5

Chapter 5

Ethan vanished like he'd evaporated from the world. He didn't come home for a whole week.

But his figure kept appearing on my phone screen.

His and Judy's Instagram updated daily:

Morning beach scenes, the two of them watching the sunrise side by side, seawater glowing golden at their feet.

By the pool, Judy wore a white gauze shawl, Ethan pulling her up from the water, laughing like a teenager.

A speedboat cutting through the ocean, wind blowing her veil high, the caption reading—

"She said she wanted to see all the world's oceans. I'll take her there."

Sweetness beyond words, and sincerity that left me speechless.

So this was happiness—at least, not the kind that belonged to me.

I continued packing my things.

I emptied half my closet, boxes stacking up by the door.

I put everything related to him in one cardboard box: music boxes, photos, commemorative ticket stubs. I wrote "Dispose" on it and tossed it in the corner.

I also called my parents.

My mother's voice carried worry: "The research facility is so far away, and it's closed management. Will your boyfriend agree?"

I stared at the lights outside the window, my tone calm: "We've already broken up."

I told them everything Ethan had done during this time.

Silence on the other end for two seconds.

My father took the phone, his tone decisive: "Good riddance. He's not worth it. The family supports you. If you've thought it through, go do what you need to do."

I hummed in agreement, my nose tingling, but I finally felt relieved.

The next day, I submitted my resignation at work. HR asked for the reason. I wrote eight words: "Personal planning, external research assignment."

Colleagues came one by one to hug me, saying to stay in touch. I smiled and nodded, knowing I wouldn't appear in their world again anytime soon.

On the evening of that week's last day, I returned home carrying printed resignation documents.

As I opened the door, laughter came from the living room.

Ethan and Judy sat on the sofa chatting. Ethan held Judy's shoulders tightly, the two of them intimately close.

Judy wore a light-colored cardigan, her face pale but smiling.

When she saw me, she waved: "Sarah, you're back."

Like a hostess welcoming a guest home.

Ethan noticed the documents in my hand and asked casually: "What's that?"

His gaze then fell on the stack of boxes by the entrance, his brow furrowing: "Why is there so much stuff missing from the house again?"

I hung up my coat, replying flatly: "Nothing, just organizing things lately."

"Organizing what?" he pressed. "Why do you keep getting rid of things? Where are the cushions? The picture frames? Half the books are gone too."

"Things I didn't need, so I got rid of them." I remained calm.

The atmosphere became subtly tense.

Judy suddenly spoke softly, breaking the silence: "Sarah, I actually came today specifically to invite you to dinner. To thank you for your... patience during this time."

When she said "patience," her tone was gentle and polite, as if smoothing my emotions, yet also like delicately dropping a pin.

"I'll pass." I said.

Ethan had already picked up his keys: "Come on, consider it a break."

His hand naturally clasped my wrist, not forcefully, but unyieldingly.

"Let's go. Judy can only eat light foods right now."

The restaurant he booked was an American place with bland flavors.

Ethan ordered a table full of "healthy options" for Judy: grilled chicken breast, grilled steak, steamed vegetables, quinoa salad.

When the food arrived, he pushed a plate of seafood pasta toward me: "Judy can't eat seafood right now, so you have this."

"I'm allergic to seafood." I put down my fork.

We'd been together four years, and he didn't even know I was allergic to seafood. Yet he knew Judy's dietary restrictions inside and out.

He froze, looking like someone had publicly exposed something shameful.

He hastily tried to remedy the situation: "Then... then we'll get a steak, another pasta without seafood, and order two more dishes."

"Whatever you want." I said.

Throughout the meal, Judy would occasionally cough, and Ethan would immediately put down his knife and fork to pour her soup, patient and attentive.

I lowered my head to drink water. My reflection in the glass looked like another person—quiet, unruffled, disconnected from this table's tenderness.

After dinner, Ethan and Judy walked side by side ahead of me.

Then my phone rang.

It was my lab colleague calling.

"Sarah, the project timeline is confirmed. How are you doing with packing and materials? We've sent you the pickup procedure by email, please confirm."

"I'm all ready. I can leave anytime." I said.

As the words left my mouth, Ethan suddenly turned to look at me: "Who's leaving?"