On my twenty-ninth birthday, my boyfriend, Cyrus Martin, debuted his new composition at an awards ceremony. He called it "Enduring Affection," symbolizing love and companionship that lasts a lifetime. I thought it was his birthday gift to me.

That illusion crumbled later that evening when, across the Atlantic at a solo concert, pianist Roselyn Bryant performed his new piece. With tears in her eyes, she thanked the audience. "Thank you, Cyrus, for giving me the courage to sit here once again." The camera captured Cyrus sitting there, smiling and applauding. I glanced at my phone, which showed over twenty missed calls from him, and realized I couldn't keep up this charade any longer.

When Cyrus finally called back, it was past midnight—he missed my birthday. His voice came through, nonchalantly, amid a noisy backdrop: "I'm busy. What’s up?"

The words I’d prepared got stuck in my throat. My eyes stung from staring too long at the TV. I asked quietly, "Cyrus, do you remember what today is?" Before he could respond, a sweet, syrupy voice was audible in the background.

"Cyrus, stop calling and help me with this corsage!" I sat before a carefully prepared meal that had gone cold, watching the spiced honey cake lose its shape. The TV showed Cyrus and Roselyn in picture-perfect clarity.

At Roselyn's comeback concert after five years away, Cyrus, as a special guest, had traveled halfway across the continent to pin her corsage. He hesitated, maybe remembering, then said impatiently, "Is tomorrow your birthday? I didn’t forget, but something came up today. I’ve already bought your gift. You can open it yourself. I have things to do..."

He ended the call abruptly and returned to Roselyn’s side, smiling as he held her hand for the press interview.

Roselyn had been a renowned young pianist, whose withdrawal at her career's peak had always made headlines. A reporter asked, "Mr. Martin, during the ceremony, you mentioned that this piece embodies a beautiful meaning of love. Does giving Ms. Bryant exclusive performance rights have special significance?"

"Does 'Enduring Affection' relate to Ms. Bryant's name in any way?"

I stared at the screen, recalling Cyrus at eighteen. We were young and naive; he wore a school uniform and, blushing, placed a ring made from a soda can tab on my finger: "Keily Brooks, when I’m twenty-two, I’ll marry you."

The sunlight made my cheeks warm, and I kicked pebbles on the field, whispering, "Twenty-two is too soon, but thirty is too late."

"Then twenty-nine it is. Deal."

Later, we hustled in this big city, and I took on three part-time jobs to support his dreams, gradually elevating him from an anonymous street performer to a celebrated composer.

At twenty-five, he said, "Keily, I'm still young, and I have a lot of fans. If I marry now, it could hurt my career."

"Wait for me a little longer. Once I'm more established, we can marry."

I understood, and started working behind the scenes, keeping my role as his girlfriend hidden.

Yesterday was finally my twenty-ninth birthday. I hid a ring in a cream cake I couldn’t bring myself to eat—bought with all my savings.

While I was eagerly awaiting this promised birthday celebration, Cyrus seemed distant. I thought he forgot until this morning at the awards ceremony when he unveiled his new piece.

Cyrus stood in the spotlight, sincere: "This piece took five years to complete, representing my dedication and a gift for my beloved. I hope everyone enjoys it."

Thunderous applause filled the room, and I sat in the audience, mouth agape, silently shedding tears. I realized he had remembered, composing a piece about our love as the grandest gift for my twenty-ninth birthday.

But at dinner, I waited, only to hear Cyrus casually say, "Something came up; I won’t be home tonight."

Then the screen showed Roselyn, laughing and radiant: "Without Cyrus, I wouldn’t be here today. He's been a longtime friend—how could that not count as beloved?"

He nodded in agreement: "Enduring Affection signifies the support we've given each other over many years. Between us, there's no need for labels."

Early in the morning, our housekeeper, Raquel, arrived and found me alone, eating honey spice cake. She looked alarmed. "Keily, aren't you allergic to honey?" Her outburst was cut short as she noticed the rash spreading on my arm. She grabbed my arm, pulling me away from my self-destructive scene. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

My eyes were red and swollen from crying. I couldn't help but wonder what all these years meant, now that he was showering someone else with affection. Was I just a brief interlude, an insignificant footnote in his life story?

Raquel took me to the hospital, sighing as she sat by my bedside. "Keily, I've seen you and Cyrus through so many ups and downs over the years. Maybe he has his own reasons."

Cyrus's song, "Endless Love," had become a big hit. His past with Roselyn, the girl-next-door artist, had charmed fans online, even catching Raquel's attention, who rarely followed such things. The talented young pianist and the brilliant composer—their match seemed perfect to outsiders. If I were just a bystander, I might have admired them too.

But unfortunately, I was the odd one out in this story, the shadowed girl behind the leading man. Raquel soon left to attend to other matters, and a nurse urged me to call someone to be with me. Reluctantly, I dialed Cyrus's number again.

After several attempts and abrupt disconnections, he finally picked up. Before I could speak, he snapped, "Keily, haven't you had enough of this?"

His words hit me hard, the unvoiced hurt and resentment heavy in my gut. The sweetness of the honey now felt cloying, making me nauseous.

"Cyrus, I—"

"I don't care what's going on with you. Today's Roselyn's big day. If you're not going to congratulate us, stop this melodramatic jealousy."

His voice grew sharper. "Aren't you mature enough to stop acting like a child? You know how deep my connection with Roselyn is, don't you? If there was something real between us, do you really think you'd still be here?"

A bitter smile crept over my face, my heart aching with the familiarity of his dismissive tone.

"I had an allergic reaction. I'm at the hospital. Can you come?"

He hesitated, surprised that I, who never wanted to burden him, would reach out at such a moment.

"Aren't these the sort of things you usually handle on your own?" he asked, puzzled. "What's different today?"

Apparently, all my sacrifices and efforts over the years had become so mundane, so expected, that he failed to see them as acts of love. Those days I spent alone in hospitals, signing surgery consent forms, stumbling out of the anesthetic haze only to rush to his events—those days had become nothing but a laughable memory.

"Cyrus," I whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks. Struggling to keep my composure, I added, choked with emotion, "Let's break up."

The noise on the other end of the line grew louder, suggesting he hadn't even heard me. To him, my words were nothing but whispers in the wind.

After Raquel left, I began packing my things in the empty house. After high school, despite my parents' objections, I had followed Cyrus to this unfamiliar city. We endured hardships together—sharing meals that cost less than a dollar, waiting for half-priced oysters at midnight. Under the freezing, dark overpass, we huddled close, finding warmth in each other.

I pitied him then, always switching places at night to shield him from the cold wind. We were poor, but he would always offer me the first spoonful of hot soup, full of affection. "Keily, I'll make sure we have a good life," he'd promise.

Now that we had achieved that good life, something had soured. That once pure heart had turned into something spoiled. Most of my belongings were gifts from Cyrus, luxury items I barely used. In the end, I packed only a few clean clothes and a red thread bracelet.

When his love for me was at its peak, and I fell gravely ill, Cyrus, who never believed in religion, had gone to great lengths at St. Andrew's Church to request a red thread for my well-being. Even now, I couldn't bring myself to discard it.

As I opened the door, there stood Cyrus, waiting outside.