lecturer, she thought their lives had diverged for good. But seeing him now, at a distance, felt strange.
She remembered Ethan as someone who used to smile a lot.
Now he looked downcast, indifferent, unreadable.
To be honest, these past few years, she’d been seeing Ethan Carter on TV more often.
Mostly because Maya’s mother nagged her to watch—half scolding, half joking—saying, “You divorced for what? If you hadn’t, you’d be living like a rich wife now.”
Maya didn’t feel much about that.
She suddenly realized she could be with anyone—everyone but Ethan.
“Ms. Lin! I was just looking for you!”
A voice pulled her back from her thoughts.
Mr. Wu, the physics teacher, had a smile that was almost too sunny. Like her, he’d become a college instructor at a relatively young age, so he made easy conversation.
He’d gone to a top university, earned dual doctoral degrees, owned a condo, and had just bought an SUV. Most important, he liked her.
Nice enough credentials.
She didn’t know when she’d started sizing people up like that.
Maybe it was her mother constantly pushing her to remarry, saying divorced women were harder to place, forcing her to go on blind dates. But Maya really didn’t feel anything.
She felt the same about the man standing in front of her. She offered a polite smile and gestured for him to continue.
“I’m heading to Riverbend for research. I brought you something from there.”
He handed her a small, delicate pouch—antique-styled, the kind women usually liked.
“Thank you.”
Maya accepted it, already thinking about when and how she’d return the favor.
Honestly, Mr. Wu was much more considerate than someone else used to be.
Once, Ethan—maybe having a rare moment of conscience or impulse while on a business trip—had brought her a dreamcatcher.
She’d carefully hung it up, watching the feathers sway, sighing and wondering when he’d come home sooner.
That dreamcatcher had disappeared somewhere. Ethan had left the apartment to her, but she’d been so furious she’d thrown a lot of things away.
Lost in that thought, she wasn’t paying full attention. Mr. Wu called her name several times to bring her back.
“Ms. Lin, would you be free tonight—dinner?”
“…”
Maya was half-dazed, almost ready to accept—after all, returning favors was fine—when her gaze drifted past Mr. Wu’s shoulder and landed on a figure in the corridor.
Ethan stood across from them, probably out for a cigarette. His trench coat made him look tall and lean; half his face was hidden in smoke, soft and hazy.
Since when had he started smoking again?
“Ms. Lin?”
“Ah—sorry, I have plans tonight. Maybe another time.”
She didn’t even know why she was flustered. By the time she realized, she’d already started walking away with her bag, thoughts scrambled by that instant of meeting his distant eyes.
Pathetic, she scolded herself.
Halfway down the hall, her phone rang.
“Ms. Lin, you don’t have classes this afternoon, right?”
It was Li—who’d just eaten with her earlier.
“What’s up?”
“Two boys in my class fought pretty badly. I have to go handle it. Could you cover my section for a bit?”
“…”
So Ethan had come to give the talk at someone’s invitation. What rotten coincidence.
When Maya arrived at the lecture hall, workers were still checking the large spotlights above the stage. Fortunately, her job was just to monitor progress—no need to interact with the speaker—so she took a seat off to the side.
“Hey, Ms. Lin, you’re here too.”
A girl sat beside her and struck up conversation.
She was probably in Maya’s class—the vice president of the career association. She had a cute, doll-like face and was outgoing enough to chat with professors in their fifties, so talking to Maya was no problem.
“Mm.”
“I heard Ethan graduated in 2020; did you graduate then too?”
“…Yes.”
“Wow. Do you know Ethan? What was he like back then?”
The girl rested her chin on her hand, smiling with crescent eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“…You don’t know?”
“It’s been so many years.”
The girl, sensing Maya’s lack of interest, got up to say goodbye. Maya idly wandered the hall as people trickled in.
The spotlight didn’t seem fully repaired, but the event was about to start and the workers had to remove the ladder. She glanced up; the light looked fine.
Then Ethan arrived to check in with the host. From a distance he seemed detached—nothing to do with her.
When he walked onstage, she noticed how different he was.
Not at all like the memory she had of him. Onstage he was polished and natural, his features warm but distant—the kind of person you couldn’t quite reach.
