Brandon Smith has flown for eight years. I've been with him since the time he was an assistant pilot, all the way until he successfully rose to the ranks as the head pilot.

In the year Brandon's busiest with his career, I resign from my job and begin cooking according to his aviation schedule.

Just once, I bring up the question, "Can you please show me the sight of being thousands of feet in the air in the near future? Just once, please!"

Brandon continues eating from his plate. "The plane is a workplace, not an amusement park for you."

I reply, "Okay."

Since then, I never bring up that matter in front of him.

That is, until I find myself suffering from insomnia one night. That's when I accidentally come across an encrypted photo album tucked away in Brandon's phone.

There are over 40 photos in the album, all from his perspective as a pilot. There are seas of clouds, sunsets, double rainbows after a downpour, as well as the Milky Way in the night sky when the plane is over thousands of feet in the sky.

Every photo has been sent to the same person with a bear's emoji as their name.

The latest photo is a photo of the beautiful evening colors from three days ago. Half of the sun can be seen in the clouds.

The caption that comes with the photo says, "Today's sky is still beautiful as ever. When you come over next time, you can take the observation seat on the right. It gives you the best angle of the sky."

The bear emoji person responds with a hugging emoji and a short sentence. "Wait for me to go on my break."

I put Brandon's phone back where it belongs without changing the password and deleting the album.

Once the morning sun is up, I brew myself some coffee as usual before finishing it quietly. Then, I turn on my computer and book myself a flight ticket to Dalco.

It's been eight years. Finally, I don't have to chase after Brandon's flight routes and wait for his mealtimes. I no longer have to stay in an empty house while guessing which flight destination he's headed to right now.

Since Brandon's sky refuses to tolerate my presence, I shall move my roots elsewhere and watch the sunset on my own.

"Why are you up so early today?" Brandon Smith asked with a slight frown as he walked out of the bedroom, pulling his work suitcase.

I held my mug and watched him carefully attach the four-stripe epaulettes to his white shirt.

"I couldn't sleep, so I got up to have some coffee," I replied.

He walked over to the kitchen island, casually picked up the other cup of coffee I had just poured, and took a sip.

"Did you stay up late again last night watching those silly shows?" he asked.

"No."

"Melissa Howard, your sleep schedule is becoming increasingly worse," Brandon said, his tone carrying its usual lecturing edge.

He lifted his wrist to check his watch. "I'm flying to Frankwell soon. It's a four-day round trip."

"Okay."

Brandon seemed a little surprised by how overly calm I was today.

Normally, before he flew a long international route, I would always get his stomach medicine, melatonin, and neck pillow ready a day early. I'd then pack them into his work suitcase.

I would also remind him again and again to text me after he landed.

But today, I did none of that. I just sat on the barstool and watched him.

"Where did you put my stomach medicine?" he asked as he rummaged through the side pocket of his suitcase.

"Second drawer under the TV stand. Get it yourself."

He paused for a moment, then turned his head and looked at me.

"What's up with you today? You can't even walk a few steps?"

"I'm a little tired," I replied nonchalantly.

He sighed before walking to the TV stand. He pulled open the drawer, took out the medicine box, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"You stay at home all day. I don't know what you have to be tired about."

Brandon's phone, placed on the countertop, lit up. A message appeared, with the contact name being a bear emoji.

"Brandon, it's getting colder in Frankwell. Remember to bring a thick coat."

Brandon picked up the phone, making the screen light illuminate the slight upward curve of his lips. Then, without even bothering to zip up his suitcase first, he typed a quick reply with one hand.

"A text from a coworker?" I asked, looking at the bear emoji.

He locked the screen and slipped the phone into his trouser pocket. "Yeah. It's Wilma Chapman. She's also flying this route today, working behind in the cabin."

"Isn't she a Chief Purser for domestic routes?"

"The company reassigned her temporarily. She's helping train some new flight attendants."

He answered very naturally, not even needing time to make up an excuse.

I stared at his upright back and recalled the locked album from last night, the one with more than 40 photos in it.

Every shot was captured by him personally from way up in the sky. He never showed me a single one, but he shared all of them freely with Wilma.

"Brandon," I called out.

He was putting on his shoes at the entryway. "What is it?"

"Do you still remember what day next Wednesday is?"

He didn't stop in his movements as he replied, "Next Wednesday? There's a simulator retraining at the company. Why?"

"Never mind."

Next Wednesday was our eighth anniversary.

Eight years ago, on that day, Brandon got the offer letter to be a First Officer. He was so excited that he spun me around in our rented apartment.

He said that, later on, he would pick out the most beautiful clouds from high up in the sky for me.

He had forgotten this.

"I'm heading out. I'll text you after I land," he said, pushing the front door open.

"Brandon." I stopped him again.

His hand lingered on the doorknob, and he looked somewhat annoyed. "What now? The crew shuttle is waiting for me downstairs."

"Your suitcase zipper isn't closed all the way."

