Chapter 4

Chrissy's POV

Today is October twelfth.

Seven years ago on this day, Zavier took me deep into an undeveloped mountain range to film a documentary.

We were caught in a sudden mudslide. In that cramped cave, we held each other tight, thinking we would die there.

That night, he wrapped the only dry piece of clothing he had around me and swore to me with tears in his eyes.

"Chrissy, if we make it out alive, my life belongs to you. From now on, every October twelfth will be just for us. Just the two of us."

We survived.

For the first five years, he kept his promise.

No matter how busy he was, he'd cancel everything on this day to stay home with me, cook a meal together, and watch an old movie.

But starting last year, he changed.

Last year he said an investor had called an impromptu meeting he couldn't miss.

I waited for him all night, only to see him and Lexi photographed at a bar on the trending topics.

He explained it was a crew dinner. I believed him.

And this year?

I sat in the dark living room, looking at the completely cold dishes on the table. The clock on the wall pointed to eleven at night.

Heavy rain fell outside, raindrops hammering the windows with dull thuds.

I picked up my phone and called Zavier.

"Sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable."

I called three times in a row. All went unanswered.

I put down my phone and opened Instagram.

The algorithm knew me well. The first post on my feed was one Lexi had posted ten minutes ago.

The photo showed an elaborately romantic candlelit dinner table with a bouquet of bright red roses.

Across from her sat half of a man's shoulder. Though his face wasn't visible, those shirt cuffs were the ones I'd personally gone to the boutique to pick out for him last month.

The caption read.

"He said some days shouldn't be for dwelling on past suffering, but for celebrating new beginnings. Thank you for the surprise."

Location tagged: the city's most exclusive revolving restaurant.

Reading those words, my eyes suddenly stung.

Past suffering?

So our life-and-death memories had become "suffering" that needed to be abandoned in his eyes.

And Lexi Summers was his "new beginning."

I didn't smash things hysterically like some bitter woman in a TV drama. I didn't screenshot it to confront him.

I simply stood up calmly, walked to the kitchen, and dumped all the dishes I'd spent the entire afternoon preparing into the trash bin, plates and all.

Then I walked into the bedroom and dragged out that black suitcase.

I started packing.

I didn't actually own much.

Over the years, I'd poured all my money and energy into Zavier's films. My closet held nothing but a few dirt-resistant athletic outfits and virtually nothing of value.

I took those mementos I'd once treasured. The replica of his first award trophy. The cross necklace we'd brought back from the church where we'd prayed together. Those slips of paper with his promises written on them. I threw them one by one into a black trash bag.

Finally, I opened a drawer and pulled out that plain ring.

He'd bought it for me with his first paycheck during our first year together.

Not expensive, but I'd worn it for seven years. It had left a deep groove on my finger.

I slipped the ring off and placed it on the nightstand.

No nostalgia. No reluctance.

When disappointment accumulates enough, leaving becomes instinct.

By the time I finished packing, it was two in the morning.

The living room was piled with black trash bags, while my suitcase held only a few changes of clothes and some essential medications.

I sat on the sofa, quietly listening to the rain outside the window.

Three more days.

Zavier, you're free now. And so am I.