When the Aurora Falls on No Man’s Land

I canceled my ticket to Iceland.

Even the customer service agent sounded confused.

“There are only two seats left on this flight. Are you sure you want to cancel?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

We had been together for four years.

Every February, he flew to Iceland.

He always said it was for a photography project. On social media, he only posted glaciers and the northern lights.

Whenever I said I wanted to see the aurora too, he would tell me, “It’s too cold there. You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Then yesterday, I helped him organize an old hard drive.

Inside was an encrypted folder named **February**.

When I opened it, every photo was of the same girl standing beneath the same northern lights.

The light was soft around her.

Even the strands of her hair glowed clearly in the frame.

The only photo he had ever taken of me was outside our apartment complex.

Backlit.

Out of focus.

My eyes were squinting, and my entire face was blurred.

At the time, he had even laughed and said, “As long as you can tell it’s you, it’s fine.”

So it wasn’t that he didn’t know how to take good photos.

He just never wanted to take them of me.

For four years, he chased the northern lights.

And every time, the same person stood beside him.

The farthest light I had ever seen was nothing more than an Iceland photo he had posted carelessly online.

While I was packing my things, he called me.

His voice was rushed.

“Weren’t you the one who kept saying you wanted to see the northern lights? Why did you cancel the ticket?”

I hung up without answering.

Iceland was too far.

The aurora was too cold.

Since he was never willing to come toward me, I would walk toward the light on my own.

Stella's POV

Half an hour later, Ethan Spencer came home.

“Stella Winters, rebook the tickets. Stop making a scene.”

“I’m not rebooking them.”

I pushed the old hard drive to the corner of the table.

“For four Februaries in a row, you took 3,200 photos in Iceland. She changed into twenty-four different outfits.”

Ethan paused.

“Linda understands composition. She’s the easiest model for me to work with.”

“Easy enough that you had to edit the light on every strand of her hair?”

“That was for work.”

He took off his coat and walked over to sit on the couch.

“Are you seriously going to pick a fight over something work-related?”

I said nothing.

I walked to the entryway and pulled open the drawer on the left.

A set of keys lay quietly inside, attached to a StellaLou keychain.

“Whose keys are these?”

Ethan glanced at them.

“Linda’s. Her fingerprint lock always runs out of battery, so she left a spare with me.”

“Her fingerprint lock runs out of battery, so her spare key is in our house?”

“It was convenient. Don’t overthink it.”

Last month, it poured in the middle of the night.

I couldn’t get a cab after work, so I asked him to pick me up.

He said, “It’s too late. I have a shoot first thing tomorrow morning. Just call a private car.”

That night, I waited outside my office building for two hours.

But on Linda’s social media, she posted a photo.

A black umbrella tilted over her head.

The caption read, “No storm can scare me when my personal rescue team shows up.”

That umbrella was the one Ethan always kept in his car.

“I’m not going,” I said, putting the household registry back into the drawer.

“Iceland is too cold. I really can’t handle it.”

Ethan sighed and rubbed his brow.

“What is it this time? I already agreed to make Iceland our honeymoon trip. What more do you want from me?”

I looked at him.

“You’re only taking me this year because she went to Paris for further study and doesn’t have time, aren’t you?”

Ethan said nothing.

His silence was the answer.

Only because his lens had no one else to focus on did I finally get my turn.

His phone rang.

It was his mother.

Ethan answered.

“Ethan, have you picked out the furniture for your wedding home yet?”

“Not yet. We’re going tomorrow.”

“No need. Linda already picked out the sofa and coffee table for your living room a few days ago. Italian minimalist style. Very tasteful.”

My hand froze around my cup.

“Ma’am,” I said, “that is our wedding home.”

The other end of the line went quiet for a second.

“Stella, you’re there too? Linda does have better taste than you. Those fabric pieces you usually buy just don’t look refined enough.”

I looked at Ethan.

He had his head lowered, replying to a message. He had no intention of saying a single word for me.

I hung up the call.

Ethan frowned.

“Do you have to talk to my mother like that?”

“Linda has good taste. What’s wrong with letting her help?”

“Fine. Let her choose.”

I turned and went into the bedroom.

Ethan followed me in and glanced at my back.

“We’re choosing wedding rings tomorrow. Pick a time.”

“I’m busy.”

“Stella, enough already.

“We’re getting married and settling down. Why do you have to keep making trouble?”

His phone screen lit up.

A new message came in.

Linda: “It’s snowing in Paris today. It’s so cold.”

Ethan picked up his phone and sent her a voice message.

“Dress warmer. Where’s the polar jacket I sent you?”

His tone was gentle, with a hint of soft reproach.

Last winter, I said I wanted a long down jacket.

He told me, “You take the subway every day. Why do you need something that thick? Just get something normal.”

I turned around and looked at him.

“Ethan, why exactly do you want to marry me?”

He didn’t even look up.

“Because you’re quiet and steady. You’re suitable for marriage.”