I looked at him and remembered the countless times, after our silent fights, he would do the same—cook a meal, say a few soft words, and wait for me to give in.

Only this time, I didn’t.

“Forget it,” I said quietly, my own voice sounding foreign to me. “My birthday’s already over.”

His smile faltered for a split second, then he masked it with an easy laugh, pulling out a slice of cake and sliding it toward me.

“It’s the new flavor you like.”

It was half a piece of mango cake.

The sugary scent filled the air, thick and cloying.

My throat tightened.

He had never remembered that I was allergic to mango.

Seven years together—and he could name every one of Pearl’s favorite desserts, but couldn’t recall the one thing I couldn’t eat.

I lowered my gaze and swallowed the ache in silence.

He seemed to notice my indifference. His brow furrowed, and irritation crept into his tone.

“Enough already. Just remember to show up tonight—I don’t want to lose face.”

Then, as if to justify himself, he added,

“If it weren’t for Pearl asking me to, I wouldn’t have come back to coax you so soon.”

So that was it.

Even his so-called “apology” had to be prompted by her.

“John,” I began slowly, “I think we should—”

Before I could finish, his phone rang.

The familiar ringtone sliced through the air—and through my chest.

He glanced at the screen, and his entire demeanor softened.

“Pearl? Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

When he hung up, the tenderness vanished.

“She needs something. I’ll go. Don’t forget about tonight.”

He threw on his jacket and left.

I watched his back disappear through the doorway.

This time, I didn’t call out.

I simply picked up my phone and typed two words:

Divorce.

The message was sent, but the screen stayed dark.

Minutes later, another notification appeared—it wasn’t from him.

Pearl had sent me a video.

I tapped it open.

The lighting was dim and warm, laughter spilling from every corner of the private room.

John sat at the center of the table, a slice of mango cake in hand, his tone casual, almost amused.

“Mabel always throws a tantrum when she’s upset. Saying she wants a divorce? She’s just trying to get me to go home.”

The people around him laughed.

“You were about to leave after giving Pearl that massage, right? But the more she fussed, the less you cared.”

A woman’s voice—hers—chimed in playfully as she sliced a bit of cake and lifted it toward him.

“Here, taste this. Isn’t S Café’s new flavor sweet?”

In the final second of the video, she wiped a smear of cream from the corner of his lips—smiling, soft, intimate.

The screen went dark, and my reflection stared back at me, cold and still.

Sweet?

Perhaps to them, it was.

But for me—

I had finally tasted bitterness in its purest form.

“Mabel’s the type who could date anyone, right?”

“Now that Pearl’s back, maybe it’s time for them to rekindle things?”

“Come on, John’s never really gotten over her.”

I said nothing. My eyes stayed fixed on the video, burning with quiet intensity.

Pearl smiled faintly and replied, “Don’t talk nonsense. We’re just old classmates.”

John reached over and flicked her forehead, pretending to scold her.

“Go make up with your little temperamental girlfriend, or people will start getting the wrong idea about us. I won’t be able to wash that off even if I jump into a river.”

He smiled faintly, but there was a shadow in his eyes.

“I know. She won’t really stay mad at me. If I want, I can win her back anytime.”

I stared at the frozen image on the screen, my fingers trembling.

I had told myself, again and again, to let go.

But the heart—

It never listens.

After all, he had been the obsession of my entire youth.

That Christmas, the moon was round and bright. I gathered all my courage and confessed to him by the edge of the school field.

I knew he was cold and distant—he never spared a second glance for anyone who liked him.

That night, I wasn’t expecting an answer. I just wanted to give my youth a proper ending.

But he looked at me for a long time, silent, before suddenly smiling.

“Alright,” he said softly. “From today on, I’m your boyfriend.”

That smile—clean, dazzling, unforgettable. I thought I would remember it for the rest of my life.

Until one day, in the heat of passion, he accidentally called out another name—

“Pearl.”

That single word froze me in place.

We didn’t speak for three days. Then she showed up at my door with a cake in her hands and tears in her eyes.

“That was someone I used to like,” she said. “It’s over. I won’t bring it up again.”

And I believed her.

Through four years of college, I treated our love as something fragile and precious, afraid to let it break.

After graduation, he said he wanted to move to a new city.

I didn’t even go home—I just followed him there.

He treated me well, too.

Whenever a new dessert came out, he would be the first to buy it for me.

He helped iron my shirts, blow-dry my hair, notice all the little details that made me feel cared for.

For years, we lived quietly, peacefully. I really believed we would make it to the altar someday.

Until six months ago—when Pearl came back.

She looked at me with a faint, knowing smile.

“You remind me a lot of who I used to be,” she said.

And in that moment, I finally understood everything.

His love had never truly belonged to me.

