Chapter 4

Not long after, I found myself standing outside an apartment building.

This was Charles's pre-marriage place. Every piece of its decoration felt like his handiwork.

When we were dating, he told me his parents died early and that he'd grown used to being alone. Before I showed up in his life, when he was upset, he'd sit on the balcony in the cold wind and wait until dawn.

This apartment was his premarital property, and it held far too many memories of the two of us. So after the divorce, I didn't hesitate. I rented elsewhere and moved out in a hurry.

I tried the door code tentatively.

With a click, the door opened.

After all this time, his code was still the date we'd first met in person.

I stepped inside and switched on the lights.

The room, which I remembered being kept obsessively tidy, still looked exactly the same.

I automatically glanced around, but there was no sign of Charles.

Instead, something hanging on the master bedroom wall made my stomach drop.

It was the wedding photo from when our marriage had already shattered.

That huge wedding portrait was the one I'd stomped to pieces the night I decided to divorce him. I remembered dragging it downstairs and tossing it in the trash, so when had Charles fished it out?

It was odd. He hadn't treasured me while I was there, but after I left, he put the broken photo in a frame and hung it on the wall to miss me?

Maybe he hung it to admire his glorious achievements. Or maybe he was some kind of creep who found beauty in his ex-wife's ruins.

I was lost in these thoughts when footsteps sounded behind me.

Charles's voice was cool. "Sophie, what are you doing here?"

I jumped and turned.

He was carrying a tote bag filled with medical supplies.

What struck me was that his hairline looked damp and his breathing wasn't steady. Had he sneaked out in the middle of the night to buy medicine?

I frowned, about to say something, but he ignored me and went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water.

"Since you're here, why don't you sit for a bit?" he offered.

Remembering my purpose, I didn't take the cup. I followed him to the sofa and sat down instead. I stared at his face, noticeably pale, his lips dry, and asked, "I heard you had a gastric bleed this afternoon?"

He said, "Your voice sounds kind of giddy."

I hurriedly covered my mouth, trying to hide my glee. "Yeah. You know me. I'd kill to see you drop dead sooner."

A cold half-smile tugged at his lips. "Then you'll be disappointed. I just haven't rested well lately. It was a minor bleed. After medicine and a few days' rest, and I'll be fine."

I jabbed at him. "Are you sure? What if it's stomach cancer?"

He went quiet for a long time, staring at my face.

I grew uncomfortable under that look. Then, his tone drifting between cold and fragile, he asked, "Sophie, do you still love me?"

I jumped up from the sofa. "What are you talking about? We're divorced. How can we even be talking about love now?

"Charles, leave me alone, okay? I remember when you were dating me, you bragged you'd be a great doctor for life. What, are you scared now?"

He stood, too, looking down at me.

His lips moved as if to speak.

For a moment, I felt awkward. Coming here tonight was starting to feel like humiliation. I turned to leave. Then, suddenly, he wrapped me in a tight embrace from behind.

He held me so hard that I couldn't pull away.

For the first time, his usually cool voice wavered as he asked, word by word, "Isn't that right? I hear I'm sick, and you're so busy with your date tonight, you don't even care. Sophie, us—"

I froze. "How did you know I had a date tonight?" I asked.

He was silent for a beat. "You said so this morning. You forgot?"

I remembered.

And I got angrier.

Because of Charles, I hadn't seen Mike's face. I'd been so close, just one step away.

I wrenched myself free from Charles. He clearly hadn't expected such a fierce reaction.

For a moment, his handsome face flickered with the tiniest hint of emotion, then it slid back into that usual, effortless calm he always wore.

Before I left, I tossed him one last line. "Whatever. Decide for yourself. Whether you live or die has nothing to do with me. So annoying."

I strode out, unaware that in that instant, Charles's eyes had betrayed a flash of struggle, pain, and hesitation as he watched my back.

That night, I, someone who had burned through countless stories online, finally couldn't sleep. The only way to pass the time was by burying myself in novels.

I locked myself in the study of my rental apartment, pounding away at the keyboard, desperately filling in all the gaps I'd left in the long and short stories I'd been writing over the years.

By dawn, I finally stopped.

My frenzied mind had quieted.

That was when my phone buzzed.

Glancing down, I realized that in just one night, Mike had sent me countless voice notes and texts.

I opened the latest one: [Sophie, I've been waiting for you all night. Why didn't you log into the game?]

I tapped through the earlier messages.

From around 10 p.m. last night, he'd been sending messages every ten minutes or so, checking if I'd finished my errands, asking if I'd made it home, asking if I'd play games today, and just generally waiting for me.

I hurried to open WhatsApp and hit the record button to reply, but something felt off.

The timestamps on Mike's messages were almost exactly the same as the time I had left Charles's apartment.