Keith only had about 100 thousand dollars left to pay off. Freedom was right in front of him.

I didn't want to drag him down. I didn't want to become his burden.

I stared at the bottle of sleeping pills on the table. I was barely a minute away from swallowing them.

And now, I found out it had all been fake.

He had already wanted to get rid of me, the older woman who was a weight around his neck.

He never loved me the way I believed he did.

A metallic taste rose in my throat, and I spat up another mouthful of blood.

-

My phone buzzed with a video call. It was Keith.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and answered.

"Amanda, I picked up a shift at a private lounge tonight. I might be back late. Go to bed early."

His voice was gentle, just like always.

I forced a smile. "Okay."

"Why do you look so pale? Are you feeling sick? It's cold at home. Put on something warm."

He frowned, sounding genuinely concerned.

It almost felt like if I said I wasn't feeling well, he would drop everything and rush back.

We lived in the cheapest basement unit near downtown. It was dark and damp, with no heating. In winter, the cold sank straight into your bones.

He had sworn more than once that once he made money, he would buy us a bright place with real heating. It would look just like the space behind him on the screen now, warm, clean, and well-lit.

I answered vaguely, brushing it off.

Laughter broke through the call, a few men joking in the background.

"Keith, still glued to the phone with your old lady? Haven't had enough yet?"

A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face before he smoothed it away.

"I'll call you later," he said quickly, and hung up.

Old lady.

Back then, if anyone dared call me old, he would snap on the spot.

When did he start accepting it? Or worse, believing it himself?

When we first got together, I was insecure about the age gap, too.

He had looked at me with those bright eyes and said, "Amanda, I love you. You're not old at all. You're beautiful. Why else would I pursue you for over a year? I really don't care. Don't ever say you're old again."

I didn't believe him and teased him. "But I'm five years older than you."

He panicked, face turning red. "I swear, if I ever look down on you, I'll get hit by a bus."

The seriousness in that boyish gaze made my own face heat up.

My phone vibrated again. That post had been updated.

The poster uploaded a photo taken inside a luxury private room. The caption dripped with mockery.

[Didn't want to go home, so I said I was working. Actually just hanging out here.

[When I called to check in with the older woman, she even had blood at the corner of her mouth, trying to play the sympathy card. What an actress.

[My fiancée really gets me. The watch she gave me looks amazing.]

In the photo, a well-shaped hand rested casually on a table, an expensive watch gleaming on the wrist.

In the corner of the frame, barely visible, was a cheap watch tossed beside a trash can.

It was the birthday gift I bought for him last year.

I worked six months of night shifts, sweeping streets before dawn, saving every dollar for it.

The background of that lavish room matched exactly what I had seen on the video call.

The last bit of hope inside me was crushed into dust. An overwhelming sense of absurdity and grief surged up.

I looked up at the mirror.

My face was deathly pale, and a faint smear of blood still lingered at the corner of my mouth.

So he saw it.

He just didn't care.

He even thought I was putting on a tragic act.

Pain twisted through my stomach, sharp and relentless, like needles stabbing from the inside.

All of a sudden, I wanted to confront him face-to-face.

I washed the blood away, changed into something presentable, and took a cab to the private club.

Without a membership card, I was stopped at the entrance.

The wind cut across my face like blades. Snow piled up on my shoulders in no time.

Weather like this reminded me of the first time I met Keith.

It had been snowing just as hard. He wore a thin, worn jacket when he pushed open the door of my small corner store.

With a nervous look, he asked, "Ma'am, are you still hiring?"

That uneasy, careful expression reminded me of myself when I first came to this city, cautiously searching for work everywhere.

A flicker of pity was what made me hire Keith. It was also why I always made an extra meal at the shop.

He used to say that he would repay me one day.

But when he finally had the power to repay me, he was afraid I would actually ask for it.

My lips curled up into a bitter smile.

The snow kept falling harder. Just as I was about to freeze numb, the club doors swung open.

-

Keith walked out surrounded by a group of well-dressed rich kids. He wore a perfectly tailored designer suit, confident and radiant.

He looked nothing like the poor boy in a cramped rental, dressed in cheap clothes from a street stall.

"Keith, when are you finally dumping that old woman?"

"Yeah, don't you get nightmares staring at her face every night? How long are you planning to keep this act up?"

A flash of irritation crossed Keith's face. He waved them off impatiently.

"Drop it. Just thinking about her makes me smell that poor, old person stink all over again. If I wasn't worried she'd make a scene, I would've dumped her ages ago."

I stood not far away, my nails digging deep into my palm until it almost bled.

I wanted to rush over and demand an explanation.

I took two steps forward when a red Porsche pulled up in front of them. A young, beautiful girl stepped out and slipped her arm around Keith's.

The way he looked at her was filled with the same familiar tenderness and affection.

That look used to belong only to me.

She pouted, complaining that her hands were cold.

Keith immediately wrapped her hands in his and tucked them into his coat pocket, muttering, "Why are you dressed so little?"

She was wrapped in designer labels, smiling brightly. Standing next to each other, they looked perfect together.