He had been using me all along—to relive the ghost of someone he’d already lost.

Every dessert, every habit, every tone of tenderness—

They all came from her.

He wasn’t loving me; he was practicing how to love her again.

And I… was only the shadow standing in her place.

I remembered how he once said to me:

“Mabel, when our seventh anniversary comes, let’s get married.”

“Christmas is our special day—we’ll celebrate it every year, together.”

But this Christmas, the person by his side wasn’t me.

And maybe that’s alright.

Because soon, I’d be returning home—for an arranged marriage of my own.

The clock’s hands crept past midnight.

John still hadn’t come back.

Once, that would have sent me spiraling—pacing the floor, sleepless, anxious.

But tonight, I slept more soundly than I ever had before.

The next few days passed as if time had been drained of all weight.

I worked, ate, slept—mechanically, without thought.

John was gone. No messages, no explanations.

On the third morning, a text arrived.

“Business trip. Don’t worry.”

He’d even attached a location pin—so thoughtful, so precise.

I typed back, “Alright. Stay safe.”

My fingers trembled slightly as I hit send.

Then my lips curved into a faint, almost invisible smile.

Just as the message went through, a new post popped up on Pearl’s Twitter feed:

“Long-awaited vacation! Finally got the bag I’ve been dreaming of—and someone insisted on buying it for me~”

The photo showed two intertwined hands.

His hand—John’s hand—still wore our wedding ring.

And the tagged location on her post was identical to the one he had just sent me.

For a moment, the ring on my own finger felt like a burning piece of metal.

I slid it off, quietly, and placed it in the drawer.

After that, I practically moved into the hospital, throwing myself into work—

patients, reports, surgeries, meetings—

all noise, all numbness.

I stopped wondering when he’d come home.

Until one evening, as I was leaving work,

I saw a familiar car parked by the gate.

It was him.

“Why are you here?” I asked softly, my voice nearly carried away by the evening breeze.

“Today’s our wedding anniversary,” he said, opening the car door for me, his tone calm—as if nothing had ever happened.

“Is it?” I gave a faint smile. “Sorry, I forgot.”

“Mabel, you never forget.” He frowned slightly, as though it was the first time he’d realized I had truly changed.

Once, I would spend days preparing for our anniversaries—

setting the table by hand, choosing scented candles, planning surprises.

He used to smile then.

Later, he started calling me “too dramatic,” “too much.”

I still remembered the time he pulled me aside in front of his colleagues, lowering his voice to scold me:

“Mabel, do you have to make such a scene? It’s embarrassing.”

My smile froze that day.

And now, he acted as if none of it had ever happened.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s get dinner.”

The car ride was silent—so quiet I could hear our breathing.

Streetlights slid past the window one by one, and my mind went blank.

He glanced at me a few times before finally breaking the silence.

“Are you still mad?”

“No,” I said flatly.

“No? Then what’s that look supposed to mean?”

His voice sharpened, tinged with impatience.

“I rushed back just to spend time with you, and this is the attitude I get?”

I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

He sighed, as though offering a reluctant compromise.

“Fine. I know you’re upset about Pearl. I won’t talk to her anymore, alright?”

I looked at him, a faint chill of irony rising in my chest.

Did he really think a few careless words could erase the lies, the betrayal, the distance?

“Happy now?” he asked again.

I still didn’t answer.

The car pulled into a luxury restaurant parking lot.

He had already made a reservation—flowers, gifts, the whole setup.

A perfect little scene, rehearsed for a perfect reconciliation.

Just as I reached for the gift box, his phone rang.

The ringtone sliced through the air, shrill and unforgiving.

“Fever?... How high?... Okay, I’ll come right away.”

His words spilled out fast, full of urgency.

When he hung up, he hesitated before meeting my eyes.

“It’s Pearl. Her kid’s sick—high fever. I have to go.”

I smiled faintly, my voice even and hollow.

“It’s fine. Go ahead. The child’s more important.”

He looked at me, as if wanting to explain more, but finally only said,

“I’ll come back for you soon,” and hurried out.

I sat alone at that carefully decorated table, staring at the half-eaten cake.

Outside, the rain fell harder,

raindrops drumming against the glass like a restless heartbeat.

I quietly finished the last bite, then stood and left.

By the time I got home, the rain had soaked me through.

I took off my coat and showered in hot water, but no warmth could drive away the cold.

As I was drying my hair, my phone lit up.

A new post from Pearl.

In the photo, she leaned against a sofa with her child in her arms.

John crouched beside them, taking the boy’s temperature.

The lighting in the room was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the storm raging outside my window.

At dawn, the door lock clicked.

John was back.

He barely crossed the threshold before explaining in a rush,

“Jack’s fever was bad last night—it wouldn’t go down. I had to stay.”

Jack—

Pearl’s child.