I lightly laughed and said to Vincent. “It’s just a wedding dress. If she likes it, then let her have it.” Then I left them as I said, “I’ve got work at the lab. I’ll head out now.”

Vincent froze, watching me leave without another word.

***

Later that evening, Vincent came to pick me up for the first time in months. He brought a small mango cake with him, holding it out like a peace offering.

But, the problem? I’m allergic to mango.

It’s Zoe who loved mango, not me. After all this time, he still didn’t know the difference.

“I am afraid you’d forget to eat while working, so I brought this for you,” he said, as though the cake could smooth things over. He wanted me to take the bait, to play along like I always did.

So I did. I smiled brightly, pretending to be touched. “Thank you so much!”

Vincent looked surprised that I didn’t argue or complain.

On the drive home, he glanced over at me. “Claire, are you mad at me?”

I was preoccupied with thoughts about the lab—wrapping up my project, preparing my notes and ensuring I left clear instructions for my junior colleagues. I did not hear his words well, so I let out an ah.

I apologized a little, “Sorry, I just got lost in thought. What are you talking about?”

Perhaps my tone was too rusty.

He slammed on the brakes and turned his head to look at me, “Are you still mad about that wedding dress?”

“Hmm?” I blinked, genuinely confused. “Why would I be? No, of course not.”

Vincent looked at me for a few seconds, searching my face for anger. But all he found was calm indifference. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he started the car again. His voice, however, was hoarse. “You’ve changed. You’re not like this… not like you used to be.”

He was not wrong.

A year ago, after Zoe graduated and returned to our town, Vincent and I both changed. We fought endlessly because of her. He always said that he only treats Zoe as his little sister and told me not to be unreasonable.

“She’s like a little sister to me. Stop being so unreasonable!” he’d yell, defending her every time.

The most serious fight was the one where he got furious and pointed at me.

At that moment, he said, “Claire, you’re ridiculous! If I had anything going on with Zoe, would I even be with you? You’re just a broke student who depends on me for everything. If we broke up, how would you even survive?”

We had a cold war for a month. In the end, I swallowed my pride and begged for forgiveness.

But love doesn’t die all at once—it fades, bit by bit, like ice melting under the sun. Over the past year, the constant fighting and Zoe’s smug presence drained whatever feelings I had for him.

Now, I couldn’t even muster a reaction.

I smiled faintly. “You are right. I wasn’t very mature before. But I have grown up now. I will do better.”

Because soon, I wouldn’t be here at all, I thought.

***

Before going to bed that night, while Vincent was in the shower, I saw Zoe’s new post on her social media feed.

Nine photos.

She wore my wedding dress, smiling radiantly as she held onto my fiancé.

[Getting married to the one I love! Xixixi!]

Dozens of their friends liked the post.

Someone even commented, [Wait, isn’t that Vincent in the background?]

Zoe’s smug reply, [Yes! My brother favours me the most!]

I quietly liked the post, put my phone away and got ready for bed.

I just lay down briefly when the bed beside me dented. Vincent’s cold skin pressed against mine as he slid an arm around my waist.

“Claire...” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. His hand slipped under the hem of my nightgown, fingers trailing along my skin.

I shifted slightly, putting space between us. Then I gently grabbed his hand and said, “Vincent, I’m tired tonight. I don’t want to.”

In all the years we had been together, I never refused him.

In the past, whenever we lost our temper, it was almost always resolved in bed. Vincent loved taking his time, teasing and coaxing me into surrender until I begged for him.

And afterwards, he would hold me tightly, whispering sweet nothings and asking me not to be jealous anymore.

But tonight, I felt nothing.

It hit me that, with my decision to leave so close, none of this really mattered anymore.

After I turned him down that night, Vincent froze for a moment, his body stiff with tension. Perhaps his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask why I had rejected him. He just muttered a quiet “Okay” and turned his back to me.

That night, the space between us felt as far as the Milky Way.

The following day, Vincent was gone before I woke up. I don’t know if he was afraid I would be jealous of Zoe’s circle of friends.

But a surprise was waiting on the dining table—a plate of slightly burnt toast, a fried egg and a glass of milk—a rare gesture from someone who had never made breakfast.

Beside the plate was a sticky note: “For my wife—enjoy.”

My phone buzzed with a message from him,

Vincent: [Honey, I’ve put the wedding dress in the study. Try it on and send me a photo—I know you’ll look the most beautiful.]

I finished the toast (a bit charred but edible) and headed to a stationery store, where I bought a countdown calendar. Back home, I tore off the first page. There were six days left.

Then I got to work packing.

I started in the den, clearing away framed photos, books we’d shared and all the papers and trinkets we’d accumulated together. As I placed the last item in a box, something fell out—a diary.

Flipping through it, I saw pages filled with our happy memories—dates, anniversaries and little notes about the silly things we’d done.

The paper had yellowed slightly, but the memories were still vivid. I hesitated, then decided to leave it behind.

But that wedding dress? It mocked me, hanging there as if nothing had changed. I couldn’t resist grabbing a pair of scissors. I slashed the dress to shreds in a few swift, emotionless motions.

It felt oddly satisfying.

I took it a step further, listing all the expensive gifts Vincent had ever given me online—for free, as long as the recipients paid for shipping. By the time I’d finished packing, almost everything had been sold. I scheduled a courier to take it all away the next day.

That evening, my phone buzzed, reminding me that I had tickets at seven o’clock immersive play tonight. A popular one sold out for weeks. I’d booked the tickets long ago when I thought Vincent and I would go together.

I didn’t plan to ask Vincent if he was still going because he had long forgotten about it. Just before the show started, he texted that he was busy with work and asked me not to wait for him for dinner.

