Chapter 3

That slap couldn't be for nothing.

I immediately called the police.

The siren's wail quickly pierced the quiet of the neighborhood.

Scarlett sobered up instantly, lunging at me like a maniac, trying to scratch me, but the police officers handcuffed her arms behind her.

She screamed as she was shoved into the patrol car.

Ethan's usually impassive face was almost contorted with panic.

"It's a complete misunderstanding! She's my friend, she was drunk and emotionally unstable, that's why she lashed out at me! We can sort this out at home…"

The officer explained, "A victim, Ms. Chloe, reported an assault. We need to take her back to the station to verify the details."

"What victim?" Ethan whipped his head around, his gaze like an ice pick, piercing right through me.

He looked like he wanted to skin me alive.

"Chloe! Are you seriously going to take this that far?!"

My cheek was still swollen, and I looked at him coldly.

"Ethan! Save me! No!"

Scarlett cried out from the car.

Ethan was burning with anxiety, pounding on the car window: "Scarlett, don't be scared! I'll be right there!"

He ignored me, started his car, and sped after the police vehicle.

I went to the hospital and got a medical report for the injury.

All the way, my phone vibrated frantically.

When I didn't answer, messages popped up one after another.

All from Ethan, demanding answers.

[Answer the phone.]

[Why did you call the police? Scarlett was drunk, it wasn't intentional, and besides, you pushed her first!]

[Go to the police station right now and drop the case.]

[If she gets a criminal record, her life will be ruined. Can't you be a little kinder?]

Kinder.

I touched my still-throbbing cheek and made a decision in my heart.

Back at Ethan's apartment, I pulled out my suitcase.

Three years, but not many personal items.

I neatly folded my clothes, and threw away my used toothbrush.

Finally, I opened Ethan's laptop.

I deleted the few, precious photos of us together from his cloud storage.

Those were the only few photos from our three years together, proof that I hadn't imagined this relationship.

The login ID auto-filled.

The page refreshed, and just as I was about to delete, I clicked on the folder named "Archive" by some strange impulse.

The mouse wheel scrolled down.

No end in sight.

Over ten thousand photos.

All of them Scarlett.

Waves crashing, she ran barefoot on the beach, the camera capturing her flying hair as she looked back.

Cherry blossoms like snow, she stood under a tree laughing joyfully, his hand reaching out to support her waist.

In a field of flowers, he held a cake, gazing at her deeply, his eyes brighter than starlight.

Their past was intimate and unrestrained.

And me?

Three years into our relationship, I always felt like a shadow.

I used to think trust was the most important thing in a relationship.

He blocked all her contact methods, hated her so much he wouldn't even order her favorite dishes or listen to her favorite songs.

That meant it was completely over.

I had strong self-esteem; I wouldn't snoop, I hadn't even asked for his phone password.

Even if his replies to my messages were always brief and cold.

Even if I gave him gifts, he would always give gifts of similar value in return.

I lied to myself, thinking it was his politeness and boundaries.

But now, the screen displayed countless saved chat logs, like a giant spiderweb.

That was their daily life back then.

He'd say: [I saw a cat on the street today, it looked a lot like yours.]

She'd say: [The clouds today look like marshmallows, you have to buy them for me after work.]

He'd say: [My little greedy cat.]

Meaningless chatter back and forth, he'd reply to all of it.

Even when they fought, he'd write lengthy messages, every word carefully chosen, arguing with her endlessly.

He even gave her his salary card, playfully begging her: [Babe, can I have some spending money?]

I looked at those photos, those records.

It felt like a dull blow to my chest.

A long, sinking feeling of helplessness washed over me.

It wasn't that he didn't understand romance, or that he was inherently cold.

It was just that his passion, his indulgence, his boundless affection, he had always been stingy about sharing even an ounce of it with me.

To him, I was always dispensable.

That's why, with me, he thought even arguing was a waste of time.

I closed the laptop.

The moment the screen went black, it reflected my pale face and swollen red eyes.

My phone buzzed on the table, its screen lighting up and darkening.

Ethan sent another message:

[I'll wait for you for half an hour. If you don't come drop the case, we're breaking up.]