She inhaled and listened quietly to his speech.
At the end, the applause lingered.
He suddenly tilted his head and looked directly at her.
Their gazes met for a heartbeat.
Those eyes were beautiful—eyes that had swallowed her adolescence, the impossible fantasies she’d fed herself, the ashes she’d thrown to the wind.
Light caught the dust between them and it danced.
His gaze wavered.
Then she saw panic flash across his face.
He lunged toward her.
Those few seconds stretched like an eternity.
The spotlight blazed. People cried out. He crashed into her and wrapped her tight.
Her mind went blank.
A thunderous cracking filled the air.
The spotlight came crashing down.
When she felt something sticky through her hands, it all felt like a nightmare.
Ethan was drenched in blood.
She didn’t know where so much blood had come from. It slowly stained her eyes. She realized she couldn’t make a sound. People were running; someone shouted for an ambulance. Hands pulled at her. Only then did she notice she had been clutching Ethan’s sleeve.
He lay on the floor with his eyes closed, unnaturally still, blood spreading around him.
They tugged at her. Her temple thudded. She couldn’t speak, barely standing. After a long time, she forced herself to ask, syllable by syllable.
What had happened?
How long after that went by—she couldn’t say.
After he got the invitation to speak, Ethan had been frowning and thinking.
It had been a long time since anyone had mattered to him.
He’d shut himself inside work, sleeping in the office at times until it didn’t seem different from going home. A few nights he drank through boxes of beer until alcohol poisoning sent him to the hospital.
“I finally understand how much she hurt back then,” a friend said, waving the lab report at him and teasing when he brought it over.
“You’re crazy,” Ethan muttered.
He lay staring at the glaring hospital lights, thinking everything was over.
Slowly, though, he pulled himself up.
He walked a long way and learned his own stubbornness wasn’t enough; one day he knelt—giving up things he’d once thought important. He let himself be consumed by darker methods, feeling the pull of black impulses.
He realized that dirty tricks often worked better than straightforward ones. He started using what was around him. He found darkness in his bones, and this ease made those deeds feel natural. Eventually, someone he’d once knelt to ended up crawling at his feet.
He could now afford a villa alone, but sometimes he’d think of the two-bedroom place he’d had near the Third Ring—a tiny apartment with someone who’d cook for him and wait for him to come home. He imagined greeting her in the morning in his boxers and a loose tee, ruffling his hair and calling, “Morning, honey.”
He’d buy her things, sometimes unintentionally, even though they were divorced—long divorced.
He’d left a room for her in that house, filled with things he’d bought: slippers, a stuffed bear, a necklace bought at an auction. He’d lean in the doorway, watch, then smile bitterly and walk away.
From the moment he fell into darkness, he’d known he didn’t deserve her.
That was why he came to her school to speak.
He admitted it—he’d wanted to see her. He couldn’t stop himself wanting to see how she was doing. Then he’d seen someone hand her a gift—the man looked honest, a little goofy, probably wouldn’t hurt her. When she accepted it with a small smile, Ethan nearly choked on his cigarette.
I miss you so much, he thought.
He watched her quietly, trying to burn her face into his memory.
He felt something in him roar to lunge forward, to yank her back by any means, to make her stay. Countless crazy thoughts flickered through his mind.
In the end, he only curled his lip and started to walk away.
He feared that if he hesitated one second more, he would run back and hold her.
He feared she’d cry, that she wouldn’t want him, that she’d hate him and call him an asshole through tears.
When his talk ended, he turned and saw her.
She’d been watching him all along?
In that instant, he wanted nothing but to look into her eyes—calm, like a still lake—and be seen. He lowered his head and met her gaze.
He suddenly saw the spotlight above her flicker.
Almost instinctively, he dove for her.
Glass shattered, and a sharp pain stabbed through them both, but his face brushed her hair—tender, clingy.
I finally have you again, he thought.
Hospitals are always quiet and pale, filled with the despair of death and the joy of new life. Doctors rushed by with stretchers. Only then did he barely notice the red “Surgery in Progress” light in the operating room and wrench his thoughts back.
