Chapter 3
The last one was sent at 1 AM.
[Call me when you wake up.]
I set my phone aside and went to wash my face.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror had swollen, red eyes, hair sticking out everywhere, and a little cold sore at the corner of her mouth from all the stress.
At thirty, I looked like such a wreck that anyone could just say, "Why don't you calm down first?" and everyone would buy it.
I splashed cold water on my face a couple of times, and halfway through drying off with a towel, I suddenly remembered what my eighteen-year-old self had said in the recording.
Do I still have a mouth?
I stared at my reflection and moved my lips.
Yeah, it was still there.
My phone buzzed, and Andrew's name flashed on the screen.
I picked up.
He probably hadn't expected me to answer so fast, because he paused for a second before finally asking, "Are you okay?"
That question came way too late, buried under all his accusations—like a band-aid that's been left out in the rain, soggy and useless.
I hung the towel back on the rack.
"I'll hand over the company files, but I'm not giving her the complete source files until the boundaries are clear," I told him.
Andrew's breathing got a little heavier.
He said, "Come on, Jo, it's just a project. The company decides who runs things for a reason."
I opened the living room window, and the cold wind rushed in, making the letters on the table flutter softly.
"And what about my name?" I asked.
"We can talk about the credits later," he said.
"Mr. Turner already said in yesterday's meeting that Emily's taking over the Southside Factory project. If I hand over the full source files, she'll just take them to the client tomorrow. Who am I supposed to talk to about the credits then?"
There was silence on the other end.
I thought he'd at least say something to clear things up, or at least ask me what I went through in that meeting.
But he didn't.
"Jo, if you keep clinging to the credits, everyone's just going to think you can't handle losing," he said.
I lowered my gaze to the birthday letter my eighteen-year-old self had sent, lying right there on the coffee table.
"Andrew, when you said last night that the wedding was on hold, did you tell both families yet?" I asked.
"Not yet," he replied.
"Then don't say anything for now," I said, grabbing a pen and scribbling my first task of the day on a sticky note: wedding expenses.
I continued, "I'll check the cancellation and postponement rules for the wedding service, hotel, and photographer. Whatever I'm supposed to cover, I'll handle it."
Andrew's voice dropped. "What do you mean by that?"
"Like you said, I'm putting it on hold," I replied.
He finally lost his cool. "I said pause the wedding so you could get yourself together. Now you're already counting up the costs. Are you trying to split things up between us?"
I was gripping the pen so hard my knuckles turned white, so I made myself ease up.
"You made the decision about the wedding yesterday. Today, I'm just handling the real consequences," I said.
Even I was surprised by what came out of my mouth.
Before, I'd always jump in to say, "Hey, I'm not upset," then try to smooth things over, and finally ask if he had a smarter way to handle it.
But not today.
Andrew called my name softly over the phone. "Jo."
He rarely ever called me that softly.
We'd been together for five years, and he was a pro at softening his voice right when I was about to snap, making me feel like he'd backed down.
"I've got a ton of work these days, so let's not make a scene about the wedding. I'll come over tonight and we can talk face to face," he said.
"I'm not free tonight," I replied.
"What's so important tonight?"
I glanced at the box on the coffee table.
"I've got some things to take care of," I said.
He was quiet for a few seconds, then his voice went cold. "Whatever."
After he hung up, I just sat on the couch, not moving for a long time.
The living room was filled with the musty scent of flowers left out overnight. The bouquet in the glass vase was in full bloom; the red was so vivid it practically burned my eyes.
I picked up the MP3 player and hit play on the second recording.
She said, "If you're already listening to the second recording, that means the first one actually worked. Nice, Joanna. Looks like you're not a total lost cause after all."
My eighteen-year-old self clapped twice, the sound sharp and quick, like she was sneaking a recording from the back row in class.
She said, "Alright, time for a reality check. Do you have your own place? Any savings? Somewhere you can go whenever you feel like it?
"And a goal that makes your eyes light up just thinking about it? If you're missing more than two out of these four, stop acting like you're so mature. Life's just beaten you down."
I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes.
My own place? Nope.
Savings? I had got some, but most of it went into wedding deposits. What was left is just in case I end up unemployed.
Somewhere I could go whenever I wanted? Nope.
A goal that makes my eyes light up?
I looked up and spotted the dusty art tube leaning against the wall.
Inside were exhibition sketches I'd drawn years ago.
I majored in visual communication in college, and after graduation, I joined Brightview Creative, starting out as a small-scale exhibition coordinator.
Back then, what I really wanted was to build my own urban curation brand—telling the stories of overlooked places like old streets, abandoned factories, markets, and forgotten train stations.
But as work got busier, I ended up only caring about client demands, budget sheets, approval processes, and project milestones.
Words like "eyes light up" were the kind of corny stuff only an eighteen-year-old would say. One would probably just roll their eyes at it.
By thirty, nobody talked like that anymore.
By thirty, it was all about profit margins, whether the client pays up, keeping the boss happy, and making sure it looks good on one's resume.
The recording kept going.