It was a National Holiday night, and we had decided to stay at the guesthouse in the mountains for some rest. As I was relaxing, a strong smell of smoke suddenly filled the air.

Startled, I jumped and quickly realized flames emerged from the kitchen.

Without hesitation, Carson rushed to his childhood friend, Kazely, who had inhaled some smoke. He went to her side, picked her up, and carried her to the second floor, where the fire had yet to reach. His face was filled with worry as he hurried outside, placing her in the backseat of his car.

It was as if he had forgotten I existed.

I stood by the window, watching him move frantically. But I knew I had to save myself. With no other option, I jumped from the third floor, and before losing consciousness, I luckily managed to dial 199.

I woke up with my body aching. As I opened my eyes, I realized I was in the hospital, and a full day after the fire had passed. Instinctively, I reached for my phone, desperate to find out where my boyfriend was, but the first thing that caught my attention was Kazely's post.

Who says childhood friends can't outshine newcomers? In his heart, I'll always be number one.

I sighed, unsure how to feel or respond. Our friends were likely waiting for us to leave the hospital, but a growing fear crept in—would I become the joke of the group, even though I'm the girlfriend?

Keeping my composure, I calmly commented on her post: "Looks like the dog cage was left open; one got out and is feasting on filth."

The night passed, and the moon rose, but there was still no sign of Carson. It wasn't until the second day after the fire that he finally remembered that he had a girlfriend. One who was lying here, injured, waiting.

Ring ring

"Naia, where are you?" Carson's voice came through.

Sarcastically, I answered, "Too late for you to call; I'm already in heaven."

Carson's voice rose sharply. "Stop joking around and speak properly! Can't you see how worried I am right now?"

"Oh, thanks for your concern," I replied coolly. "But I guess if I'm not at the hospital, there's nowhere else I'd be."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Can you stop being sarcastic for once? Kazely's a patient, still lying in bed, and you're making it worse by humiliating her. Have you got any conscience left?"

His words left me stunned for a moment. "Wait. Did you forget I'm also in the hospital? Am I not a patient? Or what, am I some kind of superhero now?"

"I don't have the energy to argue with you, Naia. It's always impossible to reason with someone so close-minded. People with dirty minds think everything around them is dirty, too."

Without waiting for a response, he hung up—no goodbye, nothing.

Love is like a delicate balance, a scale that shifts with each weight added. Despite my efforts to maintain harmony with Carson—offering humility, acceptance, tolerance, and compromise. The balance never seemed to tip in my favor. He was unaware of how careless behavior often hurt me, his words cutting deep like a sharp blade.

He'd grow angry when I tried to voice my concerns or share my feelings. Rather than offering comfort or attempting to resolve the issue, he'd accuse me of overthinking, of making a big deal out of nothing; he even said I had a dirty mind. It always felt like I was the only one making an effort in our relationship.

-

Two weeks passed without a visit from Carson. He spent all his time taking care of his childhood friend, Kazely. I didn't even bother checking her social media, but she made sure I saw it anyway, sharing posts that felt taunting as if using her updates to mock me.

One of her posts showed a bag of respiratory medication—an ordinary image, but the caption made it stand out.: "I always feel like I'm still breathing smoke from the fire. Fortunately, his care and gentleness brought me sunshine and rain."

The next day, she posted another picture of her and Carson under the shade of trees. The caption read, "Breathing in the fresh air of nature, the smoke in my lungs is slowly disappearing. I am grateful to have him by my side."

-

Carson finally called on the seventeenth day of my hospital stay to ask about my discharge date. I told him I would be released tomorrow. When the day came, he arrived at the hospital, only to be visibly shaken when he saw my face wrapped in bandages. His expression turned ghostly pale as he said, "What happened to you? Did you seriously hurt your face?"

"The fire started in the kitchen on the third floor. I was close to it, so my face got completely disfigured," I replied, deliberately exaggerating, hoping to provoke some guilt, some concern.

