Part 3Rewind to My Fiancé's Accident, Only to Discover His Love Was a Lie

A long time ago, on this same night, Ethan brought home shrimp too. Just like tonight, he left again within an hour.

Back then, I was always quick to make excuses for him. Maybe he forgot I was allergic. Maybe work was just too demanding. He didn't have a choice, right?

Even the late-night "I love you" text he sent me back then—it's the same one I got tonight. Back then, I thought it was evidence of his love. Now, I realize it was probably guilt. Guilt for cheating on me, trying to absolve himself after crawling into someone else's bed.

Ethan's so-called love was always full of cracks. If you looked closely, you'd see the tiny needles hidden in the lies—needles that slowly, relentlessly tore me apart.

Suddenly, a thought struck me. I grabbed my phone and opened the location-sharing app Ethan had insisted we use.

The moment I saw where he was, my fingers clenched the phone so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

The frost-covered grass glistened in the early morning fog. The weak winter sunlight barely kissed the tops of the buildings.

I took a cab to the place I had avoided ever since Ethan's death in my previous life—the house we'd bought together for our future. Our dream home.

I tried the door code a few times before realizing the lock had been changed.

The house we chose together, the house meant to be ours—yet somehow, it had turned me into an outsider.

Time crawled forward like molasses as I pressed the doorbell.

"Coming! What, you couldn't stay away for even an hour? I know you miss me, but…"

A soft, feminine voice carried from inside.

I should've screamed. I should've cursed her out. But instead, I just lowered my head and smiled bitterly.

The door opened, and there she was—a girl in her early twenties, wearing a set of wrinkled pajamas. She froze when she saw me, her wide eyes filled with shock.

Ignoring her, I stepped past and walked into the house.

Nothing had changed.

Every detail of the house—the placement of the bed, the design of the dishes—was chosen by me and Ethan, back when we were curled up in each other's arms, dreaming about our future.

We'd promised to move in after the wedding.

Our wedding photo still hung in the bedroom.

And across from it, on the unmade bed, lay Ethan's shirt from last night. Scattered on the floor were a few discarded condom wrappers.

It felt like something had grabbed my heart and was dragging it downward, squeezing it until I couldn't breathe.

So this is where you've been every night, Ethan.

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