Chapter 3

Damien didn't come home for three days.

I knew where he was. Carson's Instagram was a curated diary of their time together. A picture of her car with a flat tire, Damien kneeling to fix it, captioned "My hero." A photo of them sharing a ridiculously expensive dessert, his arm draped casually over the back of her chair. A selfie of them in what looked like her apartment, his face softer and more unguarded than I had seen it in years.

I spent those three days packing. It didn't take long. My life fit into two suitcases. All my possessions were practical, worn. There were no luxuries, no indulgences. Just the simple necessities of a life lived for someone else.

Tucked in a corner of my drawer was a small, velvet box. Inside was a cheap silver locket, a gift from Damien from our first year together. It was the only gift he'd ever bought me with his own money, earned from a tutoring gig. I had cherished it. Now, it just felt like another ghost.

He finally came home on the fourth day, looking tired but content.

He saw my suitcases by the door. "Going somewhere?"

"Just sorting through some old things," I lied, unable to meet his eyes. I couldn't bear for him to see the pain in them.

He nodded, accepting the explanation without question. He was too wrapped up in his own world to notice mine was collapsing.

"I'm moving," he announced, a strange excitement in his voice. "The company is giving me a new place, closer to the main campus. A penthouse."

He described the floor-to-ceiling windows, the state-of-the-art kitchen, the view.

"You should come see it," he said, an afterthought.

A part of me wanted to scream, to refuse, to throw the locket at him. But another, weaker part of me wanted one last look. A final, definitive end.

"Okay," I said quietly.

I told myself it was a farewell tour of the life I was leaving behind.

The new building was impossibly sleek, a monument of glass and chrome in the heart of the city's most expensive district. As we stepped out of the elevator into the penthouse suite, we ran into Carson. She was coming out of the apartment next door.

"Damien! Blanche! What a coincidence," she said, her smile bright and welcoming. It didn't reach her eyes.

"We're neighbors!" she chirped. "Isn't that wonderful?"

She insisted on showing us her apartment. "You have to see it. We have the exact same taste."

I walked in and my breath caught in my throat. It was a mirror image of Damien's new place. The same minimalist furniture, the same color palette of cool grays and blues, the same abstract art on the walls.

"Damien helped me pick everything out," Carson explained, beaming. "We were thinking, since the layouts are identical, we could even knock down the wall between the living rooms. Make one huge, open space."

The meaning was clear. A shared life. A joined future.

Damien just smiled, looking pleased. "Carson has great taste."

I felt a familiar, sharp pain in my stomach, but this time it was different. It was the pain of finality.

It was almost lunchtime. Carson suggested a restaurant nearby, a place with white tablecloths and a wine list longer than my arm. She handed me the menu, a subtle, cruel gesture. I stared at the French words, feeling my cheeks burn with humiliation. I couldn't pronounce any of it, let alone know what it was.

Damien noticed my distress and took the menu from my hands. "Blanche doesn't like rich food," he said to Carson, as if explaining a child's picky eating habits.

"Oh, of course," Carson said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "We should get her something simple."

He turned to me. "What do you want, Blanche? A salad?"

He knew Carson's coffee order, her taste in furniture, the intricacies of her work. He had spent ten years with me and didn't know my favorite food.

"Anything is fine," I mumbled.

My hands felt clumsy and large as I tried to navigate the array of silverware. I knocked over my water glass, the crystal shattering on the marble floor. The noise was deafening. Everyone stared. I saw the pity and contempt in their eyes.

I fled to the restroom, my face burning. I could hear their whispers as I left. "Who is that woman? She clearly doesn't belong."

I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the ornate mirror. The woman looking back was a stranger. Pale, tired, with sad eyes and clothes that screamed 'out of place'.

This wasn't my world. It never had been.

Suddenly, a fire alarm blared through the restaurant. Panic erupted. People were shouting, running for the exits.

My first and only thought was: Damien.

I ran back to our table, pushing through the panicked crowd. But he was gone.

The table was empty. His chair was pushed back. He had left.

He had left me.

I was swept along with the crowd, stumbling, my ankle twisting painfully. I fell to the ground, the smoke stinging my eyes.

Through the haze, I saw him. He was outside, a safe distance away. He was holding Carson, who was coughing dramatically into his shoulder. He was looking back at the restaurant, his face a mask of concern.

"Blanche is still in there!" he said, but he didn't move. He held Carson tighter.

"She's a grown woman, Damien," Carson said, her voice muffled against his suit. "She can take care of herself. My ankle hurts."

He looked from her to the burning building, his face torn. But it was only for a second. He scooped Carson into his arms and carried her toward a waiting car.

He left me there, on the ground, in the middle of chaos, without a second glance.

I managed to crawl out, my body bruised, my ankle screaming in protest. I watched his car drive away, disappearing into the city traffic.

He had made his choice.

And in that moment, so did I.

I limped to the nearest hospital, got my ankle wrapped, and then went straight home. I pulled out my phone and booked a one-way train ticket back to my rusty, forgotten hometown.

That night, I dreamt of the past ten years. I saw Damien on the rooftop, young and broken. I saw him in our cramped apartments, studying late into the night. I saw his face on magazine covers. I saw him smile at Carson.

I saw him walk away from a burning building, leaving me behind.

I woke up with a start. He was standing by my bed, a silhouette against the pre-dawn light.

In his hand, he was holding my train ticket.

"You're leaving?" he asked, his voice a low growl of disbelief and something else. Betrayal.