I expected him to embrace me, to hold me tight, and to offer comfort. But he didn't. His hesitation and cold reaction left me unsettled, feeling that he was ready to abandon me.

Breaking the silence, I asked, "Remember when you told me you'd love me no matter how I looked? Do you remember?"

After a long, uncomfortable pause, he finally muttered, "I remember," before turning away, standing stiffly by the window.

Feigning misery, I continued, "What am I supposed to do now?" I longed for him to say, I'll take care of you from now on. But he remained silent as if he couldn't hear me.

His long silence made me chuckle bitterly, and I realized the absurdity of it all. There was no point in continuing this illusion. Slowly, I unwrapped the bandages and got out of bed despite my plastered leg. I was determined to appear strong, even if I wasn't.

With my backpack on, I started limping toward the door.

Hearing my movements, he finally turned, his expression shifting from shock to anger. "Why would you joke about something like that? Are you out of your mind? Do you know how worried I was just now?" he shouted.

Wow. I just found it amusing. Was he really worried just now?

After the short conversation, Carson and I left the hospital. It was rush hour, and the roads were buzzing with traffic. He helped me with my bags and held me carefully.

Walking toward the parking area, he said, "I had an important performance scheduled for this afternoon, one I couldn't afford to miss, but I canceled it so that I could pick you up from the hospital."

"Thank you so much for that. I appreciate it."

"No worries. As long as you know you matter to me, that's all that really matters."

With no thinking, I asked, "Are there other girls you care about besides me?" I regretted the question the moment it slipped out, realizing it was like I was inviting disappointment.

He hesitated momentarily before finally replying, "Besides you, I care about my family and friends, too. My world can't just revolve around you, right?"

Hearing him, my heart couldn't help but ache. For the past five years, my life has completely revolved around him.

Ring

Suddenly, his phone rang. I think for a while, since the ringtone was so familiar. The ringtone was an English song titled "He Still Loves Me," the theme of a little-known art film about a man who leaves his girlfriend to pursue his childhood sweetheart.

Kazely, his childhood friend, had downloaded the song for him, assuming I didn't understand its meaning.

"It's Kazely."

After that, he let go of my hand, which caused me to fall off the ground. Confused, he asked, "Why are you sitting on the ground?"

Hearing his question, I let out a frustrated laugh. "Don't worry about me, just answer the call."

Subsequently, he hurriedly picked up his phone, and on the other end of the call, I could clearly hear Kazely crying.

"Kazely, what's wrong? Don't cry—tell me what's going on. I'll help you with anything."

"I'm scared… I'm so scared. Please come to my house quickly."

"Okay, I'll be there soon. Just wait for me." After hanging up, Carson glanced at me with a conflicted look, like I was suddenly an inconvenience.

Sensing his urgency, I quickly said, "Don't worry about me—I can get home alone."

"Alright." He didn't hesitate, immediately turning to run towards his car. After a few steps, he paused and glanced back.

For a brief moment, hope flickered inside me—maybe he'd offer to drive me home.

"It's rush hour, so it might be tough to find a cab. Just keep trying if you can't get one right away." And with that, he sprinted off.

Dumbfounded, I stood, letting out a bitter laugh as the wind swept around me.

I had no choice but to grab a cab, even if it was hard.

When I got home, I cleaned up the guest room and drifted off to sleep.

When I woke up, it was already past 6 p.m., and I noticed Kazely had shared something on her social media.

In the past, I would have opened her posts with anger and jealousy. However, this time, I did so with the detached interest of someone observing gossip, as if Carson were no longer my boyfriend.

It was at that moment I realized my feelings for Carson had shifted. He had once been everything to me—my world, my air. I was the fish, and he was the water. For so long, I believed I would die without him.

Yet now, I understand, I could survive even without the water.

The post was a photo of Kazely cuddled in a man's arms. Although Carson's face wasn't visible, it was easy to tell it was him.

