After pursuing Yves Chapman for five years, he finally agrees to marry me.

Two months before the wedding, I get into an accident. I call him thrice, but he rejects my call each time. It's only because Clarisse Tatcher advises him to give me the cold shoulder for a while to stop me from pestering him.

When I crawl out of that valley, I'm covered in injuries. My right hand has a comminuted fracture.

At that moment, I finally understand that certain things can't be forced. But after that, he starts to wait outside my door, his eyes red as he asks me to also give him five years.

When I arrived at the hospital, my clothes were torn, and my body was covered in wounds.

The doctor sighed when he saw me. He said that if I had come just a few hours earlier, my arm might have been saved.

I stared numbly at the ceiling as I listened to the doctor's verdict. My right arm had suffered comminuted fractures. I would likely never paint again.

Tears slipped down from my eyes. I felt despaired. Why couldn't I learn to let go?

What was Yves Chapman doing right now?

He'd probably broken open a new bottle of wine last night to celebrate the absence of my harassment. Maybe he played the piano with Clarisse Tatcher, his junior, and enjoyed their time alone.

I laughed self-deprecatingly. I wasn't a hindrance between them anymore.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Yves.

I closed my eyes slowly. It was time I learned my lesson.

Yves stormed into my room, not a wrinkle seen on his clothes, and frowned down at me. His eyes were cold, as if he was just looking at some peasant. "What are you playing at this time?" he chided. "Why aren't you answering your phone?

"Did you really hurt yourself just because I didn't answer your call yesterday? I told you, I was busy. Why can't you be more sensible?"

My wounds, still bleeding, seemed to suffer another blow, thanks to his words.

My cold, numb heart seemed to cry out again at that moment. He never even asked me what happened before doling out judgment. Not even the sight of me lying here, injured, could affect him in any way.

On the other hand, it wasn't surprising that he could affect me with just a few words. I'd loved him for five years, after all.

I looked at him sadly, unable to say a word. Tears pooled in my eyes, poignant and pleading.

The white walls seemed to reflect his indifference, while the smell of disinfectant permeating the air scorned my foolhardiness.

Yves had never seen me like this before, so he was uncomfortable. "Rest and recover well. Don't forget to sign up for the National Art and Design Competition next week. I'm going back to practice."

"The piano competition is very important to me," he added. "Don't disturb me."

With that, he turned and left, never glancing back, not once asking about my injury.

A chilling emptiness settled over me as I watched him walk away.

My words were stuck in my throat. This was the man I'd pursued for five years.

Tears began running down my face uncontrollably. I'd once believed that my sincere efforts and passion had finally pierced his heart, that he'd finally acknowledged my existence.

The piano competition was important to him, just as Clarrise was, and his friends were important to him, too. But what about me?

Once upon a time, I thought that putting in effort would get me a reward, just like the way I had been rewarded when I persisted in practicing art—but reality had proven otherwise. Determination was not enough to bring about a happy ending. My true feelings were nothing to Yves.

Then why did he agree to be with me? Why did he give me hope?

Eventually, the sun set. I curled up on my bed, shivering, as my mind took me back to that night. All alone, I had been trapped in my car. I had lost consciousness for a while. I was desperate, thinking that I was about to die.

Right before I fainted, I had called Yves. He was the first person I'd thought of, but he never answered my call. I was unconscious for the rest of the night; help never came.

Maybe I'd been wrong from the start. Maybe I was forcing this, just like I'd forced myself to take up art as a career. It was never meant to be.

After five days of treatment, my body recovered, except for my arm.

The doctor suggested that I go abroad for further treatment. All I could do was smile bitterly. I did not have money for that.

I walked out of the hospital and returned to my rented apartment. The small living room was filled with paintings.

Five years ago, I'd fallen in love with Yves at our graduation ceremony. From that moment on, he became the muse that fueled my creativity and defined my artistic vision.

The entire apartment was filled with paintings of him. It felt like I'd been living in his world all this time, losing myself in the process.

All the emotions I'd been suppressing surged up, suffocating me. I looked around at the paintings of Yves scattered across my apartment, and I screamed, letting it all out.

I tore at the canvases, throwing them to the ground and stomping on them. I ripped apart the paintings I had once labored over. I vented everything, creating a chaotic mess around me.

Then I collapsed onto the floor and cried.

Everything was ruined. Everything.

Only one painting remained intact—my favorite. It was framed and hung on the wall, and I'd forgotten about it in my rampage.

The painting depicted the first time I'd met Yves.

Trembling, I reached out to touch it, only to feel as if a shock of electricity had jolted up my arm.

Tears streaming, I stood frozen.

I wasn't as strong as I thought.

…

Three days later, Yves found me at the art exhibition. He was furious, his eyes fiery as he demanded, "Why didn't you sign up for the competition? Didn't you know that you had a chance at getting first place? Do you know how important this competition is? Even if you want to sulk, pick the right time and place!"

His words barreled through me, but my heart was already too numb.

I wanted to say so much, but in the end, all I could manage was, "Congratulations on winning the first prize."

Yves' expression softened. "You watched the competition? Why didn't I see you that day? You left early. You didn't wait for me."

I hadn't been there. I had just made a guess. He was talented enough to win the first prize easily.

