It wasn’t until a few months later that I found out he’d broken up with his girlfriend.

The me who’d sworn—so bravely, while he was still taken—that I would let him go… suddenly felt like a pile of dry kindling catching again from a single spark.

I started chasing him openly, shamelessly.

For a whole year.

People said I wasn’t good enough for him. Said I was daydreaming. Said throwing myself at him was cheap.

When I later learned he’d been waiting for his first love to come back, I honestly felt like a clown.

One time, he got drunk—really drunk. His friends egged him on, telling him to call me. He must’ve been out of his mind, because he actually made the call.

And then, to “make it up to me,” he agreed to be with me.

All I knew was that I was genuinely happy then—wildly, insanely happy. I knew that in his friends’ eyes, I was a joke, a girl you could mess with.

Maybe I was drunk on love, because I only got more enthusiastic.

Out of twenty-four hours, I’d cling to him for twenty of them.

Ethan was… good. He never showed even a hint of impatience. He just never responded to me, either.

And then the kind of ridiculous, soap-opera plot twist you only see in novels happened.

Ethan’s first love, Isabella, came back to the country—right on the two-year anniversary of me and Ethan being together.

I’d asked Ethan about his ex before. He always dodged the question. If I pressed too hard, he’d even lie and say he didn’t remember.

I don’t know whether he truly didn’t remember. All I know is that on my twentieth birthday, he was with her.

When I turned twenty, Ethan was a senior. He was already working on starting a business, so when he said he was too busy to come, I was only a little disappointed.

That year, my birthday wish was this: no matter whether Ethan succeeded or failed, I would stay by his side. I hoped the person next to him would always be me.

But outside a private KTV room, I saw him with his arm around Isabella Evans—his face filled with a kind of concern and tenderness I’d never seen from him.

And, damn, Isabella was so much prettier than in the photos.

I couldn’t understand how two people who looked so perfect together could’ve broken up. I even mocked myself in my head—Ethan getting dumped by Isabella was one thing, but if he got dumped by me? That would be humiliating on a whole different level.

So, to protect Ethan’s pride, I decided I’d wait for him to be the one to bring up the breakup.

As for my pride… I’d lost that back when I started chasing Ethan. Asking for dignity now would’ve been fake and pathetic.

I don’t even remember how painful that twentieth birthday was.

God didn’t grant my wish. Every knife sank into me, and I had to endure it on my own.

Now, I can even feel sorry for Ethan—if only he’d understood the way I tried to give him an out when I was twenty.

But he didn’t.

In the end, I was the one who said it.

Olivia asked around and found out from Ethan’s roommate that Isabella had applied to study abroad during sophomore year, and that was why they’d split up.

During that time, I stopped clinging to Ethan. For three whole days, we didn’t fight, and we didn’t contact each other.

I looked it up online. Most people said that in a situation like that, you treat it as a breakup.

Oh. My second heartbreak.

About the seventh day of not speaking to Ethan, there was a campus formal. A guy from my department asked me to be his date. I’ll admit it—I needed something to numb the pain, so I said yes.

But when Ethan showed up in a suit and took my hand, he asked why I hadn’t contacted him for so long, and why I was dancing with Alexander Reed.

For one second, I thought he was jealous.

He was dressed sharp, just like he’d been at the freshman welcome party where I’d fallen for him at first sight. Only that time, I’d said, “Can I get your contact info?”

This time, I looked into his dark eyes—so calm, like he felt nothing at all.

“Ethan,” I said, “we’ve already broken up.”