He glanced down, then casually zipped it shut. "Got it. You're acting weird today."

The door closed behind him, and the apartment sank back into dead silence.

I walked over to my computer and stared at the purchase record of the one-way flight to Dalco that would depart in a week. I was glad that I didn't register our marriage with him. Otherwise, it would be more complicated.

Seven days were enough for me to clean away all traces of our relationship from these eight years.

Just then, my phone rang. It was my best friend, Natalie Sanford.

"Did you make up your mind?" she asked.

"I did."

"You've made your decision, so there's no going back. When are you planning to tell Brandon?"

"The day I leave."

Natalie was silent for a few seconds on the other end, then she asked, "Melissa, are you really giving up on eight years of your youth just like that?"

"I don't want it anymore."

I looked at the cup of coffee that had already gone cold on the kitchen island.

"Natalie, have you seen the sunset that he captured for someone else?"

"What?"

"It's really beautiful."

I turned my phone facedown on the table.

"Unfortunately, it wasn't for me."

I went to the property management office in the afternoon and deleted my fingerprint from the access control system of this building.

The property manager was a warmhearted older lady. She seemed very confused by my actions.

"Mrs. Smith, why'd you delete your fingerprint for no reason? It'll be so inconvenient to get in and out," she said.

"I won't need it anymore," I replied with a smile.

After I got back home, I pulled out two big cardboard boxes from the storage room and started packing my things.

The house was a large, 2,000-square-foot apartment with a river view. Brandon had bought it in full, saying it was to thank me for staying with him through the toughest times.

I thought this was our home. It was only now that I realized how few things I truly had.

In the walk-in closet, the clothes I owned only filled two cabinets. The rest was all Brandon's uniforms, suits, trench coats, and sports gear.

I folded the clothes I usually wore and put them into my suitcase. As for the expensive evening gowns he bought me—the ones that never matched my taste—I left them hanging there, untouched.

On the nightstand sat a model plane from the airline. It was a souvenir he brought back from his first international route.

I picked it up, revealing a photo underneath—a photo of us together from four years ago. Back then, he had just been promoted to captain and looked so full of life.

I gently pulled the photo out and threw it into the trash can beside me, then put the model back where it was.

…

In the evening, my phone vibrated with a message from Brandon.

"I landed. Just got to the hotel."

Usually, I would have replied right away, asking if he was tired and if the hotel bed was comfortable. But I only replied with one word today.

"Okay."

Half an hour later, he sent another message.

"It's really cold here in Frankwell. Do you want me to buy you any duty-free goods?"

When he texted, I was putting the bottles and jars from the bathroom counter into my makeup bag.

"No need," I answered.

"Don't you usually go on and on about wanting that serum from that brand?"

I looked at myself in the mirror, then replied, "No need. I don't want it anymore."

He didn't reply after that. Perhaps he thought I was being unreasonable. Or maybe he was busy looking after someone else.

I clicked on Wilma's profile. The latest post was from ten minutes ago.

It showed a photo of the night view along the river. On the table beside her sat a cup of hot mulled wine, with a man's hand resting on its rim. There was a very faint scar on the middle finger of that hand.

It was from when Brandon cut himself while chopping fruit. I had even tenderly helped him change his bandages for a whole week.

Wilma's caption read, "The wind in Frankwell is cold, but hot mulled wine is warm. A flight route with someone taking care of you is always the best journey."

A few of their coworkers had liked the post.

Someone commented, "Mr. Smith is giving you a treat, right? You're so lucky, Wilma!"

Wilma replied with a blushing emoji.

I calmly swiped out of the app. That sharp, stabbing pain in my heart had already gone numb.

For eight years, I had been like a blind woman, living off the empty promises he made me.

Brandon wasn't unthoughtful, and he wasn't incapable of being loving. He just poured all his thoughtfulness and love onto someone else.

…

Brandon's flight landed back in the country.

At seven in the evening, he pushed the door open. There was an elegant-looking gift box in his hand.

I sat on the couch and watched him hang his coat on the hanger.

"Why didn't you cook?" he asked, glancing at the empty dining table.

"I already ate."

His frown deepened. "I flew for over ten hours, yet I come home and can't even get a hot meal?"

"You can order takeout."

He set the gift box down heavily on the coffee table. "Melissa, why have you been throwing a fit over the last couple of days?"

"I wasn't throwing a fit."

"If you weren't, then why didn't you send me a single message? I asked what you wanted to buy, and you said nothing."

I looked at the gift box and asked, "Did you buy that for me?"

Brandon paused for a second, then darted his gaze away. "This is… Someone asked me to bring it for them. I'll go to the mall and make it up to you tomorrow."

Someone, huh?

I looked into his eyes. "Did Wilma ask you to bring it for her?"

His expression darkened, and he asked accusingly, "You went through my phone?"

"Her post is public."

Brandon let out a sigh of relief before his tone turned self-righteous again. "She did me a favor. What's wrong with helping to bring her a gift? Must you be so petty?"

