The night I was supposed to introduce Chris to my parents, he disappeared. He rejected every single one of my calls. But in the dead of night, I saw a video posted by Chris’s stepsister, Lila. 【My heart’s been acting up today, but thank goodness for the fish soup big brother made me~】 【Brother watched the fireworks with me. So beautiful.】 Her camera panned over the creamy white fish soup in a thermos on the table. Then to the fireworks blooming outside the window. It finally settled on the hospital bedsheet, on a man's hand—all sharp knuckles and long fingers—gripping the girl’s delicate wrist. Chris’s hand. 1 When Chris finally walked through the door, he paused, frowning as he waved a hand in front of his face. His voice was cold, a world away from the gentle tone that had called out “Lila” in the video. "Aubrey, you promised you wouldn't smoke." I watched the smoke curl around my fingertips. "And you know a thing or two about keeping promises?" Chris flinched. The look on his face told me he’d only just remembered what day it was. Our families were worlds apart. I had poured my heart and soul into convincing my parents to accept him, and yet, he had always refused to meet them. He had finally agreed this time, and I was so ecstatic I could have set off fireworks across the entire city. But after my countless calls went unanswered, I was forced to feed my mother the same excuse I’d used a dozen times before. She listened quietly, not calling me out on the lie, just sighing. "Aubrey, is he worth it?" Was he worth it? I didn't know anymore. Chris's tone softened a little, his apology stiff. "Aubrey, today was my fault. We'll go see your parents another time." I said nothing. He was used to my endless forgiveness. To him, that "it was my fault" was a monumental concession. When I remained silent, he rubbed his temples, a flicker of impatience in his voice. "You know how fragile Lila is. Can you stop being so dramatic?" "Oh," I said. "So your concern for her clouds your judgment." His lips thinned, a clear sign he was suppressing his anger. "I've told you a hundred times, even if Lila and I aren't related by blood, I'm the only family she has left. Can you stop being so sordid?" He took a sharp breath. "Aubrey, not everyone is like you, unable to live without a man in their life." The ash from my cigarette fell onto my fingers. I didn't feel the burn. All I heard was a faint ringing in my ears. Slowly, I lifted my head and looked at him. "What did you just say?" 2 For me, it was love at first sight with Chris. My family's wealth gave me the freedom to do whatever I wanted. I grew up surrounded by luxury, majored in Art History on a whim, and chased thrills with extreme sports at home and abroad. The plan was to graduate, enter an arranged marriage, and live out my days. I saw nothing wrong with that. Until I met Chris. He was the art school's resident ice king. Incredibly handsome, immensely talented, and as cold as frost. His only family was a sick younger sister. I couldn't explain what was so special about him, but every time I saw him, it felt like a thousand butterflies erupted in my stomach. I pursued him earnestly for a year. I gave up extreme sports because I started to fear death. I switched my major to business and demanded an internship at my family's company. After learning about his financial situation, I wanted to offer him a secure future. I even got a job at the coffee shop where he worked part-time, just to be near him. Of course, having never worked a day in my life, I was a clumsy disaster. On my first day, I managed to burn my hand. Chris had always kept me at arm's length, coolly rejecting every one of my advances. But that day, seeing me hiss in pain, he did something unprecedented. He brought me burn cream. He knelt before me, his long, cool fingers gently dabbing the ointment onto my skin. As he worked, he mumbled, "You should stop coming here." After a year of getting nowhere, even my best friend, Echo, teased that the great Aubrey Thorne had finally hit a wall. I was starting to lose hope. I threw caution to the wind, staring at the crown of his head as I made my last stand. "Make me your girlfriend, and I'll stop." Honestly, if he'd said no, I would have given up. "Okay," Chris said. It took me a second to process. My mouth hung open, utterly dumbfounded. Chris looked up at me and, for the first time, smiled. It was like watching ice melt in the spring sun, and I was completely mesmerized. He had his pride. Lila's illness was a constant drain on their finances, but he would rather bury himself in commercial projects and part-time jobs than accept a single gift or penny from me. That meant he had very little time for dates. I respected his choice. I had a lot of catching up to do in my new major anyway, so I spent my days at the coffee shop, working