After we got back together, I made a conscious effort to fix every bad habit that Orion had ever hated about me.
I stopped the constant check-ins, the obsessive questioning, and the unnecessary jealousy. I swallowed my pride and let arguments slide that would have blown up into epic battles before. I even found a lipstick in his passenger seat that wasn't mine.
In the past, I would have erupted, demanded explanations, and let my suspicion ruin the whole day.
But this time, I didn't say a word. I just tucked it away in the glove compartment like it was nothing, as though my patience had reached a level Orion had never seen before.
But his reaction was immediate. His face darkened, and he slammed on the brakes so suddenly I almost jerked forward. "Why?" His voice cracked, a mixture of frustration and confusion.
I blinked, taken aback. "Why… what?"
"Why are you acting like this?" He leaned forward slightly, gripping the steering wheel as though it was about to betray him. "Like you don't even care anymore?"
He stared at me, eyes sharp and piercing, like he was trying to dig out the very truth of my heart.
'Because this is what it looks like when you've already let go…' I thought bitterly, but kept my expression neutral.
Orion's usual commanding presence—sharp jaw, strong cheekbones, the kind of man who always seemed in control—was slightly undone now.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh that carried a hint of weariness I had never witnessed before. "That lipstick belongs to Rhea," he admitted, voice quieter now. "Last night's client dinner ran late. She had too many drinks and couldn't drive, so I gave her a ride home."
He hesitated, then, as though the weight of explaining himself was heavy on his pride, added: "I've told you a million times, I only look after her because our dads go way back. I have to. There's nothing between us—past, present, future—nothing."
I stayed quiet, watching him unravel just slightly.
For the first time, the composed, unshakable man I knew showed a crack. Helplessness flashed across his face, so brief yet so raw it almost hurt to see.
"What do I have to do to make you believe me?" he asked, almost pleading.
I met his eyes steadily. "I do believe you. I'm not mad."
It felt almost like throwing a gentle punch at him. Orion's face went blank for a moment. "Then why haven't you said a word this whole drive?" he asked, voice slightly louder.
I glanced at my watch, calculating the time I had to reach the airport, and decided to deflect. "Didn't you say you hate listening to pointless chatter? I'm running late for work. Why don't you just drop me off here?" I tried to sound casual, too focused on the road to notice the storm brewing behind his eyes.
"You always get off at the next light. This is still two miles from our office," he said, suspicion evident in his tone.
I hadn't considered that. I sighed inwardly, caught in his scrutinizing gaze.
"It's early morning. If you're not going to the office, where are you going?" Just as Orion's gaze sharpened further, his phone rang.
Ding!
That familiar notification. It's from Rhea.
Orion's sharp gaze flickered away from me, suddenly evasive, almost guilty. "It's work. I need to take this," he said quickly, unlocking the car doors as though to distance himself. "Just get out here."
I nodded, unbuckling my seatbelt in silence, my hand lingering for a moment on the door handle.
He stopped me with a gentle, coaxing voice that softened the tension. "Hey! Don't be so jumpy. Watch your step." His tone shifted, almost tender. "That restaurant you've been wanting to try? I made a reservation. I promised I'd never miss another anniversary. Happy anniversary, Aurora. See you tonight."
My hand froze on the handle. Memories of the last anniversary we had celebrated together resurfaced—memories of him ditching me for Rhea, the sting of betrayal still sharp. But now, oddly, I felt nothing. The hurt had dulled into indifference.
"Better answer that," I said quietly, voice steady but quiet, almost invisible. "Don't keep your client waiting."
After all, Rhea couldn't wait. And neither could my flight.
As for our anniversaries? This year, next year, every year—I was done counting them. Done letting them matter. Some things, I decided, were better left behind in the past.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~
I barely made my flight.
After settling into my seat, the dizziness hit me like a wave—skipping breakfast had its consequences. I rubbed my temples and let out a shaky breath, trying to calm the nausea. Out of habit, I reached into my pocket and found three chocolates wrapped in gold foil.
Ever since that incident years ago, when I'd passed out from low blood sugar, Orion had made it a point to slip a few chocolates into my pocket every day. No lectures, no fuss—just a quiet, steady way of keeping me alive. I unwrapped one and let the sweetness melt on my tongue. The dizziness subsided almost immediately, replaced by that familiar warmth that had nothing to do with the sugar.
But then came the aftertaste, bitter and lingering.
Just like our love.
Seven years together. Seven years of memories, compromises, laughter, and heartbreak. How had we ended up here?
At first, I truly believed Orion. I believed Rhea was just what he said she was—a favor hire he couldn't refuse because of her dad's connection to his family. That's why he had to maintain a strict professional distance with me at work while giving her special treatment.
