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.

Brandon didn't come home that night. He walked in at noon the next day, smelling faintly of woody perfume.

It was the scent Wilma always wore.

He tossed his car keys onto the entryway table and looked at me coldly. "Are you done throwing your tantrum from last night?"

I was taping a cardboard box shut, so I didn't look up.

"Are you pretending to be deaf now?" He walked over and kicked the box. "What's with all this junk you're packing up?"

"Just sorting through things I don't use anymore," I finally replied.

Brandon sneered. "Melissa, this whole playing-hard-to-get act of yours is pretty pathetic. Do you really think giving me a few days of the cold shoulder will make me come to sweet-talk you?"

I stood up straight and dusted off my hands. "I didn't ask you to sweet-talk me."

"Then what's with this attitude? Wilma cried for nearly half an hour last night because of what you said. You owe her an apology."

"I won't apologize."

"You're impossible!" He yanked at his hair in frustration and walked over to sit on the couch. "I don't have time to drag this out with you.

"On Wednesday, I'm flying to Reykiford. If you admit you were wrong, I'll give you the family standby ticket I originally saved for Wilma and take you to see the northern lights."

I stood frozen in place. The northern lights?

Six years ago, I was diagnosed with a thyroid nodule. It was benign, but I was terrified at the time.

Brandon had been beside the hospital bed, holding my hand. He said, "Once you're better, I'll take you to see the northern lights. You'll fly on my route, and we'll watch the most beautiful night sky together."

He had dragged this promise out for six years. And now, he was using that six-year-old promise as a bone to throw me so I'd back down.

What was more, the ticket was originally meant for Wilma.

"Is that not good enough for you?" He frowned when I stayed silent. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a standby ticket on this route? Wilma begged me for a long time before I agreed. It's only because of our eighth anniversary that I changed my mind and decided to give it to you."

I looked at him. My voice was so soft that I could barely hear it myself as I said, "Give the ticket to Wilma."

"What did you say?"

"I said, give the ticket to her. I don't need it."

With a dark and frightening expression, Brandon shot up from the couch. "Melissa, don't test my patience! I'm giving you a chance. You keep digging your own grave, so don't come crying to me begging later."

"I won't beg you."

Brandon furiously slammed a glass cup on the coffee table. Glass shards splashed onto my calf and cut a line of red.

He didn't even spare me a glance. He simply turned around, slammed the door, and left.

I looked down at the beads of blood on my calf, then pulled a tissue and wiped them away.

It didn't hurt. It really no longer hurt me.

…

Time quickly passed until Wednesday.

It was our eighth anniversary, as well as the day I would leave this city.

I dragged my one and only suitcase and took a taxi to the airport.

My flight to Dalco was at three in the afternoon. After checking in, I sat in the waiting area and watched planes take off and land outside the window.

The northern lights route was scheduled to depart at 2:00 pm. Brandon should already be in his seat by now, getting ready for pushback.

I opened my phone. I wanted to check his flight status one last time, as a way to close the book on these past eight years.

The crew info on the flight tracker popped up.

However, Brandon's name wasn't on the captain's column. Instead, it was a stranger's name.

I paused for a moment. Had he gotten sick and switched shifts at the last minute?

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something at the entrance to the first-class lounge nearby.

A man in a trench coat was pushing a pink suitcase inside, and beside him walked a woman in a matching coat. The woman clung to the man's arm affectionately, leaning her head against his shoulder.

It was Brandon and Wilma.

I stood where I was and watched them walk into the lounge. Not far away, I could hear two ground crew members chatting to each other.

"Was that Mr. Smith who just went in? Isn't he supposed to fly to Reykiford today?"

"He suddenly took an annual leave. I heard it was to go with Ms. Chapman to Reykiford.

"Ms. Chapman was showing off in the group chat all day yesterday. She said Mr. Smith gave up flying the northern lights route just for her. He even bought passenger tickets so he could go with her on a long vacation."

"How romantic! Mr. Smith treats Ms. Chapman really well!"

Suddenly, I felt a little amused.

It turned out that—by giving me the ticket meant for Wilma—Brandon was just trying to use that fake story to make me feel grateful to him.

In reality, he was going to give up his flight duties for her and had even personally planned a northern lights trip for just the two of them.

Soon, the boarding announcement for my flight came over the speakers.

I looked in the direction of the first-class lounge. Then I turned around and handed my boarding pass to the gate agent.

Once everyone boarded, the cabin door closed. The plane taxied and accelerated before its wheels eventually came up.

The plane from the airline Brandon worked for carried me high in the sky, through the clouds.

And Brandon, who had taken annual leave for his "little bear", was sitting in first class on another plane right now.

I looked out the window at the sea of clouds.

After eight years, I was finally free.