I dragged myself home through the rain after a full day of work, body aching down to the bone.

My fever had hit 102 and I didn't have the strength to cook.

Cliff Harding, who'd said he had a business dinner, came rushing back to the apartment.

He dug through the cabinets for our fever medicine, never once looking up at me：“Alexandra Cannon got caught in the rain today and she's coming down with something. Make her some congee, something easy on the stomach. I'll bring it over with the meds later.

Right then, a question blew up online and landed on my screen.

*What was the moment you realized they didn't love you?*

I looked at him once, then left a comment.

“Right now. But funny enough, I don't love him anymore either.”

——

The second I posted it,

replies poured in.

All of them asking *why*.

Cliff hadn't noticed me lying on the couch, my face flushed an alarming shade of red.

He went into the bedroom and grabbed a change of clothes.

Kept talking like I wasn't even there：“She can't take care of herself. I'm not coming home tonight.”

“Once you're done with the congee, lock up and get some rest.”

My fever-soaked brain felt like an old computer grinding to a halt—everything lagging, nothing connecting.

It took me a long moment to process what he'd just said.

“I'm not feeling well. If you want something, make it yourself.”

Every breath I took came out scalding. My whole body was burning up.

But I still forced my eyes open, trying to sit up so I could take some medicine, wash up, and sleep.

Cliff heard what I said and turned to look at me with an expression I couldn't read.

“Alexandra's not feeling well. You're not feeling well.”

“Tracey Henson, you'll really say anything to get my attention, won't you.”

That morning I'd had an important meeting to get to.

No time to clean up the kitchen, so I'd instinctively asked him to handle it.

He'd been sitting at the table. Glanced at me. Said, cool as anything：“You know I don't like going in the kitchen. What, we've got nothing left to talk about so you're saying stuff like this to get my attention?”

I froze for two seconds, then left without arguing. There wasn't time.

I'd figured that no matter how annoyed he was, he'd at least take care of something that small.

But when I walked in just now,

every single dirty dish was still sitting in the sink, soaking.

The laundry hamper was overflowing. Untouched.

Even the trash bag I'd forgotten to take with me

was still sitting quietly in the corner by the door.

Normally I would've fought with him over it.

But right now,

I didn't have the energy to argue.

Didn't have the heart to care.

“Tracey, what are you standing there brooding for? You come home and can't even be bothered to clean up?”

“Go look around. Find me one other girlfriend as lazy as you. Asking you to cook one meal and you act like I'm asking for your life.”

Every irritated word out of his mouth drove into me like a knife, buried somewhere so deep I could barely breathe around it.

“Cliff, I told you, I'm not feeling……”

I didn't even finish.

His phone rang.

He didn't look at me again. Turned his back and picked up.

Alexandra's bright, breezy voice came through from the other end.

“Mr. Harding, I've picked out the car I want. The salesperson said if I'm serious, I can go pick it up tomorrow……cough cough cough”

“Got it. Stop talking. You're sick, don't worry about all that. Tell my assistant which one you like and I'll have him take care of it.”

He didn't even glance at what was in the medicine box. Just picked the whole thing up and headed for the door.

“Cliff……”

My throat was raw and burning.

Every word felt like a blade dragging across it, and the pain brought tears I couldn't stop“Leave me some……medicine.”

He heard me. His steps paused for half a second.

“Tracey, quit making a scene. Alexandra's running a hundred and two right now. If she doesn't take something soon and it gets worse, that's on you.”

He didn't even turn around. Just opened the door and left.

He never once noticed the comment I'd just posted online.

It read：“Because when I walked home in the rain with a 102-degree fever, he gave all his care and all the medicine to another woman.”

“And just like that, whether he loves me or not stopped mattering so much.”

The storm was still raging outside, wind tearing through the streets.

Every shop in the neighborhood had shuttered early.

I couldn't buy fever medicine anywhere.

All I could do was wash up and crawl into bed.

I wanted to sleep but felt too awful to drift off, so I picked up my phone and read the comments instead.

After I'd posted my message, someone had already left a reply.

“Girl, why were you walking home in the rain? Why didn't you ask your boyfriend to pick you up? Or at least call a cab?”

The storm had hit out of nowhere.

I'd called Cliff several times. He didn't pick up once.

Right before I got off work, he finally texted me：“Something came up today. Can't come get you. Figure it out yourself.”

And because of the storm, there wasn't a single ride available.

I had no choice. I did what my coworkers did and grabbed a bike-share to ride home.

Before I could even reply, someone else had already responded to her.

“Honestly, counting on someone else will never beat counting on yourself. Girl, if you can manage it, get your own car. Once you've got wheels, you've got the confidence to go wherever you want without waiting on anybody.”

Then she posted a screenshot from a content creator's page.

“This is a lifestyle creator I follow. She got caught in the rain on her way home from work today and got sick, so her boyfriend went out and bought her a car — just so she'd never have to sit there on a rainy day envying the people dry in theirs.”

