Ethan and I had been together for ten years, and arguments were an everyday occurrence.
We were both stubborn, neither willing to back down first.
But today was different—him slamming the door and leaving me all alone was a first.
No, not a first.
I remembered another time.
Back in high school, the class held a farewell dinner.
By then, Ethan and I were officially together, at our clingiest stage.
One of the boys had drunk too much and joked that a quiet girl like Rose would never get married.
The words had barely left his mouth before Ethan’s face darkened instantly.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it, assuming he was just upset that the boy had spoken without tact and grabbed his hand to calm him down.
But he yanked his hand away from me and walked off without a word.
I was left standing there, facing a table of bewildered classmates, utterly embarrassed.
That night, his mother said he never came home. His phone was off the whole time.
It wasn’t until the next day that I found him at an internet café.
He only said he was in a bad mood and, in a casual tone, apologized for leaving me behind the night before.
I believed him.
Looking back now, it was laughable.
Inside the time capsule that Rose buried was a diary.
One page recorded that very gathering:
“Today, Victor Grant teased me again, saying no one would ever want to marry me.
It hurt, but I’m used to it.
I never imagined he’d get angry because of me—that he would shake off Autumn and run after me just to comfort me.
He stayed with me on the rooftop the whole night, telling me I was a good girl, that they simply didn’t know how to appreciate me.
In that moment, it felt like the whole world lit up.
Autumn, I’m sorry. I never meant to take him from you, even if it was just for one night.”
So he wasn’t in a bad mood that night—he’d gone to comfort another girl.
While I spent the night sick with worry for him, he was on the rooftop lighting up another girl’s world.
There was also a photo in the box—a group shot from our graduation trip.
Ethan and I stood in the middle, smiling brightly.
Standing in the far corner of the photo was Rose, her gaze fixed on Ethan, eyes filled with quiet longing and sorrow.
On the back of the photo, Ethan had written:
“May you always smile like sunshine.”
He had written the same line in my yearbook on graduation day.
There was also a bracelet—identical to the one on my wrist.
He once said he had searched several stores to find this “couple’s design.”
Turns out it wasn’t for a couple. It was for three.
Ten years, Ethan.
My youth, my first love, all my dreams for the future—
all of it, was nothing but a dream.
From the very beginning, I was never the only one.
I was merely the one you kept in plain sight.
The pain crushed the air out of my lungs.
I curled up on the couch, drained of every last bit of strength.
My phone lit up. Joe Jordan had sent a message — he was Ethan’s roommate back in high school, and they were still on good terms.
I opened it. A photo. The background was a private booth in a bar.
Ethan was slumped in the middle of the booth, holding a bottle of alcohol, his eyes glassy and unfocused, clearly drunk.
Next to him, gently wiping his face with a towel, was a woman. Who else could it be but Rose?
