After getting back together with Peter Palmer, I stopped caring about where he went or what he did.

He spent all our savings on Julia Sharp, and I didn’t even bother asking why.

Maybe he realized something, because before leaving me once again to be with her, he said, “Julia’s leaving to live abroad tomorrow. She won’t be coming back. Once she’s gone, we’ll get married.”

I gave a casual reply.

After all, I was leaving too.

Peter Palmer and I shared a joint account.

We agreed that once we saved up two hundred thousand dollars, we’d get married.

But now, a hundred and ninety thousand of it was gone.

Peter explained, “Julia was going through a divorce, so I transferred it to her to help out. You’re both women. You can understand that, right?”

As if showing anger would mean I lacked empathy.

But I truly didn’t understand.

I would never borrow money from an ex who already had someone else.

There was no point arguing.

Just like countless times before.

I nodded. “Alright.”

Peter’s face relaxed, and he smiled. “Sarah, you’ve finally matured. Guess that breakup really did you some good.”

I froze for a moment, a ripple breaking through my calm.

I couldn’t understand how he could say that so easily.

That breakup had nearly torn me apart.

Yet it hadn’t affected him at all.

Peter was my first love.

Five years of pouring my heart out now felt like nothing but a joke.

After dinner, Peter went out as usual to “take out the trash.”

Half a year ago, Julia Sharp separated from her husband and moved into our neighborhood.

She had married a rich man before even finishing college.

According to her, her husband had violent tendencies and wouldn’t stop harassing her.

Peter wanted to make sure she was safe at home.

The sound of the door opening pulled me out of my thoughts.

Maybe he was afraid we’d argue again, so he added a few more words.

“Someone in the neighborhood chat said there was a suspicious man wandering near the gate. It might be that man. I was the one who told Julia to move here. Her safety is my responsibility.”

I couldn’t be bothered to argue.

“That man” wasn’t Julia’s husband but a thief who’d already been caught.

I nodded indifferently and said gently, “Why don’t you move in with her for now?”

Peter’s hand froze on the doorknob.

“Sarah, what are you doing again!”

His tone was filled with irritation. “I thought you’d changed…”

I looked at him, confused. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Then why did you tell me to move in with Julia? Don’t you remember I’m your boyfriend?”

“Because I trust you.”

Peter’s expression went blank for a moment, the rest of his words stuck in his throat.

He looked at me suspiciously. “You’re not angry?”

I shook my head, keeping my face calm.

Peter stared at me, his gaze circling my face over and over, trying to catch any hint of a lie.

As the seconds passed, his expression darkened.

Just then, his phone rang.

It was his custom ringtone.

Julia was calling.

I smiled and gave him a light push. “Go on, don’t keep her waiting.”

Peter grabbed my hand, as if he wanted to say something.

But the phone kept ringing relentlessly, showing no sign of stopping.

At last, he said, “Julia’s getting her divorce papers tomorrow. Once it’s finalized, she’ll go abroad to stay with her relatives. We won’t be in touch anymore.

“Just be a little more understanding during this time. When she’s gone, we’ll get married.”

Married?

To him?

The wedding I once pictured countless times was no longer part of my life plan.

I replied casually, “Alright.”

Peter left, feeling satisfied.

The door closed behind him.

In the dark, I lay alone on the couch.

The clock on the wall ticked softly.

That familiar loneliness from our first breakup crept back in again.

Only this time, it didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt like my withdrawal was finally easing.

The memories of our breakup came rushing back.

It all began one late night.

Julia sent Peter a message: [Peter, I’m getting a divorce.]

From that moment, something changed in him.

He removed our photo from his social media background.

He said it was a critical period for his promotion and he needed to appear professional.

I never doubted him.

I was busy with work, and so was he.

I never imagined he still had time to run errands for Julia.

We both came from ordinary families.

Peter’s situation was even worse.

His father had transferred all their money to another woman, and when his parents divorced, his mother was left with nothing.

Looking back, there had always been signs.

One afternoon, while Peter and I were having lunch, he suddenly said, “You should learn how to do your makeup too.”

Later, when I checked our chat history, I realized that same day, Julia had “accidentally” sent him a sultry, full-makeup selfie.

One night, when we were both drenched in sweat after making love, Peter, still not fully satisfied, looked me over and said, “It’d be perfect if your waist were a little slimmer.”

That day, Julia had ordered the smallest size of lingerie online and “accidentally” filled in Peter’s phone number.

One evening, a fire broke out in the building’s parking area.

The flames spread upward, thick smoke billowing into the sky.

At that moment, all I could think was thankfully, Peter had gone to take out the trash.

Thankfully, he was safe.

As the smoke filled my lungs and my vision blurred, I saw firefighters rushing in and Peter trying to charge into the flames.