Her caption read: "Only in your arms can I find peace. Surviving the disaster, we walk together."

Surprisingly, I didn't feel any anger or disappointment. Instead, a calm sense of relief washed over me as though a burden had finally been lifted.

In the end, Kazely wasn't wrong. In this relationship, I was always going to be second.

As I was lost in thought, my phone rang. It was Director Vrienne from the overseas media department. I didn't have any idea why she called, but I answered it anyway.

"Naia, you speak Amharic, don't you?"

Puzzled by the sudden call, I answered, "Uhm, yes, I took it as an elective in college."

"I recall that when you first joined the TV station, you spoke about your dream of becoming a renowned war photographer. Is that still your goal?"

My heart pounded with excitement as I answered, "Yes, it definitely is."

"Perfect. Our Ethiopia branch is looking for a war photographer. Are you interested in taking on that role?"

"Definitely!"

"Excellent. Drop by my office tomorrow for a detailed chat."

For years, my life had revolved around Carson, and I had even set aside my own dreams for him. However, now that such a remarkable opportunity had presented itself, I realized it was time to focus on my own aspirations.

Determined to seize this chance, I dusted off my long-forgotten Amharic textbooks. I had initially chosen to study Amharic because of my fascination with Ethiopian culture and art, even though many had dismissed my choice as impractical, claiming it was a minor language with limited prospects and that I could have studied French, Hangul, and so on.

However, I had always envisioned traveling to Ethiopia one day to capture its stunning beauty through my photography.

My stomach began to rumble as I studied until 10:30 p.m., so I ordered some takeout. By 11:30 p.m., I heard the doorknob turn and saw that Carson had finally returned.

"Naia, why are you still awake?" he asked.

"I'm just reviewing some old material and reading some books," I responded without looking up from my notes.

He approached me and explained, "This afternoon, Kazely spotted a cockroach in her house and was so frightened that she ended up crying. She's been afraid of bugs since childhood, so I had to help her deal with it. That's what kept me busy until now."

I laughed softly, "So it was just a bug. I was half expecting you'd tell me a tiger was in her house."

"Could you stop with the sarcasm? She's like a sister. She's quite delicate, and fear of bugs is a common reaction."

"Well, I suppose bugs can be pretty terrifying after all."

"Can you stop being so snarky? My relationship with her is—"

"As pure as mineral water, right? You've said that so many times and I completely believe you."

Carson's frustration was evident, but when his gaze fell on my cast, his expression softened with a hint of guilt. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" I asked, puzzled by his sudden change in tone.

He took a deep breath, looking away momentarily before continuing, "On the day of the mountain fire, after rescuing Kazely, I intended to come back for you right away. However, when she began to struggle with breathing, I was terrified she might not survive. So, I took her to the hospital first, planning to return and rescue you as soon as possible."

After hearing his explanation, I felt a surge of anger rather than relief. He was terrified Kazely might suffocate to death, but wasn't he equally concerned that I could have burned to death? And he had planned to take Kazely to the hospital first and then come back for me. If I hadn't jumped from the third floor that day, he wouldn't have been rescuing me—he would have been retrieving my lifeless body.

"I truly understand. You don't need to feel guilty," I said, forcing a bitter smile.

"Thank you for understanding." He leaned in as he spoke as if intending to reward me with a kiss.

I instinctively tried to turn my head away, but he abruptly pulled back before I could.

"Did you eat garlic?" he asked, his face contorted with disgust.

"Yes, I had garlic shrimp."

"You know I can't stand the smell of garlic!" he snapped, storming out of the guest room.

It wasn't just garlic he loathed; he also hated cilantro, ginger, durian, and other foods I loved. Over the five years we were together, I had changed my eating habits to accommodate his preferences.

