Chapter 3

I started packing up this apartment, which was permeated with his presence.

All his lab coats, each one ironed without a single wrinkle, the cuffs always pristine white.

All his shirts, from Armani to Zegna, hung meticulously arranged by color and fabric, filling the entire walk-in closet.

Then there were the foreign papers I'd translated and the case notes I'd annotated during countless late nights. Together, they had nearly filled the entire study.

Once, these were all testaments to my love for him.

Now, they only served to remind me, again and again, of what a fool I had been.

I called a moving company and had everything that belonged to me, every single item, packed up and taken away.

Clothes donated, books and notes sent to the recycling center.

Workers moved boxes in and out, and the large house quickly became empty.

I sat on the bare living room floor, and a strange, hollow laugh escaped me.

Julian, you have saved countless cancer patients.

You became a god in their eyes, a beacon of hope in the media's narrative.

Yet you never once turned around to see that I, too, was sick.

Stricken with the very illness you vowed to conquer.

Finally, I understood. Completely.

I walked with you from obscurity, step by step, to become the revered "Bright Star of Medicine."

But your light was never meant to shine for me.

My phone vibrated.

It was a message from Julian, his tone demanding, with his usual air of expectation.

"Where's the spare key card for my office? My assistant can't get in, bring it over quickly."

Before, no matter when or where, if he said a word, I would drop everything and solve it for him immediately.

I looked at the message, and calmly typed my reply.

"Threw it away."

After a thought, I added,

"I'm traveling. From now on, you handle your own affairs."

Send.

Then, I turned off my phone, took out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and dropped it into the toilet.

The flush sounded, like a trivial funeral for my ten years of absurd youth.

Downstairs, the vehicle from the hospice care facility was already waiting quietly.

I pulled a small suitcase containing only a few changes of clothes, and took one last look at the empty house.

Goodbye, Julian.

I don't want to play this game anymore.

I concede.