I rolled my eyes and went alone. Since I couldn’t get front-row tickets, my seat was in the right aisle, not too close to the stage. The play was incredible—a heart-wrenching love story about life and death. By the end, I was moved to tears.

When the play was about to end, the actors went to the stage to interact with the audience. A giant screen lit up, announcing a random audience member selected for interaction. The big screen showed that Vincent had been chosen and sat next to Zoe.

Oh, it turned out that work was busy accompanying Zoe. They also got the privilege to buy the front row. The spotlight shone on them and they looked perfect together—Vincent, sharp and handsome; Zoe, radiant and elegant.

The actors asked if they were a couple. Zoe giggled and leaned into Vincent’s arm, not even waiting for his response. The crowd roared with cheers and teasing.

The actor asked if they were touched. To cherish the people around them and, more importantly, their fate as a couple, they asked if they would like to kiss deeply, as in the play’s last scene.

Only frozen for a moment, Zoe smiled, tilted her head and kissed him with a smile, her lips brushing his in full view of everyone.

Not knowing what came to mind, Vincent flinched and pushed her away abruptly. He stood up, his expression unreadable and turned his head slightly.

Our eyes met across the theatre.

I felt... nothing. No anger, no sadness, just a faint sense of relief. I broke the gaze, grabbed my bag and left the theatre.

As I reached the exit, I heard hurried footsteps behind me. Vincent chased after me, his hair dishevelled from running. Perhaps it was because he saw that I was calm since the beginning.

Different from the past, he began to explain, “Claire—seriously,” he panted, trying to catch his breath. “Listen, it’s not what it looked like. There were so many people watching. I couldn’t embarrass her—or myself.”

I nodded, smiling lightly. “Uh-huh, I understand.”

He stared at me, confused. “Wait... Are you saying that, or are you just being sarcastic because you’re jealous?”

I laughed softly. “Vincent, what’s there to be jealous about?”

At this moment, Zoe also ran out, but because she was wearing high heels, she suddenly broke her foot when she was almost in front of us.

“Vincent, it hurts so much,” Zoe whimpered, her voice soft and frail.

He hesitated, torn between wanting to help her and the fact that I was standing right there. His expression twisted into an uncomfortable mix of guilt and indecision.

I spoke first, breaking the tension. “If it hurts that badly, you should take her to a hospital. You wouldn’t want it to turn into something serious.”

My words surprised him—he wasn’t expecting me to be so calm, so understanding.

Vincent’s eyes softened as he reached for my hand. “I’ll take her to the nearby clinic and return for you. Wait for me at the entrance, okay?”

“Sure,” I replied lightly.

He looked at me for a moment as though searching for anger or reproach in my face. But I stayed composed, not giving anything away. Finally, he released my hand, scooped Zoe up in his arms and walked off.

I didn’t wait. I wasn’t going to play the fool this time.

***

As I was leaving, my phone buzzed with a call from a junior colleague at the lab.

“Miss Claire, we’ve got an abnormality in one of the experiments and no one can figure out what’s causing it. Could you come take a look?”

Without hesitation, I headed straight there.

Time flew as we worked through the problem and the sun was already rising when the wrong link was also found and repaired.

The younger researchers showered me with compliments. “Miss Claire, you’re a genius!”

Finally, they were reluctant to let me go again, “Miss Claire, are you really leaving for that classified research project?”

I nodded, “Yeah.”

“But what about your wedding?” one of them asked hesitantly.

“Are you really okay with leaving?”

I paused for a moment, then smiled. “The country’s work is more important.”

What I didn’t say was that, for Vincent, my presence or absence didn’t seem to matter anymore.

This world keeps spinning, with or without me.

***

Dragging my exhausted body home, I opened the door and she was again.

Zoe Williams.

She was wearing one of Vincent’s shirts, her bare legs peeking out as she walked out of the master bedroom.

When she saw me, she didn’t even flinch. “Don’t misunderstand, Claire,” she said casually. “After the clinic visit, it was really late. I didn’t want to go home since my parents were out of town. Vincent was just being considerate—he didn’t want me to be alone while I’m injured.”

Before I could respond, Vincent stepped out of the bathroom, his hair damp from a shower. When he saw me, probably thinking I would get upset again, his brows furrowed, bracing for another argument.

“Claire,” he sighed, “I don’t want to mess with you early in the morning.”

“She’s coming to work with me today and didn’t have anything to wear, so I lent her one of my shirts—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupted, cutting him off.

Both of them froze, caught off guard by my calm tone.

Vincent looked at me incredulously as if he felt my reaction was too calm.

He explained, “Last night, she slept in the guest room,” he said quickly, as though trying to preempt any accusations. “Don’t overthink things—”

I interrupted again, my voice steady. “I’m not overthinking. You two grew up together. You’ve always seen her as a sister. You even said the guest room is basically hers, open to her anytime and that she doesn’t need my permission to come over. I remember.”

Vincent faltered, the fight draining from his posture. When he spoke again, his tone was softer.

“I’m glad that you can think this way. I really want you and Zoe to get along.”

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. It was the courier I had scheduled.

Vincent finally noticed the piles of boxes I’d packed and stacked neatly in the living room.

His expression darkened as he walked over to inspect them.

“Claire, what do you mean?” he demanded, his voice tight. “You don’t want all the things I gave you?”

I was just about to open my mouth to reply when he reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a small music box. Inside was a spinning figurine of a bride in a white wedding dress.

His hand trembled slightly as he held it up and I noticed his eyes reddening.

“You’re throwing this away too?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

That music box was from years ago, back when we had nothing. He couldn’t afford a grand gesture or a ring, but he’d given me that little box, promising, “One day, I will make you my bride.”

I had believed him. But reality gave me a slap in the face.

Love doesn’t work when there are three people in the relationship. It was too crowded.

And I didn’t want to stay anymore.