Chapter 2

By the time the IV drip finished, the horizon was already tinged with the pale light of dawn.

And Julian never returned.

I rang the call bell myself, had the nurse remove the needle, declined the recommendation to remain under observation, and walked through the empty corridor alone.

The smell of disinfectant filled my nostrils, and I was suddenly reminded of many years ago, also in a hospital, also on such a cold morning.

Back then, I was accompanying my mother through chemotherapy.

After my mother fell asleep, I broke down in tears in the stairwell. Afraid to make a sound, I could only bury my face in my knees, my shoulders trembling uncontrollably.

Suddenly, a pair of clean, slender fingers offered me a pack of tissues.

I looked up to see Julian Sterling in a white lab coat.

His features were handsome and refined as he gently comforted me, "Don't cry. Your mother will get better."

That first time I met him, I memorized that voice and those beautiful eyes.

Later, when my mother passed away, I found a note under her pillow while sorting through her belongings.

Written on it was a phone number, accompanied by a line of small handwriting:

[Call this number if you ever need help. Julian Sterling.]

I never called that number, but I tucked the note away carefully in a compartment of my wallet.

The second time I saw him was at a gathering organized by friends.

Julian sat in the darkest corner of the booth, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone, his gold-rimmed glasses resting on the table.

He was drinking alone in brooding silence, the lively chatter around him seemingly detached from his world.

A friend nudged me toward him. "That's Dr. Sterling. He's single, just like you. You two should have a chat."

As I approached, Julian happened to look up.

The moment our eyes met, his gaze visibly wavered.

"Have we met before?" he asked.

I took out that yellowed note from my wallet.

Julian stared at it for a long time—so long that I thought he had forgotten our first encounter entirely—before I heard him say, "It was you... You actually kept this note?"

"Yes," I answered softly. "Thank you for back then."

That night, he drove me home. In the car, he suddenly spoke up. "Wendy, do you want to be with me?"

My heart pounded wildly, practically leaping out of my chest.

But I suppressed the impulse and asked, "Why... so suddenly?"

"I just think you're a wonderful person." He paused. "And besides, you like me, don't you?"

It was true that ever since that first encounter, I had harbored special feelings for him.

And the note he had left me had brought a ray of warm light during the darkest, most painful time of my life.

Only later did I learn that the reason he was brooding and drinking alone that night was because he had recently suffered a heartbreak.

Chloe Quinn was the one who had initiated the breakup.

Simply because she wanted to go abroad for further studies and felt a long-distance relationship would be too grueling, she broke up with him without hesitation.

Chloe had left decisively, completely disregarding Julian's humble pleas for her to stay.

It wasn't that I didn't understand. Him starting a new relationship back then wasn't because of how much he liked me; he simply wanted someone to help him move past that romance with Chloe that had ended in vain.

Even so, I still agreed to be with him.

I had always believed that genuine love would be returned in kind.

As long as I was good enough to him and loved him deeply enough, he would eventually let go of Chloe completely, and I would be the only one in his heart and eyes.

In fact, during the four years we spent together, Julian could be considered an attentive boyfriend.

He remembered all my dietary preferences, tracked my monthly cycle, and never forgot my birthday or our anniversaries. His choices of gifts and restaurants were always meticulously arranged.

My friends always envied me, saying that a man as considerate as Julian was nearly impossible to find even if you searched high and low.

I had thought I really made my way into his heart.

But a month ago, Chloe suddenly returned to the country. A phone call came, her voice tearful as she cried that her father was critically ill and that she was all alone at the hospital.

From then on, everything changed.

Not only did he return home later and later after work, but unfamiliar perfume scents constantly clung to him. Even in the dead of night, whenever Chloe felt overwhelmed with grief from dreaming about her deceased father, he would hastily grab a jacket and rush out the door.

Because of Chloe, arguments and friction became frequent between us.

I felt like an insecure, bitter woman. While loathing myself for it, I couldn't stop myself from asking him with tear-rimmed eyes time and time again, "After all these years, have you still not forgotten her?"

And he grew increasingly impatient, blaming me for being oversensitive and suspicious, claiming that taking care of Chloe was merely fulfilling his late mentor's dying wish.

For a time, I even thought that maybe I really was just being paranoid.

Until I accidentally saw that unsent draft on his Moments in his phone.

At that moment, the world shattered completely.

My heart felt as if it were being torn apart by a blade. Yet, instead of making a scene, I felt entirely numb, my spirit finally resigned to let go.