In the ambulance, Ethan wouldn’t stop bleeding.
When he’d pushed her away, he had dodged the falling spotlight by inches, but flying shards of glass cut him all over—over twenty wounds, some deep, and a strip of metal had pierced his ribs, spearing him through.
When the doctors described it, her hands shook as she signed forms.
Now he was in surgery, and she stood outside the operating room. She watched the trees sway past the window but couldn’t find her bearings.
She couldn’t focus.
She’d never imagined their reunion would be this brutal.
She stared at people racing down the corridor. Outside the ER was chaos: blood-smeared people carried in from ambulances, family members’ cries rising sharp and raw and shredding her nerves.
At least she had something to focus on—something to fracture her attention and stop her from thinking of that one terrible, unreal moment.
Ethan might die. Very possibly.
I covered my face with my hands so I couldn't see anything—just darkness—but my ears heard everything. I told myself to stay calm. But if Ethan really died, what would I do?
I didn’t want him to die. Not ever.
There were some of Ethan's subordinates still here, but his family couldn't be reached. To be honest, after all these years I hardly knew anything about his household—only that he had always lived with his mother.
Right next door to my family.
Then my mom came over.
She said, after all, he used to be her son-in-law; something this big happening—especially involving me—she had to come see for herself.
By the time she arrived I was a mess, sitting on the floor in a daze.
She grabbed my arm, tried to pull me up, then patted me, urging me to get up.
I always admired her calm. She seemed unfazed by everything and took everything so matter-of-factly.
Seeing her, though, I finally fell apart.
“They said… Ethan might die… Ethan could die…”
My tears spilled out all at once.
“Tch, don't say that—saying it before surgery is bad luck.”
She patted me again.
“Sigh, you two…what a karmic mess.”
When Ethan was wheeled out of the OR, I was still numb. Even with my mom beside me I couldn't pull myself together.
I watched his bed roll out, then stop. A crowd clustered around the doctors; I stayed on the perimeter. He wore a clear oxygen mask; pale breath fogged the plastic. He lay so still, and suddenly the world went quiet.
So loud, yet I couldn’t make anything out.
I stood there stunned for a long moment. My mom leaned in close, came back and wrapped her arms around me, whispering that the surgery had basically succeeded and that if he woke up there wouldn’t be much to worry about.
I replied, then a tight wire inside me snapped, and exhaustion washed over me like a tide.
Maya, oh Maya.
I started walking out. My mom asked where I was going. I blankly said home; she told me to stay.
“He’s safe now, you should go.”
“Aren't you going to take care of him?”
“Mom, what are you talking about—we broke up a long time ago—”
“I mean, Ethan saved you. It's reasonable to at least say thank you.”
She sighed and pulled me down the hospital steps.
Ethan's operation had been major. By the time we came out it was already eleven or twelve at night. The street lamps still glowed. My mom took me to a tiny wonton shop.
We didn’t talk. Steam rose from the bowls. The scallion oil scent woke my appetite; I realized I hadn’t eaten in a long time.
The steam sketched out the simple warmth of ordinary life.
“Over the years, me nagging you was just because I wanted you to have someone when you got older,” my mom said slowly.
“Ethan saved you, but that’s all it is—just saving you. We don’t have any romantic tropes where the woman must repay by giving herself. I just hope you can see things clearly. Don't feel guilty and get back together with him if you don’t mean it. Think it through.”
I hadn't expected my mom to lecture me like that.
Wasn’t she the one who watched Ethan on TV and sighed dramatically in front of me?
I nodded and buried my face in the bowl.
I didn’t know what to do. Ethan kept storming back into my life like this, always stirring things up and throwing my heart into chaos.
In the end I didn’t go home.
Exhausted but unable to sleep, I wandered downstairs by the hospital, replaying the memory of him rushing at me.
He had held me so tight.
Too tight.
I slept leaning against a plastic chair in the hospital as dawn broke, and I slept deeply. I dreamed Ethan had died and I was at his funeral. It was a terrible dream.
Startled awake, I saw the door to Ethan's ward open. Doctors in white coats and visitors were inside.
My heart jumped.
