The video had already hit the trending page. People were starting to dig into the real identities of the couple on screen.
Sure enough, I found Belinda Walker's secret account in the comments section.
It had been updated forty minutes ago.
Every single time, I'm the one who wins.
The day before, she'd posted a photo—two silhouettes kissing by the ocean.
Finally. Five years beats eleven.
My tears fell in time with my scrolling thumb.
She was in the hospital for surgery, and all I had to do was cough twice. He came running.
So what if your little car accident pulled him away for a night? You're nothing but a dead fish in bed. I'm the only one who makes him lose control.
He's mine now.
Further back.
Had a great night. Stood her up for dinner. Once you win once, you just keep winning.
Made him a homemade lunch box. He said it was delicious.
First day of the semester. Maybe I just met the one.
...
I followed the posts all the way back, five years, to the first time they met.
I watched her go from secretly thrilled by stolen moments of closeness to openly flaunting his devotion.
And I watched him pull away from me, inch by inch, drawing closer to her.
Tears streamed down my face. But underneath them, there was a strange stillness.
I was almost surprised by it.
I thought about it for a moment.
Maybe I'd always known.
I didn't know how much longer I sat there before I finally stood. My body was stiff, my limbs heavy. I carried the cake to the trash and dropped it in.
A memory surfaced—eighteen years old, crouched outside a bakery with Logan, waiting for the discount hour.
It was the first time we'd ever had savings.
Two hundred and eighty-four dollars.
We'd earned it wearing mascot costumes all day in hundred-degree heat.
"Martha, I'm buying you your first birthday cake!"
"Things are only going to get better for us. I promise."
I'd wanted to say no.
But the sweat still dripping from his bangs, the weight of that promise in his voice—it made me lose my resolve.
"Okay," I blurted.
Right before the bakery closed, we got the last cake on the shelf.
Kiwi.
I still remembered the panic in Logan's eyes before I blacked out.
And after I was discharged, his pockets completely empty.
But when did he stop remembering?
Was it when he hired Belinda behind my back?
Or was it earlier—the very first time he introduced her to me, calling her his junior from school?
If Logan and I were weeds, clawing through concrete just to survive—
Belinda was a flower, bathed in sunlight.
I'd joked about it with him once.
"Belinda's gorgeous. Bubbly. Her dad's a senator, her mom runs a corporation, and they both adore her."
"If it weren't for me, you'd definitely fall for her, wouldn't you?"
Logan was quiet for a long time.
"We've walked too far together for that."
I let that answer soothe me.
I didn't catch the shadow that crossed his face when he looked away.
And so, without my knowing, everything began to shift.
Logan—who used to insist on coming home for dinner every single night—started eating all three meals at the campus cafeteria.
On my birthday, he was busy comforting Belinda because she was in a bad mood.
On the anniversary of the day we escaped our old lives, he was on the beach with Belinda, lighting fireworks.
He came home later and later. The excuses piled up, each one thinner than the last.
And I grew quieter.
I'm so tired. I just wanted to go lie down.
But as I passed the study, the screen on Logan's desk was still glowing.
It was open to his chat with Belinda.
I turned around slowly and looked at the apartment—really looked at it.
The pale hardwood floors. The lush monstera in the corner. The clean, simple furniture.
No leaking roof. No screaming. No filth.
A home that was always bright, always clean.
A home.
