He Called My Sunrise Visual Garbage

"We're not just all grown up, Marco. I'm Mrs. Blackwood."

I smiled and placed our order, just like I used to. "The usual. Two cinnamon lattes, no foam." I knew Caleb's preferences by heart, right down to how he took his coffee.

However, just as Marco was about to nod, Caleb cut in, "No. I only drink black coffee now. Unsweetened."

He turned his gaze to me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes before they went cold again. "Willow, my tastes changed a long time ago."

My smile froze, but I quickly reassured myself. It's fine. I've lost ten years of memories. A person's taste can change a lot in a decade.

I brushed it off and passed him the last croissant. "All the more reason to try new things together."

But Caleb didn't take it. Instead, he passed the croissant to the woman who had been sitting quietly.

"Cam. This is for you."

Cam.

The nickname stopped me in my tracks. In that instant, I understood why she looked so familiar.

Camilla De Vere, Caleb's legendary childhood sweetheart, the one his social circle considered the "real deal."

So some tastes, even after ten years, never changed.

Was this why? After a decade, did I decide to divorce the man I'd loved for so long, just because I saw her again?

A wave of bitterness rose in my chest. My fingers grazed the zipper of my purse. Inside were the divorce papers and an encrypted blog.

A voice whispered that if I opened that blog, I would find the reason I wanted to leave Caleb. But I only tightened my grip on the strap, refusing to look.

I loved him.

The twenty-year-old me, the one in control now, still loved Caleb with everything she had.

At the coffee table, Caleb and Camilla chatted away as if I weren't there, talking about ski resorts in Aspen and art auctions in Europe.

A bitter jealousy coiled in my stomach. I deliberately set my water glass down with a sharp clink, a desperate bid for his attention, but Caleb didn't even glance my way.

Perhaps the thirty-year-old me would have politely said, "Excuse me," and left with her dignity intact.

But the twenty-year-old me? I didn't know how to pretend to be magnanimous.

I shoved my chair back with a grating screech and snapped, "I am so pissed off, Caleb! And don't you dare try to talk your way out of this!"

I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the cafe.

Loving him didn't mean I would let him walk all over me.

I sat on a bench in Washington Square Park, waiting for him to chase after me, to apologize. But three hours passed, and he never showed up.

Lost in a world I no longer recognized, I forced myself to rally.

It's fine. I was used to Caleb's coldness. Otherwise, I never would have been able to marry him in the first place.

I crossed my legs and sent him a text: "Honey, where's our place? You know I've forgotten the way."

His reply came almost instantly: a location pin, followed by a caustic remark. "If your memory is really that fried, then stop wandering off and causing trouble."

I ignored the second half of the message and sent him a string of kissy-face emojis, adding playfully, "Thank you, darling!"

When I finally walked into the penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, the emptiness of the place hit me like a physical blow.

The home was a vast space with minimalist decor, quiet and barren. There was only one pair of slippers and one toothbrush. Even the king-sized bed had only one pillow.

It didn't feel like a home for two. It felt like a bachelor pad.

So I went to the storage room, found my dust-covered painting supplies and easel, and set them up again.

Then I stood before the huge white wall in the living room and started mixing my colors.