Unlike me. I looked worn down and exhausted, with fine lines already etched at the corners of my eyes.

I felt like my heart had cracked open in the freezing wind.

He used to warm my hands like that, too, mumbling that I wasn't taking care of myself.

I remembered someone asking him in that post if he had ever loved his girlfriend.

He replied, [I did. Anyone would love someone they've spent eight years with.]

So when did he stop loving me?

The cold seeped all the way into my bones, and suddenly, I didn't want to confront him anymore.

But then, he saw me.

The tenderness on his face turned into shock, then irritation.

"Amanda? Why are you here? Were you following me? Why are you always so paranoid?"

I stared at him, stunned.

Paranoid.

That word was like a key, unlocking a flood of memories.

Three years ago, when I said I wanted to pick him up after work, he had snapped, "Can you stop hovering over me like a paranoid lunatic?"

When I noticed the expensive designer shoes on his feet and asked where they came from, when he stayed up late gaming with friends and jokingly called me an old hag and I confronted him, he said I was being unreasonable and paranoid.

So had he stopped loving me that early on?

He kept going, criticizing me nonstop, until he suddenly froze at the sight of tears on my cheeks.

I looked at him and asked slowly, "You paid off all your debts a long time ago, didn't you? You want to break up with me, don't you?"

He hesitated, eyes darting away, like the words were hard to say.

I let out a soft laugh and said it for him.

"I know you do. I saw your post."

As if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders, he let out a long breath.

"Yes. I want to break up."

He looked at me with a mix of relief and cruelty.

"Amanda, every day I spend with you is torture."

Torture.

Twenty-two-year-old Keith had once looked at me with love filling his eyes and said, "Amanda, every day with you is wonderful."

At thirty, he called it torture.

He pulled a black card from his wallet and handed it to me as if he were doing charity.

"There's a million dollars on this. Consider it compensation for all these years."

"You can ask for more if you want. You don't need to use cancer as an excuse to test me."

I dug my nails into my palm, using every ounce of strength just to keep the tears from spilling harder.

When Keith saw I wouldn't take it, he grabbed my hand and shoved the card into my icy palm.

"Don't be so greedy. I never forced you to give anything all these years." He paused, then said, "Just let me go. Please."

-

Every question I had prepared, every ounce of anger, got jammed in my throat by that single sentence.

All that was left was humiliation.

It was as if my love, and I myself, had both turned into cheap, disposable trash.

I clenched the card tightly. Its sharp edges bit into my skin.

I forced a smile and looked at him.

"Fine. We're even now."

I held on to the last shred of dignity I had.

He visibly relaxed, relief written all over his face.

"Throw away my stuff when you get back. None of it matters."

He turned and walked toward that girl, his steps light, as if he had finally shaken off an unbearable burden.

I stayed where I was, watching his back disappear into the snow and wind.

Then, I turned and walked the opposite way.

My phone wouldn't stop vibrating.

Messages from Keith popped up one after another.

[Don't be too upset. Honestly, I haven't wanted to touch you in a long time. Even kissing you makes me uncomfortable.

[I stayed with you for years. You should be grateful.

[Go find a decent guy and get married. You're getting old. If you wait any longer, you won't even be able to have kids.]

Every word landed exactly where it hurt most.

He kept sending messages, but I could no longer see them clearly.

Snowflakes fell onto the screen and melted instantly, mixing with my tears and blurring those cruel words.

I had had enough.

So I blocked him.

I stood on the bridge, staring down at the black river churning below.

The wind carried snow straight into my lungs, freezing and sharp.

I should have felt cold, but my whole body was already numb. The place where my heart should have been felt hollow, like a black hole, howling with icy air.

-

Meanwhile, Keith stared angrily at the red exclamation mark on his phone screen.

He had been blocked.

"What's wrong?" Rebecca Hicks asked softly, her warm hand resting over his.

He locked his phone irritably. "Nothing. It's stuffy in the car."

He tugged at his tie, fury bleeding through the motion.

That blank, numb look on Amanda Watson's face surfaced in his mind without warning.

It made his chest tighten.

"Turn around," he said sharply to the driver. "Go to South Garden."

He had to see it for himself, seeking closure on his final obligation.

Rebecca's expression stiffened instantly. Her grip on his hand tightened.

Keith turned to soothe her right away. "One last time. I'll make things absolutely clear and cut it off clean. That way, she won't bother me again."

Even he wasn't sure whether he was saying it to Rebecca or to himself.

Rebecca's face softened. She pouted and leaned closer, acting cute.

That playful pout reminded him of Amanda.

Back then, when he skipped meals to buy her her favorite dessert, she would pout just like that and complain he didn't know how to take care of himself.

Something jabbed sharply at his heart.

The car sat stalled near Riverwell Bridge for a long time.

The driver got out to ask around, then came back with a hint of gossiping excitement.

"The bridge is closed. Heard a woman jumped into the river. They say she was tricked by her boyfriend for years and lost everything. And apparently, this bridge was where they first got together."

Where they first got together.

The place where Keith and Amanda made things official was this very bridge.

In an instant, the color drained from Keith's face.