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I lightly laughed and said to Vincent.
“It’s just a wedding dress. If she likes it, then let her have it.” Then I left them as I said, “I’ve got work at the lab. I‘ 11 head out now.”
Vincent froze, watching me leave without another word.
***
Later that evening, Vincent came to pick me up for the first time in months. He brought a small mango cake with him, holding it out like a peace offering.
But, the problem? I’m allergic to mango.
It’s Zoe who loved mango, not me. After all this time, he still didn’t know the
difference.
“I am afraid you’d forget to eat while working, so I brought this for you,” he said, as though the cake could smooth
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things over. He wanted me to take the bait, to play along like I always did.
So I did. I smiled brightly, pretending to be touched. “Thank you so much!”
Vincent looked surprised that I didn’t argue or complain.
On the drive home, he glanced over at me.
“Claire, are you mad at me?”
I was preoccupied with thoughts about the lab–wrapping up my project, preparing my notes and ensuring I left clear instructions for my junior colleagues. I did not hear his words well, so I let out an ah.
I apologized a little, “Sorry, I just got lost in thought. What are you talking about?”
Perhaps my tone was too rusty.
He slammed on the brakes and turned his head to look at me, “Are you still mad about that wedding dress?”
“Hmm?” I blinked, genuinely confused. “Why would I be? No, of course not.”
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Vincent looked at me for a few seconds, searching my face for anger. But all he found was calm indifference. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he started the car again. His voice, however, was hoarse. “You‘ ve changed. You‘ re not like this… not like you used to be.”
He was not wrong.
A year ago, after Zoe graduated and returned to our town, Vincent and I both changed. We fought endlessly because of her. He always said that he only treats Zoe as his little sister and told me not to be
unreasonable.
“She’s like a little sister to me. Stop. being so unreasonable!” he‘ d yell, defending her every time.
The most serious fight was the one where he got furious and pointed at me.
At that moment, he said, “Claire, you‘ re ridiculous! If I had anything going on with Zoe, would I even be with you? You‘ re just
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a broke student who depends on me for everything. If we broke up, how would you even survive?”
We had a cold war for a month. In the end, I swallowed my pride and begged for forgiveness.
But love doesn‘ t die all at once–it fades, bit by bit, like ice melting under the sun. Over the past year, the constant fighting. and Zoe’s smug presence drained. whatever feelings I had for him.
Now, I couldn’t even muster a reaction.
I smiled faintly. “You are right. I wasn‘ t very mature before. But I have grown up now. I will do better.”
Because soon, I wouldn’t be here at all, I thought.
*–*–*
Before going to bed that night, while Vincent was in the shower, I saw Zoe‘ s new post on her social media feed.
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Nine photos.
She wore my wedding dress, smiling radiantly as she held onto my fiancé.
[Getting married to the one I love! Xixixi!]
Dozens of their friends liked the post.
Someone even commented, [Wait, isn‘ t that Vincent in the background?]
Zoe’s smug reply, [Yes! My brother favours me the most!]
I quietly liked the post, put my phone away and got ready for bed.
I just lay down briefly when the bed beside me dented. Vincent‘ s cold skin pressed against mine as he slid an arm around my waist.
“Claire…” he murmured, his breath. warm against my ear. His hand slipped under the hem of my nightgown, fingers trailing along my skin.
I shifted slightly, putting space between us.
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Then I gently grabbed his hand and Sud, “Vincent, I’m tired tonight. I don‘ t want to.”
In all the years we had been together, I never refused him.
In the past, whenever we lost our temper, it was almost always resolved in bed. Vincent loved taking his time, teasing and coaxing me into surrender until I begged for him.
And afterwards, he would hold me tightly, whispering sweet nothings and asking me not to be jealous anymore.
But tonight, I felt nothing.
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