I pushed up and walked over. In my head a thousand nightmare images collided, but through the crowd I saw Ethan sitting up in bed.
He was awake.
There were little cuts on his face like glass had scraped him—who knew if he'd be left scarred—his eyes were still foggy and disoriented, maybe not fully lucid yet.
I stayed at a distance and watched him.
Our eyes met. For a second his gaze brightened.
Then his lips curved into a faint smile directed at me.
A doctor came up and asked him how he felt. The view between us was blocked. I didn't know why I stayed at the back, why I couldn't step forward or say anything.
He still had a crowd of friends around him.
Most were new to me; a few familiar faces understood immediately when they saw me, muttered something, and led the others out of the room.
Ethan lay propped on the hospital pillow, his hand wrapped in bandages, serenely watching me.
“Anything you want to say, Miss Lin?” someone asked.
Miss Lin.
For some reason that title made my heart drop.
“Thank you,” I managed.
Then I couldn't utter another word.
We held each other's eyes. His were still beautiful, but his face looked sickly pale. We stared for a long minute before he finally let out a soft sigh.
“You risked half your life and all you can say is ‘thanks’? Huh? Maya?”
“…”
Ethan—he’s probably the person in the world who knows me best.
He knows exactly where to push, how to poke the softest places inside me. He's a rascal who always exploits them.
I sighed and looked at him: his hands and body wrapped in bandages, pitifully innocent.
I stepped forward, leaned down, closing the distance. I felt his breath hitch; the rhythm between us stumbled.
Just as my lips were about to touch his—
I pulled away.
“Cooperate with your treatment, Ethan,” I said, turning and walking out. As I shut the door I heard a low, muffled growl.
He bit his teeth and made a hoarse sound.
I couldn't help it—I smiled softly.
***
Outside the tour bus, trees flashed by in a blur, low and steady as we sped past. Ethan sat next to me, his forehead pressed to the windowglass, eyes closed. From my side I could see his perfect jawline and think how unreal it looked.
We were juniors then, on winter break, taking the bus home. Ethan and I had been together three years and four months.
If any girl in love tends to crave security, I was worse than most. Ethan had never given me that kind of assurance.
When I vented to my close friend Chloe about it over WeChat, she said I needed to test him.
“Test him how?” I asked.
She said, if a man shows no possessiveness—if he doesn't get even slightly jealous—he probably doesn't love you.
So she schemed that during this trip home we should set up a test for Ethan.
By the time I looked over at him, he had woken. Our gazes met; I could see pure bewilderment in his eyes.
“My head’s rattled from the bus,” he complained, propping his head on his fist.
“…”
“We're almost there.”
“Mm.”
His voice was low and sticky at the end. When I took my scarf off and set it on my lap, he reached and fussed, wrapping it around me clumsily.
“Put the scarf on. It's cold when we get off.”
I nodded. His fingertips brushed my neck and a strange little prickling ran up my skin.
“Ethan.”
I called his name. He turned to look at me.
His eyes always seemed shallow emotionally, but the corner of his mouth lifted just enough to feel familiar and comforting.
“Chloe arranged a little get-together with our old crew tonight—New Year’s Eve. You coming?”
He rubbed his neck, glanced out the window without much interest, and then, like an afterthought, said, “Sure.”
Ethan and I were neighbors, childhood friends. Living in the same place for eighteen years made us practically inseparable. My mom had long known we were dating; she always pushed us to hang out together when I went home.
She probably just found me annoying.
At Ethan’s house I noticed he was putting up paper window decorations—maybe he really had lived with his mom, who was gentle and warm, much calmer than my mom's sudden flare-ups.
He waved me over with a fingertip.
“Come help—does this 'good fortune' paper look crooked?”
I stepped back and saw it was tilted.
“Move it to the right.”
“Like this?”
He adjusted the angle but went too far.
“No, back. Left.”
“Wait—now right again.”
“No, no—left, a tiny bit…”
“No—”
“Maya.”
He crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow at me.
“It really is crooked.”
I told him seriously.
“Okay, help me hold it.”
I moved closer to steady it. His hand still clung above mine; he didn’t step away. That small closeness felt like an embrace.
