Chapter 2

I stood up straight and looked at him.

"Do you really think the problem is just whether you contact her or not?"

"Then what else is it?"

My mouth opened, a thousand words rushing to the tip of my tongue, but in the end, only one sentence came out. "Just go. I don't want to talk to you right now."

He took a deep breath.

"Fine. Maybe you need some space to cool down. I'll come back when you're feeling better."

I didn’t answer.

He opened the door and walked out.

I leaned against the closed door for a long time.

Then, I heard a faint sound from the hallway.

Thinking he had left, I peered through the peephole.

Ethan was sitting on the floor, leaning against the hallway wall, one leg bent, staring intensely at the phone on his lap.

I turned away and walked back into the living room.

I went into the bedroom and pulled open his closet.

One by one, I took his shirts off the hangers, folded them neatly, and packed them into a storage bin.

When I reached the bottom drawer of the nightstand, my hand froze.

There was a photo album inside.

I recognized it.

It had been at the very bottom of his suitcase when he first moved in. I had stumbled upon it while helping him unpack, and he had nervously snatched it away, claiming it was just some old, boring photos.

I hadn’t pushed him.

Everyone has a past. So do I.

I figured he would share it with me when he was ready.

Clearly, he never planned to.

I sat on the hardwood floor and opened the album.

On the first page was a photo of Ethan and Chloe, smiling radiantly.

On the second page, they were at the beach.

On the third page, they were laughing in a restaurant.

I flipped through it, page by page.

Every single photo was of them.

Vacations, dates, quiet everyday moments.

The album was meticulously preserved. Every photo was slid into a protective plastic sleeve, without a single crease on the corners.

At the very end, tucked behind the last sleeve, was a ring.

A delicate, simple silver band.

I slid it out and held it up to the light.

Engraved on the inside were five letters: "CHLOE".

I put the ring back and shut the album.

It was only when my hand touched the cover that I realized I was shaking.

Ethan and I had been together for five years. In all that time, we had taken fewer than ten photos together.

Every time I raised my phone for a selfie, he would always turn his head or block the camera with his hand.

"I just don’t like taking pictures," he’d say.

He had said it for five years, and for five years, I believed him.

It wasn't that he hated pictures.

He just hated taking them with me.

I threw the album into the storage bin. The lid closed with a heavy, hollow thud.

I stood up. My knees ached, probably from sitting on the cold floor for too long.

I dragged the heavy bin to the front door and threw it open.

Ethan was still sitting there.

Hearing the door open, he scrambled to his feet, a flicker of hope crossing his face.

He probably thought I was letting him back in.

Then, his eyes fell on the storage bin.

"You..."

"Take your things and leave."

His hopeful expression shattered.

"Elena, please, just calm down—"

"I am incredibly calm."

"Then where am I supposed to go?"

"That’s your problem."

I leaned against the doorframe, looking at him coldly.

"Oh, by the way, I saw the album. You kept it in perfect condition. The ring is beautiful, too."