Chapter 1 · All The Miles I Wasted

For three years, I'd take the train to Kingston University to see Henry Carter, and he'd always buy my ticket for me.

He said students had to save money, and a second-class seat was only four hours. We could hang in there.

Over those three years, I rushed to see him twenty-nine times.

But somehow, every single time, my seat ended up right next to the bathroom.

Meanwhile, the one he got away, Olivia Lane, always got a business-class seat on the same train.

Then, the night before Thanksgiving, I borrowed his laptop to work on my thesis and saw a notification pop up from the train app: [Mr. Carter, you have successfully redeemed business-class lounge access for Olivia Lane.]

There was a note below: [Don't touch Nina Hughes' ticket. She doesn't care where she sits.]

My fingers froze, and I clicked on the order history.

It turned out, these past three years, it was never about the tickets being sold out.

Every single time there was a chance for a comfortable, respectable, or preferred seat, he always gave it to Olivia first.

I dragged my suitcase across two thousand kilometers for him.

But the seat that should've been mine, he personally handed over to another girl.

From then on, I was done running after him.

*****

Henry was in the kitchen, slicing pumpkin pie. The knife tapped lightly against the plate, making a soft sound.

"Nina, is your thesis done?" His voice came from the kitchen.

It was so familiar, like every night we'd talked on the phone these past three years.

My hand froze on the mouse, my knuckles turning white from gripping so hard.

I kept scrolling through the order history, page after page.

[September 28th: Olivia Lane, business class.

[September 28th: Nina Hughes, second-class seat, car 16, right by the bathroom.

[May 1st: Olivia Lane, business class.

[May 1st: Nina Hughes, second-class seat, car 15, right by the bathroom.]

Last year's Thanksgiving, winter break, New Year's, his birthday, the day I kicked off my thesis, all of them were exactly the same.

It was like someone had lined up all my years of chasing after him, one after another, to rub it in my face: "See? That's all you mean to him."

The kitchen door opened.

Henry walked out carrying a plate of pumpkin pie, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked sharp and clean-cut. He was the kind of guy everyone noticed at Kingston University.

"Why so quiet?" Henry asked.

He set the plate down in front of me and glanced at the laptop.

I hadn't even had time to close the page.

Henry's expression flickered for a split second.

It happened so fast.

In the past, I would've made excuses for him.

He reached for the laptop in a hurry. "It's work messages. Don't click around."

"Work?" I barely recognized my own voice. It was so dry, so brittle. "So giving Olivia business-class lounge access counts as work too?"

Henry's hand froze mid-air.

The room fell silent.

Outside, someone set off the first firework, the boom muffled and distant.

Henry frowned, as if my sudden confrontation had caught him off guard, "How much did you see?"

"Enough," I replied.

My finger slid across the trackpad, and I clicked on one of the orders.

"This one, last winter, I had a fever of 101.7°F, and I took the train from Riverside for over four hours. You said tickets were hard to get and told me to tough it out," I said.

The screen showed it all, plain as day.

On the same train, Olivia was in business class.

My seat was at the very back of the car.

Henry was silent for a few seconds, his voice dropping. "Nina, don't make it sound worse than it is."

I looked up at him.

He actually looked a little tired. "Olivia's not in good health. She can't stand second-class seats. You're different. You've been tough since you were a kid."

You'd been tough.

Those words hit me like a slap in the face.

Henry's phone buzzed on the table.

The screen lit up. A message from Olivia popped up: [Henry, I'm downstairs. Don't let Nina finish all the pies. Save me a piece, the one you cut yourself.]

Henry reached for his phone.

I was faster, pressing my hand down on the screen before he could reach it.

When I looked up, I finally caught a flicker of unease in his eyes.

Then, the doorbell rang.

It kept ringing, over and over.

Olivia's soft voice drifted in from outside. "Henry, open up. I've got stuff in my hands."

Chapter 1

For three years, I'd take the train to Kingston University to see Henry Carter, and he'd always buy my ticket for me.

He said students had to save money, and a second-class seat was only four hours. We could hang in there.

Over those three years, I rushed to see him twenty-nine times.

But somehow, every single time, my seat ended up right next to the bathroom.

Meanwhile, the one he got away, Olivia Lane, always got a business-class seat on the same train.

There was a note below: [Don't touch Nina Hughes' ticket. She doesn't care where she sits.]

My fingers froze, and I clicked on the order history.

It turned out, these past three years, it was never about the tickets being sold out.

Every single time there was a chance for a comfortable, respectable, or preferred seat, he always gave it to Olivia first.

I dragged my suitcase across two thousand kilometers for him.

But the seat that should've been mine, he personally handed over to another girl.

From then on, I was done running after him.

*****

Henry was in the kitchen, slicing pumpkin pie. The knife tapped lightly against the plate, making a soft sound.

"Nina, is your thesis done?" His voice came from the kitchen.

It was so familiar, like every night we'd talked on the phone these past three years.

My hand froze on the mouse, my knuckles turning white from gripping so hard.

I kept scrolling through the order history, page after page.

[September 28th: Olivia Lane, business class.

[September 28th: Nina Hughes, second-class seat, car 16, right by the bathroom.

[May 1st: Olivia Lane, business class.

[May 1st: Nina Hughes, second-class seat, car 15, right by the bathroom.]

Last year's Thanksgiving, winter break, New Year's, his birthday, the day I kicked off my thesis, all of them were exactly the same.

It was like someone had lined up all my years of chasing after him, one after another, to rub it in my face: "See? That's all you mean to him."

The kitchen door opened.

Henry walked out carrying a plate of pumpkin pie, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked sharp and clean-cut. He was the kind of guy everyone noticed at Kingston University.

"Why so quiet?" Henry asked.

He set the plate down in front of me and glanced at the laptop.

I hadn't even had time to close the page.

Henry's expression flickered for a split second.

It happened so fast.

In the past, I would've made excuses for him.

He reached for the laptop in a hurry. "It's work messages. Don't click around."

"Work?" I barely recognized my own voice. It was so dry, so brittle. "So giving Olivia business-class lounge access counts as work too?"

Henry's hand froze mid-air.

The room fell silent.

Outside, someone set off the first firework, the boom muffled and distant.

Henry frowned, as if my sudden confrontation had caught him off guard, "How much did you see?"

"Enough," I replied.

My finger slid across the trackpad, and I clicked on one of the orders.

"This one, last winter, I had a fever of 101.7°F, and I took the train from Riverside for over four hours. You said tickets were hard to get and told me to tough it out," I said.

The screen showed it all, plain as day.

On the same train, Olivia was in business class.

My seat was at the very back of the car.

Henry was silent for a few seconds, his voice dropping. "Nina, don't make it sound worse than it is."

I looked up at him.

He actually looked a little tired. "Olivia's not in good health. She can't stand second-class seats. You're different. You've been tough since you were a kid."

You'd been tough.

Those words hit me like a slap in the face.

Henry's phone buzzed on the table.

The screen lit up. A message from Olivia popped up: [Henry, I'm downstairs. Don't let Nina finish all the pies. Save me a piece, the one you cut yourself.]

Henry reached for his phone.

I was faster, pressing my hand down on the screen before he could reach it.

When I looked up, I finally caught a flicker of unease in his eyes.

Then, the doorbell rang.

It kept ringing, over and over.

Olivia's soft voice drifted in from outside. "Henry, open up. I've got stuff in my hands."