He leaned in so his mouth grazed the shell of my ear; his breath warmed the cartilage.
“Hold it, keep it steady.”
After a moment he stepped back to judge it and admitted he'd placed it wrong.
“Ah,” he clicked his tongue.
“Hey, you two are here!” a bright voice interrupted the awkward, almost tender moment.
Chloe was a middle-school friend. We’d taken different high schools and different universities but never stopped talking.
“Ethan, are you bullying my Maya?”
She hooked her arm through mine.
Winter in the north had indoor heating, so the heavy coats came off. Ethan wore a turtleneck sweater and lounged against the wall, eyes half on us, amused.
He gave a small, ambiguous laugh, then turned and shook the glue bottle.
“Lend a hand, you two.”
That winter seemed to snow more than usual.
Honestly, Ethan and my relationship often felt like a couple—but then again, not like one. Back in this town where we'd grown up, we felt even more like childhood sweethearts.
Early one morning I opened the door and saw Ethan yawning as he shoveled the snow next door.
He was bundled up, scarf nearly covering half his face, only his wet, almond-shaped eyes peeking out. He gave me a small greeting after a beat.
“Morning.”
I nodded. Our eyes met for a moment, and before he could fully react I pulled out a snowball I'd already formed and tossed it at him.
Bullseye.
Ethan staggered back, probably still half-asleep.
Then he squinted at me.
At moments like that, you don't just stand there to be hit. I summoned whatever athletic reflexs I had left, and as he reached for some weapon, I spun and ran.
Ethan's long legs closed the distance in two strides. He swept me into his arms and breathed warm air in my ear.
"Not bad, Maya," he said.
I stared at him, forsaking any thoughts of throwing a snowball. I gave up resisting—but then his hand found my neck.
He hadn't been wearing gloves; his hand was ice-cold.
I shivered and tried to pull away. He pinned me to his chest, his hand restless, sliding downward.
"I was wrong, I was wrong," I blurted.
Pride didn't suit me. I surrendered.
He chuckled behind me, then tugged up the zipper on my coat.
"Why no scarf?"
"I left in a hurry."
"Hurrying to smash into me, huh."
"Mm."
We fell silent. Snow began to fall again, huge, drifting across the sky and dusting his short hair. He looked at me, head slightly bowed; crystals clung to his lashes and glittered.
For some reason I hoped the snowfall would last, that it would get heavier, longer.
Maybe then, by accident, Ethan and I would grow old together—white hair and all.
The night before New Year's we went to the party Chen organized, like we said we would.
Friends who grew up in the same alley change in little ways. Even chubby, perpetually-picked-on Wang back then had become a clean-cut engineering student with black-frame glasses.
"So, are you two together?" someone asked.
Our thing hadn't been broadcast. Not many of the old neighborhood crowd knew. When they found out, faces shifted into that awkward, unsurprised-but-still-surprised look.
To be honest, before middle school I carried a lot of weight in that alley. I grew early and was stocky—I led a little gang. Even Ethan used to call me "boss."
Back then Ethan was my "strategist."
Whenever he caused trouble, he pinned it on me. I took half the beatings that I'm pretty sure were his fault.
And he could make me forgive him every time. He'd flash those big innocent eyes and I'd melt, convinced it was all my fault.
Then one day the strategist turned coat.
I didn't understand why my buddies stopped hanging with me, why they started turning on me. Then I saw Ethan crowned the new kid-king of the alley, sneering at me.
My status plummeted. People ignored me; sometimes they'd throw stones at my back as I walked.
Looking back, I probably would have grown up bright and social—if not for that turn. I retreated inward.
I remember covering my head and crying so hard, then dragging Ethan outside the next morning. He blinked at me with innocent eyes like nothing was wrong, and I nearly exploded. He even tried to threaten me first.
"Maya! If you hit me, I'll tell on you! You were just grounded by your mom—you don't want to get grounded again…"
I flashed back to all the times I'd taken the blame for him. I lost it, shouted, pinned Ethan down and started punching him—hard—while I cried.
