Chapter 1

Xavier Lynn pushed open the bedroom door at 2:17 AM.

I lay there in the dark, eyes open, listening as his footsteps moved from the doorway to the side of the bed. He didn't turn on the light, nor did he say anything.

He stood there for so long, I almost thought he'd stay until morning. Suddenly, he reached out and tapped my shoulder. "Asleep?"

I stayed still.

He lingered for a bit, then turned and walked away. His footsteps faded, and then the door to his study clicked shut.

I slowly sat up and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The moment the screen lit up, my eyes stung from the sudden brightness.

It was 2:19 AM.

I'd been waiting for him since 6 AM. I waited for him for twenty hours and nineteen minutes.

My phone was still open to that Instagram post. I tapped it, zoomed in, and zoomed in again.

The photo was dim, lit by that warm, intimate glow one only got in a bar. A group of people crowded around a booth, and in the center was a cake with candles shaped like the number 22.

Behind the cake was a young face; her eyes crinkled as she smiled, and she looked gorgeous.

She was wrapped in a scarf. It was dark red cashmere, its tassels draping down to wrap around her thin shoulders.

I recognized that scarf. I'd searched all over the city, hit up seven different malls, and finally snagged the very last one at the boutique.

The salesperson told me it was a limited edition, never coming back. I brought it home and stitched a letter in the corner: Xavier.

I still remember stitching the letter while Xavier was on the couch, reading his files. I sat right next to him, carefully sewing each letter. When I finished, I showed it to him. He didn't glance at it; he simply muttered that it looked good.

After that, the scarf hung in the wardrobe. I couldn't bring myself to wear it, always thinking I'd save it for his birthday as a surprise.

But now, it was wrapped around another woman.

In the corner of the photo, a hand rested on the back of the couch behind the woman. The cuff showed a sliver of dark gray sweater sleeve.

I knew that sweater. I'd knitted it myself. It took me three months, unraveling and re-knitting over and over, my fingers covered in little pricks from the needles.

Xavier never liked sweaters; he always complained they were itchy. But today, he put it on. He stood in front of the mirror for ages and finally said it looked alright.

It was the first time I saw him wear it. And the second time, too.

The first time was two years ago, right after I finished knitting it.

He wore it when we went to the corner store near our place to buy soy sauce.

Today, he was wearing it at his assistant's twenty-second birthday party.

I zoomed in on the photo until the pixels turned into a blur of colors. But I could still make out the "Xavier" embroidered perfectly in the corner of the scarf.

The phone screen went dark, then lit up again.

My finger hovered there on the screen for a long time, without tapping anything.

At six this morning, I had woken up before the alarm.

I rolled over in bed. Xavier's side was empty. I reached out; his pillow was cold. He hadn't come home last night.

I didn't care at the time. Xavier worked late a lot, and sometimes he'd crash in the office lounge if it got too late. I sent him a text: [I need you to come home early tonight. There's something.]

He replied with one word: [Okay.]

It was our eighth anniversary.

I stared at that word for a long time. Did he realize what day it was? Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. I didn't mention it. I wanted to see if he'd remember.

Around 10 AM, I headed out to buy groceries. The supermarket was pretty empty, so I wandered through the produce aisle, picking out his favorite salmon, some pork ribs, broccoli, and avocados.

He liked avocado sliced thin with lime and sea salt, so I always picked the firm but ripe ones, not the mushy ones.

The cashier glanced at me as she scanned everything. "Buying a lot today?"

I nodded. "Yeah, it's our anniversary."

The cashier smiled. "Congratulations! So, how many years?"

"Eight years."

When I said it, I froze for a second. Eight years. Over two thousand nine hundred days. I spent the best eight years of my life with Xavier, from twenty-five to thirty-three.

Back home, I started cooking. Grilled salmon, BBQ ribs, roasted broccoli with parmesan.

I sliced the avocados thin, fanned them out on the plate, and squeezed fresh lime over the top with a sprinkle of sea salt. That was how Xavier liked it. He always said that's the purest way to eat them.

Once the food was done, I wrapped it up and set it out on the table. I put out two sets of utensils. Then I sank into the couch and waited.

I waited from noon until 3 PM.

Xavier still hadn't come home. No call, no text. That lonely "Okay" lingered in our chat, like a conversation left hanging.

At 4 PM, I checked my phone again. No new messages.

I warmed up the food again and left it on the table. Then I sat on the couch and kept waiting.