Chapter 3

3

A second later, a Venmo notification popped up from Hazel.

Along with a text message:

"Declan, why didn't you wait for me and left by yourself? Whatever, use this money to get some late-night takeout."

"I'll explain everything that happened tonight when I see you tomorrow."

What else was there to explain? The scene from tonight was seared into my brain.

I brought up the block button, hesitated for a few seconds, then switched back to the chat. I typed out "Let's break up," deleted it, and typed it again.

Frustrated, I tossed the phone aside, collapsed onto the couch, and stared blankly at the ceiling.

This tiny studio was filled with her photos and traces of our life together.

An eight-year relationship couldn't be cleanly erased in a split second.

Before ending it for good, there were things I needed to make clear. Even if I lost, I wanted to lose with full clarity.

Dazed and exhausted, I passed out on the couch.

Early the next morning, loud banging rattled my door.

"Declan! Open up! Why did you lock the deadbolt?"

Rubbing my pounding temples, I squinted at my phone. It wasn't even six in the morning.

I sighed and opened the door, only to find Shane standing right behind her.

He leaned closely against Hazel's back, putting on a frail, innocent act.

"Declan, what is wrong with you? Didn't you know I was coming over? You ignored my calls and locked the door. My throat hurts from yelling!"

Hazel complained incessantly.

Meanwhile, she held Shane's hand as she walked into my living room, helped him sit down, and poured him a glass of warm water―just like I used to do for her.

Noticing my silence, Hazel's hand paused before she offered an explanation:

"Our wedding ceremony was just for show. Shane's mom has terminal liver cancer, and her only dying wish is to see him get married."

She stole a glance at Shane, took my hand, and lowered her voice:

"Besides, Shane was recently diagnosed with mid-stage stomach cancer. If we can't fulfill his mother's wish, I'm worried it'll ruin his mood for treatment."

I frowned and pulled my hand back.

Looking at Shane's glowing, healthy complexion, I let out a mocking chuckle.

If I hadn't seen the table overflowing with red wine, sashimi, and barbecue last night, I might have actually believed her.

The last time my chronic stomach disease flared up from pulling all-nighters, the pain made me collapse on the stairwell, cracking my head open.

When I called her in agony, she only gave me a cold response:

"It's just a bump, suck it up."

"I have something really important going on, don't bother me."

In the end, a passing neighbor found me bleeding on the floor and called 911.

Afterward, she didn't ask about my condition once. Instead, she gave me the cold shoulder for weeks because I couldn't drive her to and from work.

Later, I saw on Shane's social media that her "important matter" was accompanying him to a VIP basketball game.

Love and indifference are always clear in the smallest details; I was just blinded by love back then.

Shane suddenly began to cough violently, his face flushing red, though he couldn't hide the smirk at the corner of his lips:

"Brother Declan, don't worry. It's just a fake marriage. Hazel is still yours."

I ignored him. My gut told me this wasn't the real answer.

The real answer lay in the "regret" she mentioned last night.

"Hazel, you're still lying. Tell me what that regret really is, and maybe I'll understand."