When I saw the screenshot she'd shared, my ice-cold fingertips trembled.

The content creator she was talking about was Alexandra Cannon. Cliff's secretary.

I didn't even know what compelled me, but I went to social media and found her account.

Alexandra posted something new every single day. From the day she started the job last year, all the way to now.

And in every video, there was a figure I knew all too well.

At first, Cliff only appeared as a pair of hands, his face off-screen. But those defined knuckles and that low, magnetic voice were enough to pull in a massive following for her.

The comments were full of people gushing over them as a shipped couple.

One comment read, “Mr. Harding spoils our Secretary Cannon so much! Asking for a friend — when are you two making it official?”

Alexandra had liked and replied.

Just two words：“Guess.”

She never clarified her relationship with Cliff.

Just let people speculate, let them ship it.

I scrolled through every single one of her videos, one by one.

My eyes stopped on the latest one, posted today.

Cliff, sitting on an unfamiliar couch, head bent low as he blew on a steaming bowl of congee to cool it for her.

She grinned into the camera：“Mr. Harding, quick interview?”

“Why do you think every woman should have her own car?”

In the video, his eyes were soft, almost tender, his gaze on her full of indulgence and sincerity.

He said：“Because a car is a woman's independence. Once you have one, you go wherever you want, whenever you want. You're never held back by anyone or anything again. And you never have to envy anyone who has one.”

Last year, during a heavy rainstorm, Cliff had come to pick me up from work.

I'd asked him, “What do you think about me getting a car? That way you wouldn't have to go out of your way to drive me anymore.”

He'd shaken his head, disapproving.

“If you got your own car, what would you even need a boyfriend for?”

“Stop overthinking it. Picking you up and dropping you off has never been a hassle to me. I'd happily go out of my way for you for the rest of my life.”

That was what he used to say. Last month, I was running late and asked him to drop me at the office.

He frowned and said：“You're a grown woman, not a grade schooler. Don't you think it's embarrassing, needing a ride every single day?”

I tapped back to the comment someone had left me earlier.

Replied：“You're right. It really is time I started relying on myself.”

Maybe the moment I hit send, I finally let go of whatever I still felt for Cliff Harding.

I put the phone down and slept like I was falling into nothing.

When I drifted back to consciousness, the first thing I heard was Trudy Swanson's voice, sharp with fury.

“Tracey, are you an idiot? You had a fever and you didn't take anything, and you didn't even tell me?”

“If I hadn't thought to call you when I did, you would've fried your lungs for good.”

Her anger was laced with the kind of fear that comes after the danger has already passed.

“I'm sorry……”

I'd scared her. I wanted to apologize, but the moment I opened my mouth my voice came out so wrecked and sandpaper-rough I couldn't even finish the word.

“Enough. Your throat's still inflamed. Stop talking.”

Trudy glared at me, exasperated.

Then muttered, “What is Cliff, dead? I called him a bunch of times and he didn't pick up once.”

“He used to lose his mind when you got sick. Now he can't even be reached by phone.”

Junior year, winter.

I'd spiked a sudden high fever. By the time Trudy noticed, it was already three in the morning, and she couldn't get me to the hospital alone. So she called Cliff.

It was the coldest night of the year. He had me on his back, unconscious, running through empty streets with no one else around, his voice shaking the whole way：“Tracey, you're gonna be fine. I'm almost there. I'm almost there.”

“Trace, hang on. We're so close.”

By the time he reached the hospital, sweat was soaking his hair and tears were running down his face.

His eyes wild with panic.

When I woke up, even the doctor couldn't help saying：“Young lady, you've got good taste. A boyfriend who loves you that much? Hold on to him.”

I looked where she was looking.

Cliff was slumped in a chair outside the room, clothes rumpled, eyes closed, asleep.

She said：“He was afraid his snoring would wake you. No matter how much I told him to come inside, he refused. Just fell asleep out there like that.”

Back then, his love was the kind nobody could question.

And I'd thought, stupidly, that I would never marry anyone but Cliff Harding.

It never occurred to me that his love would burn out like fireworks—five years, and it was gone.

I spent two days in the hospital.

Cliff didn't call once.

I didn't let myself care.

The day I was discharged,

I asked Trudy：“Are you free? Come look at cars with me.”

Trudy stared at me, stunned.

“Cliff drives you to and from work every day. Why would you buy a car?”

I pressed my lips together.

And told her everything that had happened recently.

Including the part about him giving my medicine to someone else.

Trudy was livid before I even finished.

“How did I never see what a scumbag he is? Stringing two women along, and while you're lying there sick he takes your meds and gives them to her? He can drop dead! Break up with him. Break up with him right now!”

Breaking up was a given.

I'd just been too sick to deal with it.

I nodded.

Took out my phone and sent him the breakup text.

“Now can you come look at cars with me?”

I wasn't just buying a car. I needed a new place to live.

We were done. I couldn't keep staying at his apartment.