Where Love Is More Desolate Than Life

I had stumbled upon this social media account purely by accident.

At the time, I was just scrolling on my phone when the app recommended the account to me. The profile picture was of a cartoon character that I really liked. Curiosity got the better of me, and I tapped on it.

The account had just over three thousand followers, and the last post had been from three days ago.

It was a photo of a desk late at night, with a caption that read, "Hard to work late till midnight. She said she'd starve with me, but she ended up ordering takeout for both of us. What a silly woman."

I instinctively started scrolling down.

"She said that I've been eating too little lately and insisted on giving me some of her beef. I said I don't like beef, and she laughed, calling me a picky child who never grew up.

"We went up the hill to see the stars together. She told me she sorely wished time could freeze at that moment. To be honest, I felt the same.

"I caught a cold, so she skipped out of work to take care of me. She doesn't even know how to cook, yet she stayed up all night just to make chicken soup for me. It got a little burnt, but it was the best chicken soup I ever had."

As I read post after post, I started feeling rather moved.

These simple yet touching details of an ordinary life painted the picture of the ideal relationship I'd once dreamed of having.

I wanted to wish them the best, but I soon learned the comments section had been turned off. The only thing I could do was follow the account.

Well, I now realized that, in the record of this loving couple's memories, I was the unwitting third party.

According to the posts, they'd been together for ten years. Izzy and I had also been in a relationship for ten years.

Conrad and I had known each other for two decades. He moved into the house next to mine when I was ten.

The first time we met, he was a young boy with a crew cut, handing me a lollipop. "Hi. My name is Conrad Newman. Let's be friends from now on!"

From elementary school through college, we were inseparable. He knew all of my secrets and accompanied me through all the most important phases of my life.

During our sophomore year at college, I got to know Izzy. She was the most beautiful student in the literature department.

There was a mile-long queue of guys who wanted to go out with her. I was just an insignificant, forgettable guy in the crowd. I never thought she'd notice me.

"What's there to be scared of? You're the genius of the architecture department!" Conrad encouraged me. "Shall I get her number for you?"

Later, Izzy and I got together. The first thing I did was tell Conrad about it, and he grabbed me in excitement, looking even more thrilled than I was. "This is incredible! You're finally a taken man, Jamie!"

I was certain that he'd been genuinely happy for me at the time.

That didn't quite apply to Conrad at first.

Although he had been happy when he learned I was dating, after meeting Izzy, everything about her seemed to annoy him.

The first time they met, I took the time to dress up before meeting Izzy for lunch at the campus cafeteria.

Conrad had just finished a major group project the day before. Dressed in his pajamas and slippers, he had dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights and greasy hair from going a few days without a shower. He pushed Izzy out of the way and plopped down next to me.

Startled, Izzy had no choice but to take the seat across from us.

Conrad gave her a once-over before scrunching his face up scornfully. "Is that all? I think I celebrated too early, Jamie. Why don't you reconsider?"

He'd been very blunt about it, and Izzy's expression turned pretty dark as well.

Later on, when I asked her what she thought of him, she said somewhat contemptuously, "He's… fine, I guess."

At the time, I chuckled and pecked her on the cheek before saying, "He's my best friend, and you're my beloved girlfriend. You two will have to get along."

When we started working, Izzy and I rented an apartment together. Conrad would often come over for meals. Sometimes, when it got too late, he would crash on our living room couch.

"You know, it kind of feels like I'm your son," he had once joked.

Izzy would play along and look at him with a strict yet motherly expression. "In that case, my dear son, don't even think about freeloading off us. Go do the dishes."

The apartment was always filled with our laughter. It never once occurred to me that this blissful happiness was simply a mirage built on a lie.