After His Engagement, I Deleted Ten Years of Secret Love

The rain left me with a lingering chill, and I spent the next day in bed with a slight fever. I didn't care where Ethan was or if he even noticed my absence at the breakfast table.

My phone buzzed with a new email. It was my flight itinerary from my father.

Departure: June 20th. 9:00 PM.

June 20th. Ethan's birthday.

A bitter smile touched my lips. Leaving on his birthday would be my final, silent gift to him. The gift of my complete and utter absence.

I spent the next few days methodically clearing out my room. I packed my art supplies and a few changes of clothes into a new suitcase. Everything else—books, trinkets, furniture I'd grown up with—I arranged to have donated.

On the evening of the 19th, Ethan came home alone. He found me in the living room, surrounded by boxes.

"What's all this?" he asked, a slight frown on his face. He seemed to look at me differently now, as if seeing a stranger.

"I'm cleaning out some old things," I said, not looking up from the box I was taping shut.

"Amelia and I have moved into our new apartment downtown," he said, his voice flat. "The house will be empty most of the time."

It was his way of telling me I'd be alone. It was meant to be a punishment, or perhaps a test. It felt like freedom.

I finally looked at him. "Can I come to your birthday party tomorrow?"

He seemed taken aback by the question. A cold mask settled over his features. "It's just a small gathering with friends, Ava. You wouldn't enjoy it."

He rejected me without a second thought. Then he turned and went to his study, closing the door behind him.

My body trembled, and a burning sensation pricked my eyes. I walked over to the charity donation bin at the end of the driveway. Peering inside, I saw it—the sketchbook I'd thrown away with my other belongings. It was filled with hundreds of portraits of him.

I pulled it out, the rain-soaked pages soft and warped.

With deliberate strokes, I began to sketch on the last empty page. This time, it wasn't just him. It was a portrait of him and Amelia, smiling, the perfect couple. I poured every last ounce of my unrequited love, my decade of devotion, into the lines and shadows. I would scrape this love from my soul, even if it left me raw and bleeding.

Late that night, I heard his car pull up. He came in, stumbling slightly. He was drunk.

I moved to help him, a reflex born of years of habit. "Ethan, you're drunk."

He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulled me close, his face buried in my hair. His breath was hot against my skin, reeking of alcohol.

"Amelia..." he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

Then, his lips crashed down on mine.