Just as I was about to brush Wesley off, he glanced behind me, noticing the empty space.
"Didn't I tell you not to come back unless you found the painting?"
Julia nestled sweetly in his arms.
“Wesley, don’t blame Clara. It’s my fault.”
Wesley reached out and tapped Julia’s forehead affectionately, doting on her as though she were the only one that mattered.
I watched their sickening little performance, cold and disgusted.
Just then, the delivery man arrived.
Feigning indifference, I said, “I had it framed. I didn’t want it collecting dust.”
Wesley’s expression shifted the moment he realized he had wrongfully accused me. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face, and his tone softened.
“That was my bad yesterday. Let me make it up to you tonight for our anniversary.”
I shivered involuntarily and was just about to reject him—
when Julia suddenly let out a sharp scream.
“What’s going on?!”
Wesley shoved me aside with such force I slammed into the edge of the table, the pain sending cold sweat down my back. He didn’t even look at me, rushing straight to Julia instead.
Turned out the paint she brought had been left too close to the heater and had melted.
“Julia’s art competition is tomorrow! Did you have to do this?!”
“What does that have to do with me?”
Every winter, I turned on the heater to prevent my asthma from acting up.
But Wesley blamed it all on me. He yanked my hand and pressed it against the scorching heater.
He’d forgotten—it was the same heater he insisted on installing for me back when he still cared.
The skin on the back of my hand blistered and peeled. A searing pain tore through me.
I collapsed to the ground, gasping.
Julia had hurt her hand, and in Wesley’s eyes, it was all my fault.
So I had to pay the price.
“Let’s skip the anniversary date tonight. You stay home and reflect.”
“I need to take Julia out to buy new paint.”
I clenched my teeth through the pain, staring at him in silence.
Not that I ever believed he’d keep his promise.
After they left, I rushed to the hospital to treat the burn.
Dr. Hawke’s eyes were full of concern. After bandaging me up, he offered to confront Wesley for me, but I refused.
When I got home and started packing my bags, Wesley came back with Julia in tow.
He spotted my half-packed suitcase, confusion flashing in his eyes—
only to fade when Julia spoke up in her sugary voice.
“Wesley, thank you for the new paints. You’re the best.”
Wesley ruffled her hair with that same tenderness I used to know.
I was reminded of the year I met Wesley. He had just graduated, full of passion but not a penny to his name.
I’d lied to my parents and spent all my savings to buy him the best paints and watercolors.
Even rented a studio for him at an outrageous price.
For months, I lived on instant noodles, ruining my health in the process.
That’s when the asthma started, and it never really went away.
I never told Wesley—I didn’t want him to feel guilty.
But somehow, he found out.
That night, he held me and cried for what felt like forever.
He insisted on giving up the studio, saying he’d earn enough with his paintings to marry me.
Said I deserved the best.
And now, all these years later, he was still buying paint—but for someone else.
My thoughts were interrupted when Wesley approached, pulling out a slightly wilted rose and a tube of burn ointment from behind his back.
“Clara, happy belated third anniversary.”
I stared at the rose, its edges already browned, and felt nothing but emptiness.
At the hospital earlier, I had checked Instagram out of habit.
Julia had posted an update. In the photo were her new paints—and a massive bouquet of roses.
The caption read:
“Being an artist is the best. Even the roses my favorite senior gave me are shaped like love. So lucky!”
When I didn’t take the rose, Wesley pulled me into his arms from behind.
