Chapter 3

"Can you please get over your irrational jealousy?"

"Otherwise, when we get to Harvard, I won't dare tell anyone you're my boyfriend!"

Each message ended with an exclamation mark, each one delivered in that familiar, condescending, scolding tone.

As if I had done something wrong again, overreacted again, and should apologize.

I read them twice, then smiled.

She didn't know that just one day earlier, I had changed my Harvard application, switching to Stanford University instead.

It was the most decisive choice I'd ever made in my life.

Back home, I started clearing out everything related to her.

A stack of ticket stubs, a jar filled with folded paper stars, and over a dozen birthday cards.

Her messy handwriting, from elementary school to high school, always addressed to 'Ethan.'

I piled all these things into a large cardboard box.

Then, the wall.

The photo of us at fifteen, standing outside the school in our school gear, her smile so sweet, me half a head taller than her.

By my bed, a clumsy little ceramic cat she'd made herself. She'd said it looked like my face.

I held that little cat in my hand for two seconds, then tossed it in too.

The box was nearly full, but I didn't seal it immediately.

For every item inside, I could tell a story.

One movie ticket stub was from the 3D re-release of *Titanic*; she cried so much during it.

She leaned on my shoulder, wiping away tears, saying we couldn't end up like Jack and Rose.

One amusement park ticket was from a summer trip. She insisted on riding the roller coaster, then halfway through, she squeezed my arm so hard it left five bruises, making me wince.

And a scarf she knitted in middle school.

The stitches were uneven, with loose threads everywhere, but she insisted it was the prettiest scarf in the whole class.

The box was overflowing, full of her traces.

Fifteen years of traces, from three to seventeen, my entire youth.

My phone suddenly vibrated; not a call, but a social media notification.

I tapped it open and saw that Leo Miller had just posted on Instagram, with two pictures.

The first was a hotel room: dim, yellowish lighting, white sheets.

The second was a close-up of a pair of crystal high heels. The shoes lay tilted on the carpet, one upside down, sole facing up.

I recognized those shoes instantly.

Last year, for Leah's birthday, I'd saved three months of allowance and borrowed money from my dad to buy them.

The Swarovski crystal logo was visible on the sole. They were size 6, a perfect fit.

She'd walked around the room in them several times when she first tried them on, saying they were the most beautiful high heels she'd ever worn.

Leo's caption read: "She said she drank too much and insisted I take her back to the hotel. Exhausting."

Below, a flurry of comments.

"Dude, you're so lucky!"

"A goddess just throwing herself at you! Those shoes aren't simple, and neither is the girl wearing them!"

I stared at the shoes for a few seconds.

I walked back to the cardboard box and wrapped sealing tape around it three times.

I picked up the box, went downstairs, and threw it into the garbage bin outside our mansion.

It landed with a muffled thud, then silence.

In the following days, Leah didn't send a single text or call.

I was glad for the peace.

A week later, our class rep, Chloe, sent a message in the group chat, suggesting a class dinner.

She specifically DM'd me, insisting I had to come.

She was Leah's best friend, inseparable since freshman year.

I could pretty much guess what she was trying to do.

I told her I was busy, didn't have time.