Chapter 4

Chelsea Hardy POV:

My thumbs hovered over the "Unfollow" button on Kamryn's Instagram. Then Holden's. My finger trembled, but my resolve didn't waver. A quick tap. Unfollow. Another tap. Unfollow. It was a digital severing, a silent declaration of independence. No more accidental glimpses into their perfect life, no more self-inflicted wounds.

Two days. My flight was in two days. The countdown was a relentless drumbeat in my head.

I returned to an eerily quiet house, the scent of Kamryn's sweet perfume still lingering in the air, a phantom reminder of their presence. The silence pressed in on me, heavy and suffocating. I made myself a simple dinner-toast and tea. My appetite had vanished days ago, replaced by a knot of anxiety and a strange numbness.

My phone vibrated. A message from Kamryn. A string of photos. Kamryn, radiant in a white dress. Holden, his arm around her, a loving smile on his face. Another photo, of them holding hands, their fingers intertwined. The final image was a close-up of her hand, a sparkling diamond glinting on her finger. A caption underneath: "Just had our engagement photo shoot! So in love with my H. Can't wait for forever! @HoldenWolf."

A cold wave washed over me. My hands shook so violently, I almost dropped the phone. The photos were beautiful, perfect, designed to inflict maximum pain. She knew. She had to know. She was rubbing it in.

I forced a tight, brittle smile. Good for you, Kamryn. You won.

My fingers, surprisingly steady, typed a quick reply: "Beautiful photos, Kamryn. Congratulations again."

Then, I closed the app. Blocked her number. Blocked Holden's. Deleted their contacts. I wanted no more reminders. No more pain.

Just as I tossed my phone onto the bed, it vibrated again. My college group chat. "Reunion tomorrow night! Who's in?"

My first instinct was no. To hide away, to lick my wounds in private. But then, a thought struck me. This was my last chance to see them. To say goodbye, properly, to the few friends who had managed to stay close despite my almost-hermit-like existence orbiting Holden. And perhaps, it was a chance to practice being the new Chelsea. The one who didn't let Holden define her.

"I'm in," I typed, a strange sense of defiance blooming in my chest.

The replies flooded in. "Great! Can't wait to see you, Chels! Holden coming too?"

My heart gave a familiar pang. Of course. They always associated me with him. He was the golden boy, the protective older brother who occasionally graced our gatherings with his presence. They saw the facade, not the truth.

"Holden's busy," I replied, keeping my tone light. "Engagement party planning, you know."

"Oh, right!" one friend replied. "Still can't believe he's getting married. Remember how he used to be so overprotective of you, Chelsea? Like a little puppy following you everywhere! We all thought you two would end up together!"

Another message popped up. "Yeah! He was always so sweet to you, Chels. Carrying your books, making sure you got home safe. Such a good brother."

A cold, icy stab went through my chest. Good brother. Sweet. Overprotective. My friends saw him as a hero. They saw the public performance, not the private cruelty.

The memories flashed: Holden, his face contorted in anger, ripping my designs. Holden, dismissing my dreams. Holden, telling me to "get used to having a sister." Holden, standing by as Kamryn sliced me with her words.

The contrast was a bitter pill. They would never understand. And I was too tired to explain.

"He's a good brother," I typed, the lie tasting like ash. "But we've both grown up. We have our own lives now."

That night, sleep was elusive. My mind replayed fragments of conversations, echoes of laughter, ghosts of touches. I drifted in and out of a restless sleep, until a particularly vivid dream jolted me awake, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I was a small child again, maybe five or six, lost in a crowded amusement park. Everyone was laughing, but I couldn't find my mother. Then, Holden appeared, his hand outstretched. He picked me up, his strong arms a safe haven. He smiled, and in his eyes, I was special, loved. But then, his face shifted. He put me down, coldly. "You're too heavy, Chelsea. Go find your own way." He walked off, hand-in-hand with Kamryn, never looking back.

I woke with a gasp, my pillow soaked with tears.

If only he had always been cold. If only he had never shown me that fleeting tenderness, that protective streak. Perhaps then, my heart wouldn't have clung to him so desperately. Perhaps then, I wouldn't have mistaken his occasional kindness for love.

But he had. And I had. And now, the illusion was shattered, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound.

Two days. Just two more days. The suitcase, packed and ready, stood by the door, a silent sentinel. Inside, the shredded memories were buried deep. I looked at it, then at my reflection in the dark window. My platinum hair seemed stark, almost defiant.

This wasn't just about leaving a place. It was about leaving a history. A childhood steeped in a love that was never returned. I had to rip him out. Every single root.

I needed to clear out the last vestiges of my past before I could step into my future. My gaze landed on the heavy suitcase containing some old academic papers and sketchbooks. It was too much to carry. I needed to streamline.

Taking a deep breath, I hauled the suitcase out. I'd go through it one last time, ruthlessly weeding out anything that tied me to the old Chelsea, to the old dreams.

Just as I started, the front door opened downstairs. Holden. He was back. Dressed in a sharp suit, a brief case in hand. He looked tired, lines etched around his eyes.

He saw me, struggling with the heavy suitcase on the stairs. His brow furrowed. "Chelsea? What are you doing? Why is that monstrosity out here?"

My voice, when it came, was flat. "Just clearing out some old things. It's heavy."

He frowned, then walked towards me. "Let me help." He took the handle, effortlessly lifting the heavy case. My heart gave a tiny, unwelcome flutter. The old protectiveness. The reflex action.

"Where do you want this?" he asked, his tone impatient now.

"The trash," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I don't need it anymore."

He paused, the suitcase still in his hand. "The trash? Are you serious, Chels? This looks like your old portfolio. All your designs." He looked at me, a flash of genuine confusion in his eyes. "You spent years on these."

My throat tightened. Years of my life. Years of my heart.

"They're not relevant anymore," I said, forcing the words out. "I'm starting fresh."

He stared at me for a moment, then, with a shrug, walked to the outdoor bins and, without ceremony, dropped the heavy suitcase in. The thud echoed in the evening air. All my hard work, my dreams, my past, discarded so easily.

A dull ache settled in my chest. He didn't understand. He never would. He just saw a pile of forgotten papers, not the pieces of my soul.

"There," he said, dusting his hands off, a hint of satisfaction on his face. "Problem solved. Now, go get ready. Mom and Patricia want us all to have dinner together. It's Kamryn's last night before her parents arrive for the engagement party."

My mother. Patricia Wolf. Always prioritizing her new marriage, her new status, her new family. Always putting Holden and Kamryn first.

"I'm not hungry," I said, turning away, the emptiness inside me growing.

He sighed, a sound of annoyance. "Chelsea, don't be difficult. It's important. Kamryn's really looking forward to it."

Kamryn. Of course. Always Kamryn.

"She can have my share," I said, my voice cold. "I have other plans."

He stared at my back, then sighed again. "Fine. Be that way. But don't come crying to me when you're hungry later." He walked past me, heading towards the dining room. "Honestly. Some people just thrive on drama."

I stood there, a statue of ice. He didn't even realize. He didn't know I was leaving. He didn't know he'd just discarded the last, tangible pieces of my old life. The ones I was trying to discard myself.

Kamryn's sweet voice drifted from the dining room. "Is Chelsea alright, H.? She seemed a little upset just now."

"She's fine," Holden replied, his voice dismissive. "Just being Chelsea. You know how she is."

I knew how I was. I was leaving. And I wasn't coming back.

I turned and walked away, my footsteps light, almost buoyant. The suitcase in the trash wasn't a loss. It was a release. And the casual dismissal of my feelings? That was the final push I needed.