It started small. When the department head gave me hell, nothing happened. But the second he was even slightly cold to Rhea, that person got fired without hesitation.
People whispered behind her back, calling her "the boss' wife." I couldn't complain even though I was the real girlfriend since it was a secret. I still smiled. I smiled through gritted teeth, forcing my face into the mask of normalcy while my chest cracked from the inside.
I forced myself to understand his position. I tried to rationalize. But the "special treatment" began seeping into our personal life, time and time again. Orion would drop everything—drop me—whenever she called. Every. Single. Time.
The big blowup came one night, like a bomb detonating inside my chest. I saw a photo in the work group chat. Orion, who'd told me he was working late, was at a midnight movie showing with Rhea. The exact movie I had begged him to see with me—the one he had refused so flatly.
"Everyone's going with their special someone to see Together With You! Let's go too!" I had pleaded before, tugging on his sleeve.
"Watching brain-dead rom-coms is a waste of life," he had said without looking up.
And yet there he was in that photo, smiling, charming, relaxed. Not a hint of impatience or boredom. My chest tightened as messages scrolled by, blurring together.
When he got home, I asked flatly, "Was the movie good?"
Something flickered in his eyes—maybe surprise, maybe fear. Or maybe I imagined it.
He stayed expressionless. "Are you stalking me now?"
My heart felt like it was wrapped in a wet, heavy towel. I could barely breathe. "Do I need to stalk you? Your cozy little date pics are already all over the company group chat."
My chest felt like it was wrapped in a wet, heavy towel. Breathing was a struggle. "Do I need to stalk you? Your cozy little date pics are already all over the company group chat."
My heart heaved. "Orion, if you want to break up, just say it. You don't have to lie to me like this!"
He didn't flinch. Calm. Detached. A stranger. "If you can't trust me on the most basic level, then I've got nothing to say. I've been working all day. I don't have the energy to fight with you."
No guilt. No explanation. Compared to my raw, spiraling emotions, he was composed—perfectly so. He carefully set down a paper bag on the table, the word Cinema printed in bold letters across it.
It was like a blade of ice stabbing through my chest. Every ounce of hurt, every suppressed frustration, came crashing down at once. The last thread holding my sanity snapped.
I lost it. I grabbed the bag and hurled it to the ground. It wasn't sealed. Everything inside spilled across the floor with soft, sickening thuds. I didn't look. I just stared at him, eyes burning. We locked gazes, a silent standoff.
After a long, tense moment, he turned and slammed the door behind him.
I stood there, frozen, until something rolled to my feet.
I looked down.
Stunned.
Chocolates. Handmade chocolates, scattered all over the floor, gleaming softly under the harsh fluorescent lights.
I softened.
After seeing those chocolates scattered across the floor, something inside me gave way. I told myself maybe I'd overreacted, maybe we just needed to talk—really talk—without shouting, without pride getting in the way. Seven years couldn't possibly end like that.
But for three whole days, Orion didn't answer his phone. He didn't come home. His side of the bed stayed cold, untouched, like he'd erased himself from our life overnight.
Swallowing my pride, I sent him a message.
[I was wrong to blow up without talking first.]
[But it's also a fact that you said you were working late—then went to see a movie with her.]
[Tonight's our six-year anniversary. I'll be waiting at home.]
[Let's sit down and talk this out, okay?]
I watched the screen until my eyes ached, waiting for the "read" notification.
Nothing.
I waited from daylight until dark. I cooked dinner even though I had no appetite, set the table for two like a fool clinging to hope. The food went cold. The sky outside the window deepened into night. He never came.
As the clock crept toward eleven, something inside me finally snapped. I grabbed my coat and decided to go find him at the office. If he wouldn't come home, I'd drag the truth out of him myself.
On the way, I ran into the department head—the same man who'd been fired because of Rhea. Before I could even greet him, his face twisted with resentment, and he suddenly yanked me into a dark corner.
"Screw it," he snarled. "I can't touch the boss' girl, but I can sure as hell touch you."
Panic exploded in my chest.
I struggled, screamed, dialed Orion's private line over and over with trembling fingers. Call after call went unanswered. My cries for help tore out of my throat, raw and desperate.
If a passerby hadn't appeared and scared him off, I don't know what would've happened. I was left shaking on the ground, my face bruised and swollen, my dignity in pieces.
When my phone suddenly rang, I let out a short, broken shriek, like a startled animal. Relief crashed over me so hard my knees nearly gave out.
"Orion—"
But another voice cut in, soft and sweet. Too sweet.
