“They all look fine,” Damien had said flatly, after watching me try on three gowns. “Just pick one. You can’t really see the details anyway.”
He hurried to pay, the receipt showing only two hundred dollars.
So he was capable of careful planning, of spending seventy thousand on a dress flown in from Milan. But never for me.
On the way home, I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, yet the tears still wouldn’t stop.
Five years.
For five whole years, I had believed he understood me.
When I told him I wanted to marry in the snowy mountains, he smiled, ruffled my hair, and said, “Okay.” That simple moment had moved me so deeply. I thought he remembered—that he cherished the place we first met, the day I fell and bloodied myself for him, the way I held his hand in the blizzard and whispered, “Don’t be afraid.”
But it turned out he hadn’t remembered at all. Or worse—he never cared.
The doctor had warned me that strong emotions could hinder my optic nerve recovery. So I tilted my head back, swallowing the sobs until my throat burned raw.
That night Damien called. Behind his voice was loud music and laughter. “Serena, Daniel and the guys are throwing me a bachelor’s party. I’m not coming back tonight.”
I hesitated two seconds, then said softly, “Okay.”
It was the third night in a row.
At one in the morning, unable to sleep, I scrolled through my social media. Daniel had posted a nine-photo collage captioned Brother’s Last Night of Freedom. In the center photo, Calla leaned drunkenly against Damien, her flushed cheek pressed to his shoulder, her hand resting lightly at his waist.
The comments came fast: What a talented couple. Such a pity. They were childhood sweethearts. Don’t stir trouble. @Damien, better be careful or Serena will find out.
Damien himself replied: Serena won’t mind. If she makes a fuss over something this small, then maybe marriage isn’t worth it.
I clicked a silent thumbs-up, switched off my phone, and closed my eyes.
He was certain I would endure it, just as I had endured the venue change, the half-million-dollar dress, the endless “we’re just friends.”
But this time, I no longer wanted to endure.
The next morning, I went alone to the hospital for my follow-up. The doctor frowned. “Last time, we said your vision is fluctuating a lot. You really should be accompanied.”
I smiled faintly. “I can manage on my own.”
When I stepped outside, the skies broke into heavy rain. Crossing the street, I spotted them through a café window—Damien, phone lifted for a selfie, and Calla leaning into him, flashing a victory sign. On her arm was the newest handbag, the very one he’d told me last week was “for a client.”
I gave a quiet laugh to myself and walked into the storm.
By the time Damien came home, I was toweling off, changing out of my drenched clothes. He froze when he saw me. “Why are you soaked?”
“Follow-up appointment,” I said lightly.
His expression stiffened. “That was today?”
I let out a small laugh. “Yes. It’s the third time I reminded you.”
Damien dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’ve been busy. Anyway, your eyesight is already better. Missing one check-up won’t kill you.”
I looked at him steadily. “The doctor said my optic nerve is still deteriorating.”
He faltered, went quiet, then lifted his gaze again with a flash of irritation. “Are you trying to remind me that you went blind because of me?”
So, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. In his eyes, it was just me keeping score.
I stayed silent. That silence seemed to anger him more. “And now you’re staring at me like that again! I only forgot once. Why do you always blow up over such small things?”