Time and again, I passed stalls selling durian and stinky tofu, forcing myself to swallow my cravings and walk away. Once, unable to resist, I ate a durian. Even after brushing my teeth and chewing gum outside, he noticed the smell when I got home. Since then, I never indulged in it again.

Reflecting on it now, I realized how deeply I had compromised myself out of love for him. In the end, I felt I had indeed failed.

The following day, I headed to the Foreign Media Department, where I spent the entire morning discussing my plans with Director Vrienne.

"Naia, you must understand that going to Ethiopia as a war photographer is extremely dangerous. Are you fully prepared for that?" Director Vrienne asked, his tone serious.

"I understand the risks," I replied, my voice steady. "I'm not afraid of sacrifice. My goal is to use my camera to capture the horrors of war and, in doing so, wake up the world to the reality of what's happening."

"Good. I knew you dared to do this. You'll undergo two months of intensive training and be deployed to the battlefield."

The reality of becoming a war photographer is undeniably dangerous. It demands a deep understanding of Ethiopia's complex political and social landscape and sharp crisis management skills to navigate life-threatening situations. The work goes beyond capturing images images—surviving the chaos and telling stories that need to be heard. Top of FormBottom of Form

That day, I was quietly transferred from the News Department to the foreign media department. The role of a war photographer is sensitive, and all details surrounding my new assignment were strictly confidential.

The Foreign Media Department wasn't located in the TV station's main building but in a discreet office on the city's edge. My former colleagues at the News Department had no idea. I let them believe that I had resigned. It was easier that way, keeping my new position under wraps.

The days passed quickly—more than twenty, in fact, and I immersed myself in mastering the skills and knowledge required for my new role. Every day, I stayed late, absorbed in my work. At first, my boyfriend Carson didn't seem too concerned, assuming it was just part of my job. But as the late nights became routine, his patience wore thin, and he started questioning my reasons for coming home so late.

I told him it was overtime, but he wasn't convinced. He thought I was purposely staying late at work, a lingering punishment for the fire incident that had caused friction between us. I didn't bother to explain. I had more important things on my mind.

After rediscovering a sense of purpose in my life, Carson became nothing more than a distraction. Like a scenery along a road, I was no longer interested in. I set my eyes firmly ahead on something much bigger. I couldn't afford to pause for something as trivial as this.

That night, I arrived home around 9 p.m., exhausted but focused. As I dropped my bag, my phone rang suddenly, and it was my father. That's when I realized something important: today was my birthday.

Several friends had sent me birthday gifts through mobile payments, which I appreciated. Among them was Kazely, who shared something unexpected. Out of curiosity, I clicked to see what she was up to this time.

The photo that loaded took me by surprise. It was taken at a high-end restaurant. Kazely and Carson were sitting together, clinking glasses of red wine. In front of them was a three-tiered fruit cake adorned with 20 candles.

The caption read: "Celebrating 20 years of being childhood sweethearts."

I stared at the screen, feeling the sting of the words. Kazely had moved across the street from Carson when she was seven, and he was eight. Their families were close.

Later, her family became wealthy and moved away, but fate brought them together again years later at Berklee Music University. Carson was a sophomore then, and Kazely was a freshman, both studying under the same music teacher.

Carson confessed his feelings to Kazely in his junior year, but she turned him down, choosing to focus on her studies. Shortly after, she went abroad to continue her education.

Carson and I met after that, during his first year out of university. He competed in a violin competition, and I was just an intern photographer for the TV station. We clicked, and things between us developed quickly. For a while, I thought we were solid.

Then, three years into our relationship, Kazely returned to the country. I remember that day all too well. I was burning with a high fever of 39.5°C, so sick I could hardly lift my head. Desperate for help, I called Carson, asking him to take me to the hospital. He apologized, saying he couldn't because he had a significant performance.

But later, I learned the truth. There was no performance. Carson had gone to the airport to pick up Kazely.

He returned two hours later, carrying a small cake and a gift.

