I sent Florence a message and told her I wanted to break up.

By then, it was already two in the morning, and I was still packing my things.

Over the years, the villa had been carefully arranged into something that resembled a warm home.

It held all my memories of Florence.

As I hesitated over each item, deciding what to take with me, I heard my phone ping.

Florence had replied and deliberately avoided my request for a breakup.

[Are you home yet?

[I’m not coming back tonight. Don’t wait up.

[Get some rest, and don’t leave the door unlocked for me.]

I didn’t reply.

She had typed those words out of habit, not out of genuine concern for me.

Seven hours had already passed since I sent the breakup message.

The mystery of what she was doing became obvious the moment I looked through Instagram.

Two hours earlier, Michael had posted a photo.

The caption read: [My forever.]

In the photo, two hands were tightly intertwined.

In the background, the rumpled sheets of a hotel bed were faintly visible.

Anyone who saw the image understood, without words, what had happened.

At that moment, the suffocating pain in my chest hurt my pride more than any abuse she had ever inflicted on me during our past arguments.

I had always believed that publicly displaying intimate affairs on social media was inelegant.

But Michael did it deliberately, forcing everyone to witness that Florence’s final choice was him.

I had once been uncertain about Florence’s love.

She had never said those three words to me, nor had she seemed particularly eager to truly understand me.

Until one New Year’s Eve, when I developed appendicitis and doubled over in agony.

On a night meant for reunions with family and friends, the streets were empty, and hailing a car was impossible.

She cried as she helped me into the ambulance, gripping my hand tightly the entire time.

When I woke up, Florence looked exhausted, her eyes red and swollen.

The instant she saw me open my eyes, tears slid down her cheeks as she pleaded, “Please don’t leave me, Noah.”

A nurse nearby joked, “You have no idea how worried your girlfriend was. She stayed up all night crying by your side.”

That was when I began to believe she truly loved me.

That belief started to waver after her mushroom poisoning.

And now, seeing that post, whatever trust remained had completely vanished.

Michael had achieved his goal.

In the comment section, every mutual friend I could see was offering congratulations.

Timothy’s comment was especially jarring.

[So the real boyfriend is finally back? That cuck Noah should get lost already.]

Yes, Timothy. I’m finally leaving.

I liked Michael’s post and left a comment of my own:

[Wishing the two of you happiness. A perfect match!]

The moment my comment went through, messages from Florence flooded in.

I didn’t read a single one.

When she realized I wasn’t responding, she began calling me.

The ringing irritated me, so I silenced my phone and tossed it into my bag.

Eventually, after her relentless calls, the phone shut itself off.

Half an hour later, I finally finished packing.

Just as I was about to leave, Florence pushed the door open and walked in.

She frowned when she saw my suitcase.

“How long are you going to be so dramatic?”