I Quit Chasing His Flight Path

I went to the property management office in the afternoon and deleted my fingerprint from the access control system of this building.

The property manager was a warmhearted older lady. She seemed very confused by my actions.

"Mrs. Smith, why'd you delete your fingerprint for no reason? It'll be so inconvenient to get in and out," she said.

"I won't need it anymore," I replied with a smile.

After I got back home, I pulled out two big cardboard boxes from the storage room and started packing my things.

The house was a large, 2,000-square-foot apartment with a river view. Brandon had bought it in full, saying it was to thank me for staying with him through the toughest times.

I thought this was our home. It was only now that I realized how few things I truly had.

In the walk-in closet, the clothes I owned only filled two cabinets. The rest was all Brandon's uniforms, suits, trench coats, and sports gear.

I folded the clothes I usually wore and put them into my suitcase. As for the expensive evening gowns he bought me—the ones that never matched my taste—I left them hanging there, untouched.

On the nightstand sat a model plane from the airline. It was a souvenir he brought back from his first international route.

I picked it up, revealing a photo underneath—a photo of us together from four years ago. Back then, he had just been promoted to captain and looked so full of life.

I gently pulled the photo out and threw it into the trash can beside me, then put the model back where it was.

…

In the evening, my phone vibrated with a message from Brandon.

"I landed. Just got to the hotel."

Usually, I would have replied right away, asking if he was tired and if the hotel bed was comfortable. But I only replied with one word today.

"Okay."

Half an hour later, he sent another message.

"It's really cold here in Frankwell. Do you want me to buy you any duty-free goods?"

When he texted, I was putting the bottles and jars from the bathroom counter into my makeup bag.

"No need," I answered.

"Don't you usually go on and on about wanting that serum from that brand?"

I looked at myself in the mirror, then replied, "No need. I don't want it anymore."

He didn't reply after that. Perhaps he thought I was being unreasonable. Or maybe he was busy looking after someone else.

I clicked on Wilma's profile. The latest post was from ten minutes ago.

It showed a photo of the night view along the river. On the table beside her sat a cup of hot mulled wine, with a man's hand resting on its rim. There was a very faint scar on the middle finger of that hand.

It was from when Brandon cut himself while chopping fruit. I had even tenderly helped him change his bandages for a whole week.

Wilma's caption read, "The wind in Frankwell is cold, but hot mulled wine is warm. A flight route with someone taking care of you is always the best journey."

A few of their coworkers had liked the post.

Someone commented, "Mr. Smith is giving you a treat, right? You're so lucky, Wilma!"

Wilma replied with a blushing emoji.

I calmly swiped out of the app. That sharp, stabbing pain in my heart had already gone numb.

For eight years, I had been like a blind woman, living off the empty promises he made me.

Brandon wasn't unthoughtful, and he wasn't incapable of being loving. He just poured all his thoughtfulness and love onto someone else.

…

Brandon's flight landed back in the country.

At seven in the evening, he pushed the door open. There was an elegant-looking gift box in his hand.

I sat on the couch and watched him hang his coat on the hanger.

"Why didn't you cook?" he asked, glancing at the empty dining table.

"I already ate."

His frown deepened. "I flew for over ten hours, yet I come home and can't even get a hot meal?"

"You can order takeout."

He set the gift box down heavily on the coffee table. "Melissa, why have you been throwing a fit over the last couple of days?"

"I wasn't throwing a fit."

"If you weren't, then why didn't you send me a single message? I asked what you wanted to buy, and you said nothing."

I looked at the gift box and asked, "Did you buy that for me?"

Brandon paused for a second, then darted his gaze away. "This is… Someone asked me to bring it for them. I'll go to the mall and make it up to you tomorrow."

Someone, huh?

I looked into his eyes. "Did Wilma ask you to bring it for her?"

His expression darkened, and he asked accusingly, "You went through my phone?"

"Her post is public."

Brandon let out a sigh of relief before his tone turned self-righteous again. "She did me a favor. What's wrong with helping to bring her a gift? Must you be so petty?"

"I didn't say anything."

"That cold look on your face is saying plenty!" He yanked off his tie in frustration. "She's my coworker. We see each other at work all the time. Is there anything wrong with me looking out for her a little?"

"You're looking after her very attentively," I said as I stood up, not wanting to argue anymore.

"Melissa Howard!" he shouted after me. "I've had a long day. Can you be understanding for once? I don't want to have to come home and deal with your foul mood."

Understanding? I had been understanding for eight years.

And so, I held back my tears and walked into the guest bedroom without looking back.

"I'll sleep in here tonight. You get some good rest."