So, when Simon came out of the shower and saw me packing in the bedroom, his mood turned inexplicably irritable.
He stormed into the room and yanked out the clothes I had just folded, one by one.
"I bought this coat for you in France last year, and I gave this dress to you just last month."
One by one, he pulled every last piece of clothing from the suitcase and tossed them aside, the final one slipping from my sight and landing on the floor.
Then he smirked, his tone laced with mockery.
"Chloe, I bought all of this for you. Do you really think you could afford these designer brands with the scraps you make in a month?"
Simon grabbed my arm and dragged me to the vanity mirror.
He gripped my chin, forcing me to look at my own reflection.
"Chloe, do you think it’s disgusting that I paint on women’s bodies for inspiration? But who are you to act all high and mighty? Haven’t I been the one supporting you all these years?
"Look at yourself—every single thing you’re wearing, from head to toe, I bought it for you.
“You want to break up? Fine.
"Strip. Leave everything behind and get out."
I didn’t cry or make a scene.
I simply pulled away from Simon’s grip.
Right in front of him, I took off each piece of clothing like shedding layers of restraint.
What Simon never knew was that I never liked these designer brands in the first place.
He was the one who insisted on buying them, forcing me to wear them.
And every time, he would gaslight me.
"Chloe, I’m a renowned artist now. Being my girlfriend is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
"So don’t embarrass me. When you’re out in public, you need to watch how you speak and act. Even your style has to be refined and high-end."
To fit the role of Simon’s perfect girlfriend, I wore clothes that didn’t fit, heels I despised, accompanied him to events I hated, and said things I never meant.
The heels looked beautiful but cut into my skin, leaving my heels raw and bleeding.
Scabs formed, only to break open again, until all that remained were hardened calluses.
By the time I was done stripping, I was left in just my underwear.
I reached into the bottom of my closet and pulled out the only set of clothes I had bought for myself—my old workout gear.
Simon always said it looked cheap, but to me, it was the most comfortable thing I owned.
Finally, I packed my ID, passport, and phone charger into my bag, then looked up at Simon. "Can I leave now?"
Without waiting for an answer, I stepped past him and walked toward the door.
Just as my hand pressed down on the doorknob, Simon suddenly made a call and deliberately put it on speaker.
A sweet, delicate voice came through the line. "Simon, why are you calling so late? Do you miss me?"
Simon chuckled. "Mm."
"Baby, send me your address. I’ll come right over."
I didn’t listen to the rest. I didn’t need to.
From now on, whoever Simon painted on for inspiration had nothing to do with me.
I walked out without looking back.
Behind me, something crashed hard against the door with a loud bang.
Then, from the other side of the door, Simon's voice rang out. "Chloe, don’t you dare regret this! I wouldn’t take you back in this life or the next!"
…
After the breakup, I blocked Simon on every possible contact.
My life fell into a monotonous cycle—work, home, repeat—until one evening after work when I suddenly got a call from my high school class president.
"Chloe, I’m organizing a class reunion at Latinx Bar this weekend. Noah will be there too."
…
For several nights, I tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
Finally, the weekend arrived.
I rummaged through my closet, trying on over a dozen outfits.
Then, I spent two hours doing my makeup in the bathroom.
I arrived at Latinx Bar half an hour early.