I gestured toward the exhibition paintings and asked, "Do you think they're good?"

There was some melancholy in my eyes. This would probably be my last art exhibition. I stared at the people going about. Every now and then, someone would stop in front of a painting and admire the artist's skills.

One of these paintings was mine.

Yves rubbed his temples and took my hand. "Summer, I realize I've neglected you because I have been busy lately. But you know how important the piano competition was to me. There's a get-together tonight. Dress up well and come with me."

"I'm busy," I replied, holding his gaze calmly. "Yves, let's break up."

He laughed like he'd heard a funny joke. "Break up?" Then, gently, he continued, "Be good, Summer. I'll come home with you after the gathering, okay?"

I tilted my head and thought for a moment. "No. We're breaking up."

He tried to pull me into his arms, a move that had worked so many times before.

But as he touched me, I pushed him away, screaming.

Everyone turned toward me.

The calmness that I had tried so hard to maintain shattered unexpectedly.

I crouched down, holding my head in my hands as a surge of negative emotions overwhelmed me—all the resentment, suffering, pain, and despair that I had suffered for him. Everything I had worked for in the first half of my life had popped like a bubble in just one night.

Yet I could've still been saved. If I had gotten to the hospital just a few hours earlier; if he had answered his phone; if he had listened to me for just a few more patient moments…

Yves was stunned. He stared at me in shock, too afraid to take another step.

"Summer, it's me. It's me. What happened?" he asked cautiously, like a child who was unsure of what to do.

It took me all my strength to get my emotions back under control. I walked out of the exhibition hall. Yves chased after me. With my back to him, I said, "I need some time alone."

Back home, I sat alone in my tiny studio, unable to sort out my emotions. At times, I felt like crying, but there were also times when I didn't know what to feel.

I thought that I had detached myself from all this, but just the sight of Yves was enough to bring back my grief.

The apartment was bright. I had taken to sleeping with the lights on; darkness reminded me too much of that endless night and the intense pain that had swept through me. The only saving grace I'd held onto had ended my art career.

I resented Yves, but I knew he had no obligation to save me. I had no right to blame him.

Even so, I couldn't help myself. He was my boyfriend; we'd talked about marriage. He could've given me just a few seconds of his time and let me speak instead of hanging up right after saying he was busy. Or, he could've called me again when I did not return home the entire night and realized I was hurt.

I had never stayed out all night before.

He knew where I was. I'd told him where I was going. I really did.

The scattered papers across the floor only emphasized my foolishness. My stubbornness was just a joke.

When I was a child, I insisted on taking up painting. No one took me seriously, so I was all alone in my endeavors. I eventually made a name for myself.

But the universe played a cruel joke on me. Everything I'd ever achieved was temporary, it turned out. It was time to give it all back.

I threw my art supplies into the trash can and stuffed the remainder of the papers into a folder, intending to throw them out the next day.

That night, a friend messaged me. Yves had announced our engagement at the banquet.

He probably still didn't know about my situation.

How could I sign up for art competitions when I could no longer paint?

He had celebrated his success and announced his engagement at the banquet, but he hadn't announced the name of his soon-to-be bride. Everyone was congratulating him. All eyes were on Clarisse, who was standing beside him. They looked like a match made in heaven.

Meanwhile, I sat in my tiny apartment, surrounded by torn-up papers, the evidence of my folly.

The next day, Yves' and Clarisse's names appeared as trending topics.

"Piano Prodigy Yves Chapman Announces Engagement To Mentor's Daughter, Clarisse Tatcher—Wedding Date To Come Soon."

All the comments below the headline were good wishes.

That afternoon, Yves came to my apartment. It was the first time he'd been here.

It was just as well—I needed to talk this out with him.

I opened the door for him. When he saw that my apartment was empty, he paused for a moment. "Where are your paintings?"

"I can't paint anymore."

"What? Are you kidding me? What happened? Why did you block me?" He stared at me, displeased, and told me off as if I was a misbehaving child. "Stop this, Summer. We're getting married in a month.

"I know I've neglected you recently, but you need to grow up. Get yourself cleaned up and come home with me."

He acted like all this was just a dramatic show I was putting on.

I laughed. Tears came out of my eyes. "Home? What home? Where is my home? The one you share with Clarisse Tatcher? Your engagement is all over social media. Why would I go there?"

He frowned. His eyes were cold and distant. "I announced our engagement last night as a surprise to you. You weren't feeling well and didn't attend, so of course the reporters misunderstood. I'll admit that I didn't handle this properly. I'm dealing with it now. This has nothing to do with Clarisse. She's a victim too."

He was still defending Clarisse and blaming me for not attending last night's banquet. She, a victim? An innocent bystander?

Then what was I? A joke?

Tears began running down my face again, but for once, he did not look impatient.

"Why didn't you pick up your phone that night?" I demanded.

"I did. I was practicing at the time. You know how important that competition is to me," he said with displeasure as he dropped himself onto the couch.

"Stop throwing a fit. I told you I was busy, yet you called me three times in a row," he continued, raising his voice. Then, realizing his mistake, he softened. "Come on, Summer. I'm sorry, okay?"

I stared at him, tears still flowing. "Did Clarisse tell you not to pick up my call?"