A Cold New Year

On New Year’s Eve, Kian Newman never came home. Instead, he had someone deliver a container of frozen ravioli and sent me a single message: "Stay safe this year."

I had barely locked the screen when a photo popped up in the company group chat.

Isabel Wilkinson, Kian's assistant, had posted it. It was a lavish holiday dinner spread across the table, every dish clearly homemade.

The caption read: "Someone spent all day cooking so I could have a taste of home. Love you."

For the first time, I didn’t call or argue. I simply packed my things and went back to my hometown.

The first day I vanished, a friend sent me a video. In it, Kian had his arm around Isabel, smiling casually as he said, "Lane's just upset. She’ll come back on her own."

A month later, Kian was searching for me like he’d lost his mind.

"I learned how to make ravioli, I’ll make it for you for the rest of our lives. Just come home and try it, okay?"

He was still oblivious that I had always hated ravioli.

On New Year’s Eve, Kian Newman never came home. Instead, he had someone deliver a container of frozen ravioli and sent me a single message: "Stay safe this year."

I had barely locked the screen when a photo popped up in the company group chat.

Isabel Wilkinson, Kian's assistant, had posted it. It was a lavish holiday dinner spread across the table, every dish clearly homemade.

The caption read: "Someone spent all day cooking so I could have a taste of home. Love you."

I stared at the screen. In the corner of the photo, part of a hand was visible.

It was Kian’s hand. The watch on his wrist was the one I’d saved up for months to buy him last year.

The table was overflowing with food. Braised short ribs, garlic butter shrimp, and a steaming pot of Tuscan white bean soup. Even through the screen, I could almost feel the warmth oozing from the dishes.

Then I looked down at my own table. The frozen ravioli sat there in its plastic container, frost still clinging to the edges from the grocery store freezer.

I boiled water and dumped them in. The ravioli rolled around in the boiling water for a while before splitting open completely. Ricotta leaked into the pot, turning everything into a starchy mess.

I scooped one into my mouth.

The pasta was still undercooked, and the ricotta inside was cold.

My stomach churned instantly. I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. In the end, all that came out was bitter acid.

My phone vibrated again, indicating that Isabel had updated her social media.

It was a short video, fireworks exploding brilliantly overhead. Kian stood beside her with his hands clasped together, eyes closed as he made a wish.

The room around them was packed with people. I recognized them immediately. It was Isabel’s entire extended family.

Someone shouted teasingly, "Kian’s such a catch. You two are seriously perfect together!"

"Exactly! So when’s the wedding?"

Kian turned toward Isabel, smiling so softly it made my chest ache. Then he reached over and gently tucked her windblown hair behind her ear.

The video ended there.

I gripped my phone tightly. So this was what he meant by "working overtime".

When I walked back to the dining table, all the ingredients I’d spent the entire day preparing were still sitting in the kitchen.

The vegetables had already been washed, and the meat prepared. I’d planned to wait for him so we could cook together and spend the holiday at home.

Now the whole thing felt pathetic.

I picked up my phone and took a photo of the ruined pot of ravioli, then another of the untouched ingredients covering the counter.

I posted both online with the caption: "Seven years together feels just like this rotten meal. Beautiful on the surface, spoiled underneath long ago."

After posting it, I dumped the entire pot into the trash—the torn ravioli, the cloudy water, all of it. Even the ingredients I’d prepared went straight into the garbage after that.

If something had already gone bad, there was no point keeping it.

Less than five minutes later, Kian called.

The moment I answered, he started yelling, "Lane Miller, what the hell was that post supposed to mean? It’s New Year’s Eve. Do you seriously have to ruin the mood?

"I’m out here working myself to death for our future, and you’re sitting at home posting passive-aggressive crap online?"

Working himself to death?

Did he mean cooking for Isabel? Or watching fireworks with her?

I said nothing.

Kian must’ve mistaken my silence for guilt because his tone sharpened even further.

"Were you spying on me again? Lane, can you give me some space for once? You’re suffocating me. Take the post down already. Don’t embarrass us in front of our colleagues."

I finally found a gap between his accusations and quietly declared, "I’m going home tomorrow."

He paused briefly before replying coldly, "I’m busy right now. I don’t have time for this."

Then he hung up. The dead tone buzzed in my ear.

I flung the phone onto the sofa.

That crushing weight I had carried in my heart for so long finally gave way. This was the reality of the man I had given seven years of my life to.

I walked into the bedroom and pulled out my large suitcase. I shoved everything inside piece by piece: clothes, shoes, and skincare.

I was packing everything when I suddenly went still. A memory from two weeks ago surged to the front of my mind.

I had just finished work and arrived home when the stench of cigarette smoke hit me in the hallway. I noticed the fire escape door was slightly ajar, and for some inexplicable reason, I decided to peer inside.

Kian had Isabel pinned against the wall, kissing her like he couldn’t get enough.

Isabel's hands were shoved beneath his dress shirt, while Kian's hands gripped her waist tightly. They were both breathing hard, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing only a few feet away.

What had I done back then?

I’d fled and hidden inside the elevator like a coward.

I told myself I must have seen it wrong. I told myself Kian was only playing along for appearances.

Looking back now, I was so stupid. I should’ve slapped him across the face that day and walked away for good. Dragging this out had done nothing except disgust me even more.

I stuffed the last piece of clothing into the suitcase and snapped it shut, then I looked around the apartment.

Having lived here for five years, my presence was everywhere, from the paintings on the walls to the throw pillows on the couch and the plants on the balcony. Now, those very details felt like a cruel joke.

I wheeled my suitcase toward the living room and paused to look at the calendar.

New Year’s Day was tomorrow.

A fresh start and a brand-new year.

Without hesitation, I reached for my phone and reserved a seat on the first high-speed train heading to Cedar Hollow, my hometown.

Having made the choice to move on, I couldn’t bear to remain there even one more moment.