Chapter 1

The day Elara said we were over, it was pouring rain.

She told me, "Connor, I don't love you anymore."

I actually believed her.

It took me three years to realize that she had a diagnostic report for an endoscopy tucked in her pocket that day, and that her voice had been trembling the entire time.

Some misunderstandings, once spoken aloud, can never be clarified again.

The day Elara said we were over, it was pouring rain.

It was a Friday, the first major storm since summer hit Chicago, and the rain hammered against our window like a drum. The water on the sidewalk was already up to our ankles, and pedestrians were hunched over, sprinting through the downpour under their umbrellas.

We sat in the small living room of our rented apartment, face to face, with two bowls of homemade noodle soup sitting between us.

She had made them herself, rolling the dough thin and simmering the broth for three hours. She always said bone broth was rich in calcium and good for the body.

I hadn't gotten home from working overtime until nine, so the noodles had turned soggy. But I didn't want to let her down, so I picked up my bowl and started eating.

"Connor," she suddenly spoke, her voice eerily calm―not like her at all. "Let's break up."

I thought she was joking.

"What did you say?" I asked with a smile, swallowing the noodles. "Is the food bad? Just hit me then, I'll buy something else next time."

"It's not about the food." She looked at me, her gaze so intense it sent a shiver down my spine. "Connor, I don't love you anymore."

I froze, my chopsticks hovering in mid-air.

"What did you say?" I heard my own voice, strained and distant. "Elara, you're kidding, right? It's not April Fool's Day, don't scare me like this."

"I'm not kidding." She stood up, walked into the bedroom, and started packing.

The suitcase had been ready for a while, sitting on top of the closet. I used to be the one to get it down for her. But now, she stepped onto a chair, grabbed it herself, and set it on the bed to start packing her clothes.

I sat in the living room, listening to the rustle of fabric in the bedroom, the clatter of hangers, and the zip of the suitcase. Every sound was crystal clear, cutting through me like a blade.

"Elara," I walked to the bedroom door, "tell me what I did wrong. I'll change, okay?"

She didn't look back, just kept folding her clothes and placing them into the suitcase.

Her technique was meticulous―folding them in half, then rolling them tight to prevent wrinkles. She used to pack my bags for business trips this way. When I teased her for making them look like store displays, she'd say, "Of course. When my man goes out, he represents me."

Back then, her eyes would crinkle into lovely crescents when she laughed.

"Connor," her voice was hoarse, as if she were holding back tears. "You didn't do anything wrong. I just don't love you anymore."

"Impossible." I walked over, wanting to wrap my arms around her. "Just last month you told me we'd take wedding photos once you got your year-end bonus. You said you wanted to wear the purest white gown and have me kneel to put a ring on your finger―"

"That was last month." She finally looked at me, her eyes rimmed with red but dry. "This month, I don't love you."

I stood by the door, watching her, unable to find the words.

The rain lashed against the window, tap-tap-tapping like someone's fingers on the glass.

"Elara," I stepped closer, desperate to hold her, to tell her I'd stay by her side no matter what. "Just tell me what's happening, please…"

She ducked away.

Her movement was swift, as if she'd practiced avoiding me.

"Connor, don't touch me." She grabbed her suitcase. "I'm leaving."

And then she really left.

When she walked out, the rain was relentless, and she didn't even have an umbrella.

I stayed at the door, watching her silhouette vanish into the storm, unable to move a muscle.

The noodles were still on the table, cold now, with a thin layer of grease congealing on top.

I sat back down and finished both bowls.