I lifted my phone again, switching to selfie mode. The lens caught my pale face, my forced grin wobbling at the edges.
"Hi. March 25, 2025," I announced lightly. "I'm here right now in hopes of meeting a certain friend..."
This time, it really wasn't a coincidence.
To see Evan Cross, I'd been loitering outside this neighborhood for four days straight. The security guard already knew me by face. Yesterday he even offered me a chair and a sympathy orange.
"Is he… doing okay lately?" I asked the camera softly. "I just… want to see him—"
"No," cut in flatly.
Oliver Lewis. Evan's manager. Former roommate. Current human firewall.
"I promise I won't talk to him," I rushed out. "I'll just look. One glance. A half-glance. Peripheral vision, even."
"Maya," Oliver said slowly, the way people talk to toddlers holding scissors, "you ended things with him like you were deleting spam mail. He's barely glued himself back together. Don't you dare reopen that wound."
I nodded so fast my neck popped. "I know. I know. I just want to see him quietly… one last—"
"One last time?" Oliver's brows knit together.
I laughed too loudly and quickly. "Haha! Dramatic phrasing! I meant… one last peek. Like window shopping. For people."
Somehow, against all common sense, he let me in.
I immediately hid behind the living room curtains like a criminal with zero stealth stats.
Evan wasn't home yet.
I whispered to the camera like I was filming a nature documentary. "Okay. I'm inside. This is Evan's place. We used to rent this house together back when the roof leaked and the heater screamed like it was being exorcised."
I slowly panned the room. Sunlight. Clean lines. Warm wood.
"…Wow," I muttered. "He fixed everything."
Back then, Evan hated mornings. Oliver even duplicated our key and come over daily just to yank him out of bed and shove a laptop at his face.
"Code or die," Oliver used to say. Very motivational. Very illegal.
Oliver told me Evan had been staying here lately. He should be back soon.
So I aimed the camera at the door.
Click.
The lock turned.
Evan stepped inside.
My breath caught so hard it felt like my lungs forgot their job.
He looked tired—but the good kind. Like someone who'd survived something. His sleeves were rolled up, hair slightly messy, keys dangling from his fingers.
Then I noticed it.
Something tall in the corner of the living room, draped in dark blue cloth.
Evan stopped, stared at it for a second, then reached out and pulled the fabric away.
I slapped my hand over my mouth.
It was a mannequin.
And it was wearing a dress.
Not white. Not ivory.
A strange, shimmering thing—soft silver melting into dusk-blue, catching light like water at sunset.
My dress.
The one I once scribbled on scrap paper at 2 a.m., saying, If I ever get married, it'll be this.
I never thought he'd remembered.
Evan stepped closer. His fingers hovered over the fabric like it might disappear if he touched it.
Then suddenly—roughly—he grabbed the skirt, bunching it in his fists, wrinkling the careful folds.
He turned away from it.
And sat down on the floor.
Just… sat.
For a long time.
Then a sound broke the silence.
A quiet, broken sob.
My vision blurred instantly.
I bit down on my knuckle so hard I tasted blood.
I had prepared myself for anything before coming here.
I thought I'd see him smiling, thriving, maybe with someone else's jacket hanging on the chair.
I didn't expect this.
I didn't expect proof that I was still here—in the worst way.
Oliver appeared not long after. He took one look at Evan and gently steered him back to his room, murmuring something I couldn't hear.
Then Oliver turned to me and motioned sharply.
Move. Now.
At the gate, he stopped then noticed my red eyes and shaking hands.
"Maya," he said quietly, "I really don't get you. You never cared about money. So why did you leave him?"
He hesitated. "Do you know how close he came to giving up?"
My face went cold.
I straightened, lifted my chin, and put on the ugliest smile I could manage—the kind actresses use when they're about to poison someone.
"Poor Oliver," I sneered, "it seems that you never knew me at all."
"Who doesn't love money?" I shrugged. "Before, I didn't have options. Now I do. Of course I choose better for myself."
His eyes burned and glared at me.
"I should've never let you come back," he snapped. "This is the last time."
The gate slammed shut.
I finally collapsed onto the pavement, clutching my phone, sobs ripping out of me so hard my chest hurt.
"I'm sorry, Oliver," I whispered into the dark screen. "Please… hate me."
I laughed weakly through my tears.
"Just don't love me anymore."
Because love—
Love would break you.
And I couldn't survive knowing I broke you twice.