After all, he had been the obsession of my entire youth.
That Christmas, the moon was round and bright. I gathered all my courage and confessed to him by the edge of the school field.
I knew he was cold and distant—he never spared a second glance for anyone who liked him.
That night, I wasn’t expecting an answer. I just wanted to give my youth a proper ending.
But he looked at me for a long time, silent, before suddenly smiling.
“Alright,” he said softly. “From today on, I’m your boyfriend.”
That smile—clean, dazzling, unforgettable. I thought I would remember it for the rest of my life.
Until one day, in the heat of passion, he accidentally called out another name—
“Pearl.”
That single word froze me in place.
We didn’t speak for three days. Then she showed up at my door with a cake in her hands and tears in her eyes.
“That was someone I used to like,” she said. “It’s over. I won’t bring it up again.”
And I believed her.
Through four years of college, I treated our love as something fragile and precious, afraid to let it break.
After graduation, he said he wanted to move to a new city.
I didn’t even go home—I just followed him there.
He treated me well, too.
Whenever a new dessert came out, he would be the first to buy it for me.
He helped iron my shirts, blow-dry my hair, notice all the little details that made me feel cared for.
For years, we lived quietly, peacefully. I really believed we would make it to the altar someday.
Until six months ago—when Pearl came back.
She looked at me with a faint, knowing smile.
“You remind me a lot of who I used to be,” she said.
And in that moment, I finally understood everything.
His love had never truly belonged to me.
He had been using me all along—to relive the ghost of someone he’d already lost.
Every dessert, every habit, every tone of tenderness—
They all came from her.
He wasn’t loving me; he was practicing how to love her again.
And I… was only the shadow standing in her place.
I remembered how he once said to me:
“Mabel, when our seventh anniversary comes, let’s get married.”
“Christmas is our special day—we’ll celebrate it every year, together.”
But this Christmas, the person by his side wasn’t me.
And maybe that’s alright.
Because soon, I’d be returning home—for an arranged marriage of my own.
The clock’s hands crept past midnight.
John still hadn’t come back.
Once, that would have sent me spiraling—pacing the floor, sleepless, anxious.
But tonight, I slept more soundly than I ever had before.
The next few days passed as if time had been drained of all weight.
I worked, ate, slept—mechanically, without thought.
John was gone. No messages, no explanations.
On the third morning, a text arrived.
“Business trip. Don’t worry.”
He’d even attached a location pin—so thoughtful, so precise.
I typed back, “Alright. Stay safe.”
My fingers trembled slightly as I hit send.
Then my lips curved into a faint, almost invisible smile.
Just as the message went through, a new post popped up on Pearl’s Twitter feed:
“Long-awaited vacation! Finally got the bag I’ve been dreaming of—and someone insisted on buying it for me~”
The photo showed two intertwined hands.
His hand—John’s hand—still wore our wedding ring.
And the tagged location on her post was identical to the one he had just sent me.
For a moment, the ring on my own finger felt like a burning piece of metal.
I slid it off, quietly, and placed it in the drawer.
After that, I practically moved into the hospital, throwing myself into work—
patients, reports, surgeries, meetings—
all noise, all numbness.
I stopped wondering when he’d come home.
Until one evening, as I was leaving work,
I saw a familiar car parked by the gate.
It was him.
