The doctor glanced at my forced smile and gave a teasing chuckle. "Your boss already left. No need to push yourself to keep smiling like that anymore. But I’ll give him this—stubborn mouth, soft heart. He’s already paid all your medical bills."
My fake smile slipped into a bitter one. Simon really deserved an award for his performance. Nobody knew we were together. Nobody—except for a handful of his closest friends—knew I’d been in a secret relationship with him for five years.
I’d asked him again and again. "When can we go public?"
He always brushed it off with a vague, "The timing’s not right."
But today, I got my answer. When he thought I had amnesia, the first thing he said was I’m your boss. That’s what I really was to him. An employee. A secret.
My injuries weren’t serious, so the doctor kept me under observation for three days before clearing me to go home. Since my bill went through insurance, the excess refund was transferred back to Simon’s account—the one who paid.
Three days. No visit. No text. And then he called.
“You’re out already? You could’ve at least given me a heads-up,” he said, like it was an inconvenience. “I’ve got a client meeting today. Can’t come pick you up.”
“…Okay.” I swallowed the thousand questions that almost slipped out.
I checked his location. He was at a hotel. I didn’t need him to spell out what he was really busy with.
Then, in the background, I heard a woman’s voice, “Come dry my hair, will you?”
Click. He hung up immediately. Not long after, I received two transfers from him on messenger. One for $1314, another for $1520.
Those numbers meant something to us, our special dates. meant ‘forever love’ and ‘I love you’. For years, I had wished for those exact numbers. I wanted to screenshot them, post them, brag just once like the other girls who could show off their boyfriends.
But every time I tried, he refused. He didn’t want the attention. Now that I’ve decided to let him go, he sends them? I didn’t know what kind of twisted guilt or nostalgia he was acting on.
I stared at his newly changed profile photo. It was obviously a couple photo. But not with me. Without a second thought, I returned both transfers. He sent me a string of question marks. I didn’t reply.
When I got back to the apartment, nothing had changed. Everything was exactly the same as the night of the concert. Which meant he hadn’t been back since. I took a deep breath, pushed aside the ache in my chest and began to pack. It didn’t take long before the place felt empty.
Five years. Five years of a life I had carefully built around him, dismantled in just a few hours. Most of the things I packed were couple-themed items. Stuff I bought. Simon never liked wearing or using anything that hinted he was taken. He said he didn’t like being flashy.
I used to joke that he was acting like some undercover agent. Turns out, it wasn’t a joke. He just never considered me his to begin with.
I was halfway through when I heard the door open. He came in.
"Meggy, what’s this about?" he snapped. "I’ve been trying to call you! I asked you to dinner and you didn’t pick up or reply!"
I smelled the perfume on him before I even looked up. It wasn’t mine. I instinctively held up a hand to stop him from getting too close. My eyes drifted to the faint red marks on his neck—hickeys.
"Sorry," I said calmly. "I’ve been busy. Didn’t check my phone."
He scanned the room, frowning as he noticed the open suitcases. "Don’t tell me you’ve been busy tearing down the house. You just got out of the hospital. You should be resting."
Then he pointed at a few boxes I hadn’t tossed yet—still filled with new couple merchandise I’d bought. "You don’t want any of this?"
I bent down to pick one up and he snatched it from my hands.
"Alright, I’ll take them out. But stop wasting money on useless crap. Are you made of money?"
Then, casually, like nothing had happened, he said, "Go change. I’ll take you out to eat."
It was time. If I was going to walk away, I needed to say it.
From the balcony, I watched as he walked to the dumpster and threw the boxes in without a second glance. The same way he tossed away our five years. Like it meant nothing.
At the restaurant, he ordered several of our usual favorites. Dishes that brought back memories. Laughter. Movie nights. Lazy weekends. But he also ordered one dish I couldn’t stand—bitter melon with scrambled eggs. He knew I hated it. He always remembered… until now.
