"Lottie, when you get back, you be good to Eugene, okay? That boy came from nothing—everything he has, he built on his own."
"Oh, and tell him thank you for the money he sent me, but I can't take it."
My hands stopped mid-packing.
"When did he send you money?"
"Just now! He didn't tell you?"
"Just now when?"
Mom took out her phone and placed it in my hand.
"See for yourself."
I opened her phone. The transfer had come through at seven that morning.
Two thousand yuan, plus a message:
Mrs. Winfield, I'm stuck at work with overtime so I can't make it back with Lottie to see you this trip. Please keep this money—I mean it. This October, I'll come home with her for sure, and I'll finally get to call you Mom.
I thought about how I hadn't answered a single one of Eugene's messages since last night.
My hand just… went soft. All the resolve draining right out of my fingers.
Eugene always knew. Every thread of feeling I had, every tender weak spot—he knew exactly where to press.
I forced myself to stay calm.
I handed the phone back to Mom and smiled.
"You're right not to take it. Things might not even work out—who knows."
"Oh, stop that nonsense!"
Mom laughed and cupped my cheek.
"Your father was just saying yesterday—where are you going to find another boy as genuine as Eugene? You'd better appreciate what you've got."
"I know, I know."
I cut her off before she could keep going.
"By the way, Mom, don't tell Eugene I'm heading back. I want to surprise him."
Mom let out a soft laugh.
"Alright. Your secret's safe with me."
At three in the afternoon, I arrived at the apartment Eugene and I rented together.
He wasn't home.
I set my suitcase down inside the door and looked around. Everything looked normal. Nothing out of place.
The first thing I checked was the security cameras.
The footage cut to black three days ago—the night I left.
I went to the kitchen. It looked the same as when I'd left.
But a supermarket receipt was sitting in the trash can. Yesterday's date. Dish soap, paper towels, the usual household stuff.
Then, at the bottom of the list—three boxes of condoms.
The brand Eugene had begged me to try over and over, the flavored ones I'd never agreed to.
I clenched the receipt and went straight to the bedroom. Pulled open the nightstand drawer.
Our usual condoms were still there.
Of the three new boxes, only one was left.
I opened the closet.
Right at the front, Eugene's pajamas sat neatly folded.
Eugene never folded his clothes—especially not his pajamas. I was always the one trailing behind him, picking up after him. But those pajamas weren't folded by me.
I yanked them out of the closet.
A long strand of chestnut hair, clinging to the fabric.
My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone.
I found Eugene's X account, tapped through to the profile of the girl who'd been replying to him.
Stared at her chestnut hair in photo after photo.
The color. The same.
The length. The same.
I ripped the pillows off the bed.
Under mine,
tucked away, overlooked, never cleaned up: more strands of chestnut hair.
I stumbled into the bathroom.
Near the drain—chestnut hair again.
My stomach lurched.
I grabbed the toilet and retched, one raw heave after another.
I collapsed onto the tile, legs gone, back against the wall.
My fingers found the girl's profile and kept scrolling—picture after picture after picture—and I couldn't stop.