Compared to his childhood friend's grand, three-tiered cake, my cake seemed almost sad—an 8-inch animal oil cake, far from any real celebration. For him not to notice that I'd been thinking, I went to the kitchen to get a fork and a saucer; after that, I started eating.

"Why aren't you eating?" I asked deliberately, watching his reaction.

"I'm happy just watching you eat," he replied, the insincerity in his voice unmistakable.

"Oh, I see," I murmured, knowing more than he realized. He didn't know that Kazely often shared their daily lives with me—whether intentionally or not, her photos and updates ensured I understood.

He handed me the gift with an eager smile. "I carefully picked out a silk nightgown for you. Try it on and let me see," he said, excitement barely concealed in his voice.

I took the nightgown to the mirror, slipping it on with reluctance and curiosity. As soon as I saw the low-cut neckline, I knew. This wasn't Carson's choice. It had Kazely written all over it; it was her choice. Low-cut nightgowns were good only on women with a figure. Kazely has a good body, and she wore that with confidence, whereas I didn't share that advantage.

In the mirror, the nightgown draped awkwardly on me, emphasizing what I didn't have.

"You look great," he said softly, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His voice was gentle, but the insincerity in his words was impossible to ignore. The gap between what he said and how things were only grew wider.

We hadn't been intimate since the fire. The tension between us was thick, and his frustration was evident, though unspoken.

"I still have work to finish tonight," I said, gently pushing him away. I couldn't bring myself to meet his advances.

He stiffened, anger flashing in his eyes. "What's more important, work or me?"

Once upon a time, I would have answered without hesitation—he was the most important. I had even transferred from my demanding role in field photography to a more accessible position in copy editing just to be home more to take care of him.

But this time, I have yet to respond. Instead, I quietly left the room and went to the guest room, shutting the door behind me.

"Damn it!"

I heard him curse loudly, followed by a chair being kicked over in frustration.

In his mind, remembering my birthday, buying me a cake, and a half-hearted gift was the grandest gesture of love. He thought I should be overwhelmed with gratitude, ready to fall at his feet in appreciation.

But I wasn't.

The next morning, despite having the day off, I didn't get to sleep in—my plan to rest until noon was abruptly interrupted when Kazely showed up unannounced.

The first thing out of her mouth was, "Oh, strange! Can she walk? I thought you were injured, Naia."

Annoyed by her rudeness, I said, "Did you forget to brush your teeth this morning? You walk in and start saying nonsense about me first thing?"

Still groggy from being woken up, I couldn't help but feel a wave of irritation wash over me.

Kazely, always playing the innocent, pouted dramatically and said, "Carson, Naia seems to  misunderstand me again." She said it with that same overly sweet, coquettish tone whenever she wanted to stir trouble.

"Naia, Kazely is just concerned about you," Carson said, calm but siding with her.

I held back a reply, realizing it wasn't worth the argument. Instead, I walked to the bathroom to freshen up, hoping to shake off the tension, but Kazely followed, lingering in the doorway like a shadow.

"Naia, why didn't you wear the nightgown Carson bought you yesterday?" she asked, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

I met her gaze in the mirror, unfazed. "That nightgown's a little too revealing for me. Besides, I don't need to rely on cheap tricks—I've got my looks to carry me."

My response landed perfectly, even though I hadn't put in much effort. When it came to appearances, I knew I easily surpassed her.

Kazely's expression hardened hearing me, but she tried to keep her composure. "Maybe it just didn't suit you," she said, her smile faltering.

"Or maybe," I replied coolly, "some people only attract attention by showing more skin."

Her frustration boiled over, and with an angry "Hmph!" She walked off, obviously upset by our exchange.

I thought that would be the end, but round two came when she decided to play domestic goddess in the kitchen. Not five minutes after she turned on the stove, she let out a scream so terrifying that it made my blood run cold.

Carson came running. His face was a mix of panic and worry as he rushed to her side. He wrapped her in his arms, his voice soft but urgent. "Kazely, what's wrong?"

