Chapter 2

The bathroom door opened and Noah emerged wrapped in a towel, water droplets sliding down the lines of his chest muscles.

I quickly folded the promotion form and stuffed it in my bag.

"Writing something?" He dried himself off while asking.

"Flight dispatch for next time." I zipped up the bag, trying to keep my voice casual.

Noah didn't pay much attention, continuing to towel his damp hair, saying carelessly, "If you're too tired, consider stopping flights. My salary's enough for us to live well anyway."

I looked at him. Five years, and this man had never truly understood me.

He knew I'd given up three promotion opportunities for him. He knew flying was my everything. Yet he still said things like that.

"We'll see." I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat.

I lowered my eyes, taking a quiet deep breath to stay calm.

It's fine. Just fourteen more days and I can leave Global United Airlines, leave this man who's never taken my dreams seriously.

Back in the bedroom, I'd barely laid down when Noah's arm wrapped around me from behind.

He pressed close with his warm, damp post-shower scent, his palm sliding knowingly into my silk nightgown.

My body stiffened as I grabbed his hand. "Don't touch me."

Images flashed through my mind—Bella's Instagram photo showing her red-painted nails resting on Noah's wrist.

Sensing my resistance, Noah sounded surprised. "What's wrong?"

I pulled away from his embrace and turned over. "Not feeling well."

He was silent for a moment, then leaned in to kiss my hair, his warm palm covering my lower abdomen. "Does this help?"

In the darkness, I closed my eyes, tears gradually welling up. His tenderness felt so real, but so did the betrayal.

If he really cared about me, why would he still be entangled with his ex-girlfriend?

Just then, his phone on the nightstand lit up. I instinctively glanced over—it was a message from Bella: "Remember number three on your eighteen-year-old wish list? Rowboat in Central Park. I'm waiting for you at the dock ❤️"

My heart sank to the bottom.

Last Saturday, Noah had just promised to take me to Central Park. I'd even booked a double rowboat.

Turns out, not only did the ex get priority on gifts, even our date plans were hers to experience first.

Noah saw the message too. He immediately got up. "Something urgent with the crew. I need to go."

I watched him put on the deep blue shirt I'd given him for my birthday, heard myself say: "I want to go to Central Park. Now."

His hands paused on his tie for a second. "Next week. I'm too busy this week. Next week I'll take you."

He grabbed his phone, sprayed on cologne, and left.

The moment the door closed, I whispered to myself, "So I'm just supposed to keep waiting?"

It wasn't like this before. Last winter when I casually mentioned wanting to see Niagara Falls, he booked tickets and a hotel overnight, taking me first thing the next morning.

Now? One text from his ex, and she's more important than all our plans.

I walked to the window and watched his car disappear around the corner, then turned back to the living room, looking at the entire wall of photos, feeling that familiar tightness in my chest again.

Five years, thousands of photos—I'd carefully selected a hundred to post on the wall.

The first: our first time flying the 787 together, both in white uniforms, secretly linking pinkies under the camera.

The second: our first kiss under Tokyo Tower, cherry blossoms falling, fireworks blazing.

The third: the Northern Lights in Alaska, him giving me his jacket, lips purple from cold but still smiling.

The fourth: New Year's Eve in Las Vegas, embracing in a shower of confetti.

......

Every one had a story, memories I thought I'd treasure forever.

When Noah first saw me posting photos, he'd held my waist and laughed: "A hundred photos symbolizing our love lasting a hundred years."

Looking back now, the promise had a much shorter shelf life than I'd imagined.

I smiled bitterly and reached out, pulling the photos down one by one.

The nail holes left behind were dense as stars—just like our relationship: riddled with holes.

After removing the last photo, my phone showed Bella's new post:

Some people never forget your eighteen-year-old dreams ❤️ #CentralPark #Sunset #PromiseKept

The center photo of the grid showed two clasped hands—I knew that hand with its defined knuckles wearing our couple's watch all too well.

My breathing stopped for a second.

Just as I was trembling, about to close the page, a WhatsApp notification chimed.

Bella had sent a voice message.

I stared at the play button. Then, possessed, I pressed it.

"Noah, slower, it hurts..."

Accompanying her moans were Noah's heavy breaths.

The phone dropped to the floor.

I sat there watching the screen slowly dim. So after the rowboat, there was an after-party.

I rushed to the closet and yanked out all the gifts I'd given him from his wardrobe.

Every winter, I'd hand-knit him a scarf, saying I wanted to wrap him up for life.

Every Valentine's Day, I'd carefully select a Hermès belt, saying I wanted to tie him to me forever.

"I'll treasure everything you give me, baby."

He always said that when receiving gifts, then reverently kissed my forehead.

But now, it all seemed ironic and laughable.

I stuffed everything in garbage bags, along with those photos, and threw them in the dumpster downstairs.

For the remaining days, I'd clean out everything about us.

Noah didn't return until almost eleven PM. When he walked in, he was enveloped in that faint perfume scent.

Taking off his coat, he immediately noticed the empty photo wall. "Skyler, where are all the photos?"

I curled my fingers, nails digging into my palm. "Fell down. Put them away."

With that, I turned toward the bedroom.

He followed. "Why didn't you put them back up?"

Looking at the love bites and scratch marks covering his open collar, I lowered my eyes. "The nails are loose. Can't hang them back up."

He didn't understand, relieved: "When I have time, we'll hang them together."

He headed into the bathroom.

"Photos can be rehung," I said softly to the closed door, "but feelings can't."