"Hello?" Rhea's coy tone flowed through the speaker. "Orion's still in the shower. I saw you called a couple of times. Who is this? Can I help you with something?"
My throat felt like someone had shoved burning coals down it. The pain was sharp, suffocating, unbearable. It felt like my voice had fused shut, like I'd forgotten how to breathe. Hanging up—something so simple—took every ounce of strength I had left.
I limped to the police station alone. Humiliated. Broken. I filed a report with shaking hands, answering questions through tears that wouldn't stop falling. By the time it was over, the clock on the wall read 01:28 AM.
Only then did Orion finally call me back.
His voice was cool, impatient, faintly amused. "So? Figured out you were wrong yet?"
I understood instantly.
He'd done it on purpose. Every unanswered call. Every hour of silence on our anniversary. This was his punishment—for daring to doubt him.
Tears streamed down my swollen face, burning like acid poured onto an open wound. When I finally spoke, my voice was hoarse and hollow, like a broken bellows barely forcing out air.
"Orion," I said, "let's break up."
There was a brief pause. Just one second.
Then he laughed. Cold. Dismissive. "Fine. Don't come crying back."
The line went dead.
At first, I just couldn't sleep.
No matter how exhausted my body was, my mind refused to shut down. I tossed and turned until the sheets were twisted around my legs, replaying every conversation, every smile, every argument we'd ever had. I dissected every moment, terrified that I'd misjudged him—that I'd been paranoid, emotional, unfair.
'What if I was wrong?'
'What if I had condemned him without proof?'
The doubt gnawed at me until I couldn't take it anymore. I went back through our old text threads, scrolling endlessly through years of messages. Inside jokes. Late-night confessions. His "good morning" texts. The way he used to remind me to eat.
But the more I read, the sadder I became.
And then the sadness curdled into anger.
The patterns were there. Clear as day. The canceled plans. The one-sided apologies. The way I always bent first, yielded first, forgave first.
Somewhere between 2 and 4 a.m., I realized something terrifying.
I didn't miss Orion anymore.
I hated him.
Six years. Six whole years.
And he had discarded me like garbage—so easily, so casually—like our history meant nothing more than an inconvenience.
At exactly 4:07 a.m., hands shaking, chest aching, I deleted him. His number. His email. Every shared account. Every digital trace of him vanished with a single tap, each one feeling like ripping off a strip of skin.
Then I got up.
I gathered everything of his—shirts that still smelled like his cologne, his spare charger, the mug he liked, the jacket he always forgot to take home. I stuffed it all into black trash bags until my arms burned.
I dragged them downstairs and hurled them into the dumpster.
I thought it would feel freeing.
Like closure.
Instead, it felt like finally killing a mosquito that had tormented me all night—only to realize the blood splattered everywhere was my own.
And still, the world didn't stop.
I went to work on time. I answered emails. I nodded through meetings. I smiled when spoken to. I laughed at the right moments.
No one knew that a massive chunk of my heart had been carved out.
That space used to hold Orion.
Then it rotted.
To survive, I had to cut the rot away.
But I forgot something vital—when the wound is too big, sometimes you don't survive that either.
The dam burst the moment I saw him at the company meeting.
Orion stood at the front of the room, composed as ever.
If anything, he looked better—more confident, more self-assured. Like losing me had been nothing more than shedding an unnecessary weight.
Rhea sat not far from him, exchanging what she probably thought were subtle glances. Her cheeks flushed pink. Her posture soft, intimate.
I couldn't breathe.
That night, I stopped sleeping altogether. I couldn't keep food down. My stomach rejected everything, as if my body knew I didn't deserve nourishment.
Orion doesn't use social media.
So I spiraled—obsessively stalking Rhea's accounts instead. I analyzed every photo, every caption, every timestamp. I read between the lines until there were no lines left—only delusion and desperation.
I lived off coffee and bitterness.
Until one afternoon, the world tilted sideways. My vision tunneled. The floor rushed up to meet me.
Low blood sugar.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed, an IV in my arm, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
And then I saw him.
Orion stood at the foot of the bed.
It was the twenty-ninth day since we broke up.
He looked down at me with that familiar, unreadable expression, casually twisting the couple's ring on his finger—the one we used to match.
The sight of it made my chest constrict painfully.
"Aurora," he said lightly. "You've lost weight."
I stared at him, hollowed out, my voice flat and automatic. "I'm sorry."
The word slipped out without thought, without resistance—like a reflex ingrained too deep to erase.
Orion smiled.
Satisfied.
And just like that, like muscle memory overriding reason, like an addict crawling back to the very thing that destroyed me—
We got back together.