But he was stopped by a woman in black lace nightwear.

I soon lost consciousness and didn’t think much about it afterward.

I assumed she was just a concerned neighbor.

During my hospital stay, Peter ran back and forth between work and the hospital to take care of me.

It was only a minor burn, so to avoid missing work, I was discharged quickly.

I kept living in the illusion of our loving relationship until one day when the landlord came to raise the rent.

I tried to argue, switching from pleading to threatening to move out.

I talked so much I was practically spitting, sounding like a desperate woman quarreling over a few dollars.

The landlord said coldly, “Then how come your boyfriend can afford a second apartment?”

It hit me like a blow to the head.

Even after the landlord left, jingling the keys, I was still in shock.

That night, when Peter went out to take out the trash, I followed him on impulse.

I watched him pick up a parcel, carefully disinfect the package outside Julia’s door, then step inside after neatly placing his own shoes in the cabinet and changing into those deep-blue house slippers.

Everything he did was so practiced, as if he were returning to his own home.

I stood at the door for a long time, frozen in place.

A chill spread from my chest, and my mind went blank.

Like a puppet on strings, I knocked on the door.

From inside came Peter’s voice.

He asked who it was.

“The delivery shouldn’t have arrived this fast…” he muttered as he opened the door.

That was when I finally understood why Peter suddenly insisted on taking out the trash every night, why he stopped ordering takeout at noon and began asking me to cook instead.

He wanted to save more money to spend on Julia.

I couldn’t remember much about what happened after that.

Only that Peter stood protectively in front of Julia.

“I just didn’t want you overthinking it. That’s why I didn’t tell you before. And sure enough, you’re overreacting again!”

“There’s nothing between me and her!”

Really?

Everything about our relationship was something I learned through Peter’s experience.

He used to say everyone had a past.

Was I really just overreacting?

But later, he kept going to see Julia again and again.

Even on our anniversary, when she called sounding shaken and said, “I’m scared.”

Peter left me sitting in the restaurant without a second thought.

That night, I waited until four in the morning before he came back.

His hair was damp.

He had clearly just taken a shower.

When he opened the door, he met my red, tear-filled eyes.

A flicker of panic crossed his face before he said, “I thought you were asleep, so I took a shower at Julia’s place. Nothing happened between us.”

I answered him by throwing a glass of water at him.

The worst fight we’d ever had broke out.

My breathing was uneven, and anger twisted my words.

“She’s still married, and you’re desperate to play the homewrecker? You two make me sick!”

“Smack—”

The slap landed hard across my face, swelling instantly.

Peter’s expression was cold.

“Watch your mouth. Don’t you dare slander Julia’s name.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

Suddenly, the man in front of me felt like a stranger.

“You don’t trust me at all. With you like this, we can’t go on. Let’s break up.”

He said the words as if they meant nothing.

Yet back when we were dating, he hated it whenever I even mentioned breaking up.

That very day, Peter packed his suitcase and left.

I stayed in our apartment, numb and lost.

I couldn’t eat a single bite, just went through the motions.

In the neighborhood chat, Julia posted a short video of a man clumsily cooking in the kitchen:

[No one at home knows how to cook.]

There was no doubt that the man in her video was Peter.

[Does anyone know a housekeeper who can come over to cook for two people who prefer bold, spicy dishes?]

I liked spicy food too.

But Peter always preferred bland dishes and couldn’t handle spicy ones.

I always bent to his preferences, eating bland food just to match his.

But now, he could share spicy meals with Julia.

I went to his office.

He seemed completely unaffected.

He worked as usual, confident and composed, and after work, he even stopped by a flower stand and bought a bouquet.

I’d never received flowers from Peter.

After all, we were saving up for marriage, so there was never room for that kind of expense.

Almost masochistically, I scrolled through Peter’s social media, checking his music app’s following list one by one.

That was where I found Julia.

And the record showing they’d been listening to songs together late at night, even back when we were still together.

I ran into the bathroom and threw up for a long time.

I once thought that the half apple left on the table was the rotten one.

But the half I’d eaten was rotten too.

Within a month, I lost fifteen pounds.

I was like someone drowning, cold lake water slowly filling my nose and mouth, flooding into my chest and stomach.

No one could save me.

And I couldn’t find a way to save myself until I went to see a therapist.

She said, “Have you ever heard of exposure therapy?”

It was a kind of therapy that meant facing the pain, offering love willingly, until disappointment gradually wore that love away.

So that day, I put on makeup, changed into new clothes, lifted a smile, and went to see Peter.

A flicker of admiration crossed his eyes, but he still said reservedly, “Do you realize your mistake now?”

Did I?

Of course I did.

My mistake was not seeing him clearly enough, not having the courage to let go, and still holding onto foolish hope for him.

Just like that, we got back together.