In the corner of the bay window, a pair of decorative pillows lay tossed aside.
My mom had embroidered those by hand.
She'd sat under the lamp with her reading glasses on, stitching for two straight nights.
She'd pricked her fingers three times.
Now the pillows were buried under Felicia's torn-open delivery boxes.
She hadn't even glanced at them.
On the nightstand sat a Polaroid.
Fabian and Felicia in matching pajamas, leaning into each other.
On the back, a line of handwriting：
“After all this time, it was always you.”
I picked up the photo.
Fabian followed me in.
The second he saw what was in my hand, his face changed.
“Joy, don't go through other people's things.”
I turned to look at him.
“Other people's things?”
“Sitting on the nightstand in the master bedroom of MY apartment?”
He had nothing to say to that.
I threw the photo at his chest.
“Fabian, the wedding invitations have already been sent out.”
“My mom has been calling relatives every single day this week to confirm who's coming.”
“And you?”
“You were in my wedding apartment, taking couple photos with your dream girl.”
He bent down and picked up the photo.
His first instinct wasn't to throw it away.
He wiped it off. Carefully.
I watched him do it, and whatever warmth was left inside me went cold.
“Joy.”
He said.
“I admit what I did was wrong.”
“But you're not innocent either.”
I stared at him, caught off guard.
He lifted his head and met my eyes.
And there it was. Righteous indignation. Like he actually believed what he was about to say.
“You always bring up the apartment.”
“The deed is in your name. Your parents paid for it. Your family covered most of the renovation.”
“Do you have any idea how much pressure that puts on me?”
“Every time your mom says this place is your safety net, it feels like a slap in the face.”
“I was supposed to be marrying you, but I felt like a stranger living in your house.”
“Felicia's different.”
“She'd never hold any of that over my head.”
I looked at him.
“So you went ahead and became one.”
“A stranger. And you brought someone else in to take my place.”
His expression froze.
From outside, Felicia called for him.
“Babe, come help me pack my stuff!”
Fabian turned to leave.
I stopped him.
“Keys.”
He looked back.
I held out my hand.
“And the smart lock code.”
Fabian frowned.
“You really have to be this cold about it?”
I didn't answer. Just looked at him.
He dug a set of keys out of his pocket and slammed them onto the bed.
“Fine.”
“Don't come crying to me later.”
I picked up the keys.
“I won't be the one crying.”
I didn't go back to my rental that day.
I went straight to my parents' place.
The moment my mom opened the door and saw my face, she forgot to put down the spatula in her hand.
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
I opened my mouth.
Not a single word came out.
My dad walked over from the living room.
“Did Fabian do something to you?”
I handed them my phone.
The photos I'd taken at the apartment were still on the screen.
The wine glasses.
The matching pajamas.
Felicia's delivery boxes.
The Polaroid on the nightstand.
And the wedding pillows, crushed underneath it all.
My mom's face drained of color.
She gripped the edge of the dining table and didn't speak for a long time.
My dad swiped through them one by one.
When he reached the last photo, he set the phone down.
For a long, long time, he said only one thing：
“The wedding is off.”
My mom finally snapped out of it.
Her eyes were red.
“How dare he?”
“That's the apartment we bought for you.”