"I didn't say anything."

"That cold look on your face is saying plenty!" He yanked off his tie in frustration. "She's my coworker. We see each other at work all the time. Is there anything wrong with me looking out for her a little?"

"You're looking after her very attentively," I said as I stood up, not wanting to argue anymore.

"Melissa Howard!" he shouted after me. "I've had a long day. Can you be understanding for once? I don't want to have to come home and deal with your foul mood."

Understanding? I had been understanding for eight years.

And so, I held back my tears and walked into the guest bedroom without looking back.

"I'll sleep in here tonight. You get some good rest."

Over the next two days, I cleaned out my things bit by bit.

I gave my neighbor the plant that I bought for the living room. I also called a secondhand recycling service to take away the rocking chair I had picked out for the balcony.

Brandon didn't notice any of the things disappearing from the house. He only thought that my recent quietness was very pleasing to him.

"If only you had acted like this earlier," he said.

In the morning, he sat at the dining table, eating the frozen waffles I had dug out and reheated.

"It's Wilma's birthday today. A few crew members are getting together for dinner tonight. You're coming with me."

I stopped wiping the table. "What would I go for?"

"Aren't you always complaining that I never take you to meet my coworkers? Everyone's going today, so you can get to know them too."

His tone made it sound like he was doing me a favor.

In the past, I used to beg Brandon to introduce me to his coworkers.

He would say, "They're all pilots. You wouldn't understand what we talk about. You'd just be bored if you went."

Now he was inviting me on his own initiative, but it was because of Wilma's birthday.

"Alright," I agreed.

I wanted to see for myself just what his coworkers thought of Wilma.

…

At 8:00 pm, we arrived at the restaurant they had booked. Brandon slid open the door to the private room, where several people were already seated.

Wilma sat in the center. She wore an elegant white dress, and around her neck hung a familiar necklace.

It was the item inside the gift box I had seen on the coffee table the day before.

"Brandon and Melissa are here!" Wilma exclaimed.

She stood up and walked over with a bright smile. "Hello, Melissa. I've long heard about you from Brandon. I finally get to meet you today."

She earnestly tried to take my hand, but I pulled away.

"Happy birthday," I said flatly.

Following my response, the atmosphere in the room turned awkward for a moment.

Brandon pulled me to sit down and warned me in a low voice, "Don't embarrass me tonight."

During the dinner, everyone talked about their work on flights—which routes had bad turbulence, which tower controllers had short tempers…

I really didn't understand any of it, nor did I bother to listen.

"Speaking of which, Brandon's landings really are smooth." A First Officer raised his glass with a smile. "Wilma would know best. Whenever Brandon is flying, she doesn't even spill a drop of coffee while in the cabin."

Wilma covered her mouth and laughed shyly. "That's true. Brandon's skills are well known across the company.

"That time, when we flew to Nalitia and hit a thunderstorm, my legs went weak from fear. Brandon sent me a message from the cockpit saying, 'I'm here. Don't be scared.' I felt calm right away."

The whole table burst into teasing cheers. "Wow! I'm here. Don't be scared!"

Brandon laughed along and didn't deny it at all. There was even a hint of endearment in his gaze.

I lowered my head and took a sip of my drink, which tasted bitter.

A thunderstorm… I remembered that Nalitia flight.

The flight had been delayed by five hours due to the weather. I was at home and had been too anxious to sleep. I called Brandon more than ten times, but he never picked up.

Later on, he replied with just a single text.

"I'm busy working. Don't stir up trouble."

But it turned out he had been busy comforting Wilma in the cabin.

"Melissa, do you not usually look after Brandon?" Wilma suddenly turned the conversation toward me. "Brandon has a sensitive stomach. Yesterday, I noticed that he showed up for simulator training without even having breakfast. We all felt so bad for him."

There was undisguised blame in her tone.

The table fell quiet, and everyone looked at me.

"He's an adult. He knows how to order takeout," I said nonchalantly as I set down my cup.

Wilma froze for a second before she instantly became teary. "Melissa, I didn't mean anything by it. I was just showing a little concern for Brandon…"

Brandon slammed his fork down hard. His face was livid as he snapped, "Melissa, have you had enough?

"We all came out to have a good time. Do you have to make snide remarks and make people uncomfortable?"

"Did I say anything wrong?" I looked at him calmly.

"Wilma was only kindly reminding you to watch out for me. What's with your attitude?"

"Mr. Smith." I stood up and picked up my bag next to me. "Since someone else cares so much about your stomach, I don't need to worry about it in the future."

"Melissa! Just try walking out that door today and see what happens!" Brandon roared from behind me.

I pushed open the door of the private room without a single pause. The cold air in the hallway hit my face, and I took a deep breath.

After eight years, I could finally stop trampling on my dignity just to protect his pride.

…

When I got home, I packed the rest of my books into cardboard boxes.

I just had to wait for my departure date.