Kids don't hold back. I used everything I had. When the grown-ups pulled us apart, I kicked him one more time in anger and got smacked by my mom for it. I cried louder.
That summer I couldn't go out. Ethan and I were done.
Even now, thinking of that opportunity to beat him up doesn't satisfy me. Later, I couldn't overpower him anymore.
At the hotpot table everyone pushed plates, flipping between adult and kid. I assumed Ethan would lead the banter, but he simply ate, answering in low tones, eyes focused on the food.
Chen had told me she was testing him—using Wang as the bait. Wang Chen, the alley kid who'd sunk lower than all of us back then. I remembered him snotty and messy; he was shockingly put-together now.
Chen said during the game Wang would reveal he had feelings for me, and then we'd see how Ethan reacted.
I watched Ethan scarf a slice of beef into my bowl when he noticed me watching—no drama, just the motion.
We moved on to karaoke, and, of course, games. The eternal truth-or-dare—everyone loved it. Chen lifted her glass and called us in.
"Let's play truth only. For dares it's just a drink."
I joined. Ethan didn't. He used to be the first to jump in. Now he lounged against the couch, expression flat, offering me a small, unreadable smile only when he caught me looking.
The spin landed on me first. I felt like I had nothing interesting to say. Chen paused, then another girl beat her to the question.
"Who confessed first—you or Ethan?"
I knew that gaze well. Before I could answer, Ethan, sitting nearby, said for me.
"Me."
A chorus of "oh"s followed—like they'd just been handed wet candy and had no idea what to do with it. The wheel never came near me again.
Wang got spun multiple times, but every time he grabbed a cup and drank, making everyone think he'd only come for free booze.
On one spin Chen finally stopped him.
"Okay, no more drinking. Tell us—what's your biggest regret growing up?"
He looked a little drunk, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded. Then he looked straight at me.
"Probably… never having the courage to protect someone in the end."
When he said it he didn't look away. The way he stared set something hot and uncomfortable under my skin. I turned to find Ethan among a group across the room. The crowd buzzed; a few people looked at us with meaning. I scanned the room, desperate for Ethan's reaction, but couldn't catch his eyes.
I waited and waited. After a while Ethan stood and joined us.
"Okay, I'm in. Let's play a few rounds."
His smile was ordinary and brilliant at once, like someone born to be looked at—effortless center stage.
But he never glanced my way.
By nine, a few girls left because their parents were strict, so the crowd thinned. Ethan and I went down to the curb where the wind cut like knives.
We took a car; I tried to make conversation but he only murmured answers.
Neon sliced his profile in shadow and light. I couldn't get a clear read.
"Wang really has changed," I prodded. "I remember covering for him back then…"
He gave no expression. He left my teasing in the cold.
When we got out, Ethan's tall stride carried him forward. I caught up, breathless, unsure what to say.
"Goodnight, Ethan," I said.
He stopped, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me inside his place. The door shut; he pressed me against it in one fluid motion.
His mom was probably out; the apartment was dark. I could only make out his strong nose in the spill of streetlight through the window.
It was so quiet—my senses stripped down to his breathing near my ear.
Then he kissed me.
I had to admit it—Ethan kissed with an expert touch. He could torture you with it: one second a gentle lick at the corner of your mouth, the next sweeping and conqueror-like.
He kissed me until I could hardly breathe. I clutched his sleeve; he half-supported me and trailed kisses down to my neck.
"Ethan."
"Hm?"
His low voice in the dark was dangerously pullable, lazy as always.
"Are you jealous?"
He laughed softly.
"Only kids get jealous."
His hand slid around my waist, lifting my skirt with deliberate, unhurried motion. Night swallowed us like a tide. I told myself to stop, to push his hand away, but my strength failed me.
When he entered me, he nibbled my earlobe and said, "Adults call this… heat."
Fireworks burst above.
Snow began falling harder outside. I'd forgotten our New Year's plan to watch fireworks together. Now neither of us looked like we were going anywhere.
He held me from behind and we watched the snow through the window. At the instant a firework bloomed, the sky turned white as day, and his breath warmed my shoulder. After a long pause I heard him lower his voice beside my ear.
"Happy New Year."