Trembling, she pointed to the stove. "Fire… the flame…"

Carson immediately switched off the stove while his focus was entirely on her. Then he turned to me, his expression shifting to blame. "Kazely's a guest. Why would you let her cook?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Kazely had practically taken over the kitchen on her own.

Before I could respond, Kazely chimed in, playing the victim perfectly. "Don't be mad at her. I just wanted to cook something to make her happy."

Carson, of course, fell right into her act. "I'll cook. You go rest, Kazely," he said. His tone was so gentle like she'd done him a favor by collapsing in fear.

He'd rarely cooked in the five years I'd been with Carson. He'd hardly cooked for me at all. But every time he was at Kazely's place, it was like he'd transformed—cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. You name it, he was on it.

I'd argued, cried, and even thrown fits over this, but he always had the same excuse: that she had just moved out on her own, that she was not very independent, and that he was trying to help her.

I went to my room and changed my clothes, trying to shake off the familiar wave of frustration as I prepared to head to the library. Just as I reached the door, Kazely's voice interrupted me.

"Naia, where are you going?" she asked in that innocent tone she always used.

"Off to fight monsters and level up. Care to join?" I teased, forcing a lightness I didn't feel.

Instead of replying, she called out toward the kitchen, "Carson, Naia's heading out!"

Within seconds, Carson appeared, his eyes blazing. "We're about to have lunch. Where do you think you're going?"

Before I could open my mouth, Kazely talked in her voice, dripping with concern. "Naia, are you still upset about the fire on the mountain? I almost suffocated. Carson was just rushing to get me to the hospital."

I took a breath, keeping my voice steady. "I'm not angry."

"No, you're still upset. It's all my fault, and if kneeling will make you forgive Carson, then I..." Kazely began, dropping to her knees dramatically.

Before she could, Carson rushed over, grabbing her arm and glaring at me. "Naia, stop being so petty. This isn't her fault. If you're mad, take it out on me, but leave her out."

I stood there, stunned. When had I ever taken anything out on her?

"Carson, Naia hasn't done anything wrong. It's all my fault," Kazely added tearfully. "I shouldn't have come back. I should've just stayed abroad... or died there." And just like that, she broke into sobs.

As she put on her little performance, I felt my patience evaporate. I couldn't stay there another second. Without a word, I turned and walked out the door.

--

Time had flown so fast. When I came back, it was already 10 p.m. As soon as I entered, I saw Carson sitting on the sofa, his expression dark. The tension in the room was palpable.

"Why didn't you reply to any of the messages I sent?" he asked, his voice low and tight.

I blinked, surprised. I pulled out my phone and realized it was still on Do Not Disturb. "I was at the library, so I turned on Do Not Disturb. Did you need something?"

His eyes narrowed. "I think we have some problems in our relationship. But avoiding them won't fix anything. We need to talk."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Carson, isn't it a bit late to talk now? How often have I tried to discuss things with you before, only for you to call me petty or accuse me of overreacting?"

His frustration grew. "So, this is still about Kazely again? I've told you countless times—there's nothing between us."

"A pure, innocent childhood friend relationship, right? I've heard that so often it's like a broken record. You know what? I don't care anymore about whatever you and Kazely have."

He paused, taken aback by my words. "Then what do you care about?" I looked at the pot of chains of hearts on the windowsill. Its leaves had withered, and it was about to die.

The chain of hearts had been growing for three years, a symbol of our love that we had chosen together. It was meant to accompany us through a lifetime, a living testament to our commitment. Now, it was withering, like our relationship.

"Look, the chain of hearts is dying," I said, my voice tinged with sadness.

He glanced at the plant, and for a moment, I saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes. He quickly shifted the topic. "The day after tomorrow, I have a solo concert at Maybank Concert Hall. I've reserved the best seat for you, right in the center. Will you come?"