Chapter 1

1.

After four years together, Elias suddenly suggested we go to City Hall and make it official.

But a week before our appointment, deep inside his camera bag, I found a few perfectly preserved concert ticket stubs.

They were for my favorite indie rock band, a band Elias was always too busy with work to see with me.

I sat on the old leather chair in my study for a long time, clutching those tickets.

I didn't move until the sky outside was completely dark. Then, I finally stood up and called Professor Miller, asking to join the "Alaskan Polar Ecology Expedition" leaving in two weeks.

On the day the bride was supposed to be at City Hall, she was a no-show. And he, apparently, was tearing the world apart looking for me.

…

Two weeks earlier, after seeing an off-Broadway show with Elias, he casually asked me in the middle of the crowded lobby:

"Harper, what do you say we get married?"

He said it so casually, his eyes still fixed on a movie poster on the theater wall.

I whispered yes.

Elias and I had been together for years. At every Thanksgiving dinner, our relatives would tease us about when we were tying the knot.

I always thought marriage was just a piece of paper.

But when he finally asked, I felt a wave of happiness so strong I thought I would burst.

The next day, I dragged Elias to pick out engagement rings, then made him try on wedding dresses and contact photographers. We were up until three in the morning.

Elias said since we were just signing papers at City Hall, we didn't need to make such a big deal out of it.

But I couldn't help myself. I started creating frantic wedding inspiration boards on Pinterest.

Engagement photos, the reception in Napa Valley, the honeymoon trip―I had printed out dozens of pages of my plans.

Until today, I believed Elias was the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

This afternoon, I wanted to export our photos from the DSLR to make digital invitations, but in the side pocket, my fingers brushed against those old ticket stubs.

I looked through them, one by one. Without exception, they were all for that one band's tours.

They started from Elias's sophomore year of college and went all the way to this year. I couldn't even count how many there were.

The stubs were carefully preserved in plastic sleeves, with words written on the back in permanent marker.

[Sophomore year, Boston. The first time we escaped Earth's gravity together.]

[Senior year, Seattle. You said this was all you needed.]

The most recent one read:

[Maybe this is the last time we'll feel the summer wind.]

So, all these years, he had been going to every single concert with someone else.

And I was the fool who was kept in the dark.

A bitter taste rose in my throat, and my stomach churned.

Elias and I were opposites. He was rational and pragmatic; I was emotional and artistic.

I used to keep all our old train tickets and boarding passes from our trips together in a scrapbook.

But I lost it during one of our moves, and I was heartbroken for a long time.

Elias thought I was ridiculous. He asked why I would keep "worthless scraps of paper," calling it a classic hoarding habit.

After that, I never saved another ticket.

He could never remember the anniversary of when we met. He even got my birthday wrong sometimes.

I always told myself it was just typical guy behavior, that it didn't mean he didn't care about me.

Now, seeing these ticket stubs, always in pairs, I felt like a complete joke.

I suddenly remembered the first time Elias introduced me to his best friend, Josh. When I got up to use the restroom, I overheard Josh ask him, "Are you really over Chloe?"

I heard it, but I didn't ask.

At our age, everyone has a past.