The rain left me with a lingering chill, and I spent the next day in bed with a slight fever. I didn't care where Ethan was or if he even noticed my absence at the breakfast table.

My phone buzzed with a new email. It was my flight itinerary from my father.

Departure: June 20th. 9:00 PM.

June 20th. Ethan's birthday.

A bitter smile touched my lips. Leaving on his birthday would be my final, silent gift to him. The gift of my complete and utter absence.

I spent the next few days methodically clearing out my room. I packed my art supplies and a few changes of clothes into a new suitcase. Everything else—books, trinkets, furniture I'd grown up with—I arranged to have donated.

On the evening of the 19th, Ethan came home alone. He found me in the living room, surrounded by boxes.

"What's all this?" he asked, a slight frown on his face. He seemed to look at me differently now, as if seeing a stranger.

"I'm cleaning out some old things," I said, not looking up from the box I was taping shut.

"Amelia and I have moved into our new apartment downtown," he said, his voice flat. "The house will be empty most of the time."

It was his way of telling me I'd be alone. It was meant to be a punishment, or perhaps a test. It felt like freedom.

I finally looked at him. "Can I come to your birthday party tomorrow?"

He seemed taken aback by the question. A cold mask settled over his features. "It's just a small gathering with friends, Ava. You wouldn't enjoy it."

He rejected me without a second thought. Then he turned and went to his study, closing the door behind him.

My body trembled, and a burning sensation pricked my eyes. I walked over to the charity donation bin at the end of the driveway. Peering inside, I saw it—the sketchbook I'd thrown away with my other belongings. It was filled with hundreds of portraits of him.

I pulled it out, the rain-soaked pages soft and warped.

With deliberate strokes, I began to sketch on the last empty page. This time, it wasn't just him. It was a portrait of him and Amelia, smiling, the perfect couple. I poured every last ounce of my unrequited love, my decade of devotion, into the lines and shadows. I would scrape this love from my soul, even if it left me raw and bleeding.

Late that night, I heard his car pull up. He came in, stumbling slightly. He was drunk.

I moved to help him, a reflex born of years of habit. "Ethan, you're drunk."

He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulled me close, his face buried in my hair. His breath was hot against my skin, reeking of alcohol.

"Amelia..." he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

Then, his lips crashed down on mine.

For a heart-stopping moment, my mind went completely blank. His kiss was clumsy and desperate, nothing like the gentle pecks I had dreamed of for years. This was raw, fueled by alcohol and a longing meant for another woman.

He pushed me against the wall, his hands fumbling with the buttons of my shirt, still murmuring her name. "Amelia, I missed you so much..."

The pain was sharp, a brutal awakening. This dream, when it finally came true, was a nightmare.

"I'm not Amelia!" I screamed, pushing against his chest with all my might. "I'm Ava!"

My voice, raw with anguish, seemed to cut through his drunken haze. He froze, his body going rigid. He blinked, his eyes slowly focusing on my face.

Recognition dawned, followed by a wave of confusion. He didn't push me away. Instead, he pulled me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my shoulder.

"Stay," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Just... don't leave."

I couldn't fight him. I was too tired, too broken. I let him hold me, the scent of whiskey and regret filling my senses, until exhaustion finally claimed me and I fell asleep in his arms.

I woke up on his bed, the morning sun streaming through the window. Ethan was sitting in a chair beside the bed, watching me. His face was pale, his eyes dark with a storm of emotions.

"Why were you in my bed?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

Before I could explain, he cut me off, his tone laced with disgust. "I told you not to cross the line, Ava. I never thought you would stoop this low. If you ever try something like this again, I will have you thrown out of this house for good."

Every word was a slap in the face.

I swallowed the explanation that clawed at my throat. It didn't matter. Nothing I said would change his mind.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Five more days, I told myself. Just five more days, and I'll be gone.

I walked out of his room, my clothes rumpled, my heart in pieces. And there, standing at the top of the stairs, was Amelia.

Her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed with fury as she took in my appearance and the room I had just exited.

"What were you doing in Ethan's room?" she demanded, her voice trembling with rage.

"You shameless little..." she hissed, her face contorted with jealousy. "How dare you climb into his bed while he's drunk?"

I stood there, head bowed. What could I say? The truth sounded like a pathetic excuse.

"If you ever pull a stunt like this again," she warned, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "I will make sure you are thrown out onto the street with nothing. Do you understand?"

She stormed past me, slamming the door to her own room.

My legs gave out, and I slid down the wall, the last of my strength gone. The weight of his accusations and her threats crushed me.

I buried my face in my hands, and for the first time in a very long time, I let myself cry. Sobs wracked my body, silent and convulsive, as a decade of devotion turned to ash.