on assignments while waiting for him. Sometimes, I'd fall asleep from exhaustion. I would wake up to find the café's bright lights dimmed to a soft, warm glow, a soft blanket with a kitten pattern draped over my shoulders. My long, tedious essay would be finished, written in his neat script. A sticky note would be on the side of my laptop screen, featuring a perfect little doodle of a sleeping kitten, a snot bubble inflating from its nose. In its dream bubble was the profile of a boy—a certain someone was a little full of himself. I stared at the adorable drawing, my heart feeling like it was about to burst with affection. I couldn't help myself. I reached over, grabbed a pretending-to-be-busy Chris, and bit him gently on the cheek. "I like you so much." Caught off guard, he chided me softly, "Aubrey, we're in public. Control yourself." But the crimson blush creeping up his ears gave him away. When one of his paintings won a national award, his acceptance speech was broadcast live across the country. "I want to thank my love, my muse, Aubrey." Who could have known that when you reach the summit of happiness, the only way to go is down? My performance at the company had solidified my position as my mother's successor. Chris's career stabilized, and Lila’s health improved dramatically. Suddenly, I was the one who was never around. I don't know when it started, but our fights became more frequent. About my non-stop work schedule, about his insistence on dropping everything for Lila's minor whims, about his persistent refusal to meet my family. Chris grew colder, his words sharper and more hurtful. After each fight, he would disappear for weeks, sometimes months, on "inspiration trips," not returning until I broke the silence and apologized. He never said sorry. At first, I'd coax him back out of love and longing. He’d never been in a relationship before; he was the ice king I had worked so hard to win over, so it was my responsibility to handle him with care. But as the cycle repeated, my efforts turned into numb, weary attempts to keep the peace. The demands of the company were overwhelming. Slowly, the sense of accomplishment from my work began to outweigh my desire for a future with Chris. 3 Chris’s face paled slightly, a flicker of regret in his eyes. But I knew he wouldn't apologize. I let out a short, bitter laugh, glancing down at the glowing red tip of my cigarette. "So that's what you really think of me." After five years, did he still not know who I was? I'd never believed that my past relationships made my love for him any less valid. But apparently, Chris did. If that was the case, why did he ever say yes? When I was chasing him, he rejected me, yet he always showed up to the parties I threw. Every time I was about to give up, he’d give me a sliver of hope. He’d return the bouquets I sent, but I’d find he had secretly kept a single rose. The painting that won him his first national award, the one with the girl in profile… it was unmistakably me. Later, as his fame grew, that painting was valued at over a hundred thousand dollars. He gave it to me. It was the first gift he ever gave me. He never let me buy him anything expensive, yet he gave me something so priceless. I cherished it. I designed the frame myself, picking out the solid wood and inlaying the gems with my own hands. It was hanging in our living room right now. I looked at the sophisticated, mature man before me, and an image of a boy in a white shirt from five years ago flashed in my mind—the boy who had quietly sketched my face at his easel. It was a slow, dull realization. This entire unbalanced love affair had been my own grand delusion. Chris's voice grew urgent. "No... it's just, when I saw you..." He seemed to remember something, his breathing growing heavy, his eyes turning red. "Forget it. Let's not talk about that." He sighed. "About meeting your parents… let's wait a little longer." Then, "I have to go abroad for an inspiration trip this week." There it was again. The signal that this fight was over, and it was my turn to start making amends. I sighed and stood up. Chris's long lashes lowered, his body tensing almost imperceptibly. I vaguely remembered a time, back when our problems first started, that I could melt his icy resolve just by cuddling up to him. But he had become so much harder to please. I walked past him, stopping in front of the painting I treasured more than anything. The cigarette had burned down to my fingertips. I could feel the searing heat on my skin. I lifted my hand and pressed the last glowing ember onto the serene, smiling face of the girl in the painting. A soft sizzle broke the silence. In an instant, a black, scorched mark marred her face. I turned around. "There's no need to wait, Chris." "We're breaking up."
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