Chapter 2
Three years ago, Claire had been at a coffee shop working on a documentary script, and he had been at the next table, flipping through a medical journal. She bumped her coffee, and it tipped over on the table.
Before either of them could react, coffee was already flooding toward his journal. She panicked and must have apologized eight times, grabbing for napkins to mop it up, and knocking her water glass over in the process.
Ethan watched her scramble, and he smiled.
It was a good smile. It wasn't the polite, automatic kind. It was the kind where the corners of his eyes crinkled and the light caught in his eyes, warm and unguarded.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "I finished it already."
He handed her a stack of napkins and nodded toward her laptop. "Your keyboard, though. That might need some first aid."
That was the first time Claire ever thought someone's smile could look like starlight.
The rest came easy. He asked for her number and told her he owed her a coffee "to make up for the keyboard." She figured it was just a polite gesture, but three days later, he actually followed through.
And then he asked her out again, and again after that. After pulling an overnight shift, he would text her: [Just got off. Dead tired, but I still wanted to say good morning.]
When she was up late editing and about to lose her mind, she would send him a voice message complaining about her client changing the brief for the third time, and he would reply: [You deserve a better client.]
She would sit there grinning at her screen for the rest of the night.
How they ended up together was just as predictable. On her birthday, he had a night shift and told her he couldn't make it. She stayed home, made herself a bowl of ramen, took a photo, and posted it online: [Happy birthday to me.]
At one in the morning, the doorbell rang.
He was standing in the doorway, still in his scrubs, holding a grocery store cake with the frosting already sliding to one side.
"I swapped shifts with my colleague," he said. "Only got two hours, so eat fast. I'll sit with you for a bit and then head back."
She stared at the lopsided cake with a single candle stuck in the top, the number 18 scrawled across the frosting. It was probably the cheapest one from the gas station.
She cried. And then she said, "Ethan, I like you."
He froze for a second, reached over to wipe the tears off her face, and said, "Me too."
That was their first day together. She thought it was the start of something wonderful. Looking back, she realized it was the peak.
Things never fall apart all at once.
It started with small things. She would text him, and his replies came slower and slower. Ten minutes turned into thirty, thirty into two hours, and two hours into "I saw it but forgot to reply."
She told herself it made sense. He worked in the ER, and when things got hectic, nobody had time to check their phone.
Then came the dates. They had a standing Friday night dinner, and for the first three months, he rarely missed one. But it became every other week, then once a month, and every time, something would come up.
He had an emergency surgery, an urgent consult, or a coworker who couldn't get their shift covered.
She would sit alone in the restaurant, staring at a table set for two for an hour, until her phone finally buzzed: [Sorry, can't get away. Go ahead and eat without me.]
She finished the meal for two by herself, boxed up the leftovers, went home, and reheated the soup that had gone cold over and over again.
She learned to stop expecting things. She stopped waiting for birthday surprises or holiday gifts, stopped hoping he would show up at her door unannounced. She lowered her expectations to the bare minimum, until all she needed was one text from him a day.
But in the end, even that became too much to ask for.
Emily had called her out more than once. "What is wrong with you? What's the point of having a boyfriend if all he does is make you miserable?"
"He's not good at expressing himself," Claire said.
Emily let out a sneer. "Not good at expressing himself? Then how come he's got plenty to say when he's chatting up the charge nurse? I saw it with my own eyes in the cafeteria. He was grinning ear to ear."
Claire said nothing. She knew Emily was right. Ethan was warm and gentle with everyone. But with her, that warmth had turned into obligation. It wasn't "I want to be good to you" anymore. It was "I should be."
She had thought about breaking up with him countless times, but she always talked herself out of it at the last moment. Maybe he'd change. Maybe he was just stressed. Maybe she wasn't trying hard enough.
She was the type to save up every disappointment until she had enough reason to walk away. But right when she was about to hit her limit, he'd do something small that wiped the slate clean.
He'd show up with croissants from her favorite bakery for no reason, or text her "drive safe, let me know when you're home" on the nights she worked late.
These gestures were so small she felt embarrassed even saying them out loud. But those little moments of warmth were what got her through three years, right up until the day they broke up.
She was the one who brought it up, and not because she'd finally come to her senses.
It was because she'd found something. His phone had over a thousand photos—patient X-rays, screenshots of medical articles, group shots from work dinners, and random flowers he'd spotted on the street. But not a single one of her.
Three years together, and he didn't have a single photo of her.
She asked him why.
He was quiet for a long time before he said, "I'm not really a picture person."
She said, "Then what about those photos from last week? That girl. You took a lot of her."
He didn't answer.