If you can't handle it, just break up

With a single thought, he stepped back

The people around us fell silent, as if waiting for some dramatic twist. I could picture his expression right then—leaning back on the couch, his legs crossed, that smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth, delivering the cruelest words in the most nonchalant tone.

“Anyway, Vera—” He paused, as if weighing his words, but in the end chose the most flippant, most indifferent term. “She’s easy to placate. Whenever we fight about breaking up, she never blames me. She just reflects on what she did wrong, and then…” He chuckled again, a laugh tinged with a nearly cruel smugness. “Then she’ll wrap her arms around me and apologize herself.”

Laughter surged out like a tide, each wave higher than the last.

Someone said, “Holy s**t, she’s that easy to fool?” their voice brimming with disbelief. Someone else slammed their fist on the table, shouting, “Unbelievable, unbelievable!” laughing so hard they could barely breathe. Someone whistled loudly. Those sounds piled up, squeezing through the crack in the door, reverberating against my eardrums, one after another, like blows from a blunt instrument.

Then Leon’s voice suddenly softened a bit.

“It’s precisely because she’s so gullible that I don’t want her to fall into someone else’s hands.”

His tone had changed. It was no longer that lazy, teasing inflection, but had taken on a touch of unfamiliar, almost sincere tenderness. His voice dropped, as if he were speaking to himself.

“It’s a good thing she ran into me. If she’d met a bad guy, with her temperament, she’d have cried herself hoarse. Keeping her by my side means I can look out for her a bit more, and I can rest easy.”

Someone laughed, a touch of sarcasm in their voice: “So after all this, it turns out Leon’s just doing charity work.”

“But seriously, you really do need to keep a closer eye on her. With a face like Vera’s, who wouldn’t want to—”

“Shut up.” Leon’s voice suddenly turned cold, like a knife drawn from its sheath—sharp and devoid of any warmth. “Don’t even think about it.”

The private room fell silent for a moment, then erupted into even louder jeers. Someone slapped Leon on the shoulder and said, “Oh, you’re jealous,” while others whistled or laughed as they accused him of prioritizing a woman over his friends. The voices blended into a single cacophony, like a pot of boiling porridge.

I didn’t listen any further.

I released my grip on the doorknob; the fingers of that hand had grown stiff from the cold metal. I turned and walked away, heading back down the corridor I’d come from. The corridor was long, carpeted thickly, absorbing every footstep—and the vague emotion in my chest, something between anger and sorrow.

The wall lamps overhead cast a warm yellow glow, drawing delicate shadows across the carpet. I walked step by step, my stride steady, my back held straight, as if participating in a silent military parade. My face was expressionless—not out of deliberate control, but because there was truly nothing left there. Every trace of emotion had been sucked away the moment I heard those words.

As I stepped out the club’s front door, the night breeze suddenly swept across my face, carrying the distinctive chill of early autumn and a faint scent of osmanthus drifting from afar. I stood on the steps and glanced up at the night sky. The city’s light pollution was too heavy; I could see hardly any stars, only a hazy gray canopy and the flashing aviation obstruction lights on distant high-rises.

That white Porsche glowed coldly under the streetlight, its body as smooth as a giant white pebble. Beautiful, expensive—and never meant for me.

For the first time in five years, I didn’t wait for him.

I pulled open the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. The car glided smoothly out of the parking spot and onto the empty midnight street. The car’s navigation system lit up automatically—the default destination was home, pointing to that penthouse duplex in downtown, the place I’d lived in for five years but had never called “home.”

I opened the navigation app on my phone and entered a different address.

A 24-hour pharmacy.

The pharmacy was quiet in the early hours of the morning; only the cashier was idly swiping through her phone behind the counter, lazily glancing up when she heard someone enter. The fluorescent tubes hummed softly from the ceiling, and the bitter, medicinal scent of the store hung in the air between the shelves. I made my way through the aisles, passing fever reducers, cold remedies, band-aids, and vitamins, before finally stopping in front of the family planning section.

A small pink box sat quietly on the shelf, printed with simple instructions. I picked it up and held it in my hand; it felt as light as a feather.

I placed it on the counter, scanned the barcode, and paid. The cashier said in a mechanical voice, “Wishing you good health,” and I replied just as mechanically, “Thank you.” The whole process took less than two minutes, as routine as buying a bottle of mineral water.

Back in the car, I placed the pharmacy’s paper bag on the passenger seat. That tiny paper bag lay there quietly, like a silent accomplice.

By the time I returned to the penthouse, it was past 1 a.m. I pushed open the door, and the motion-sensor light in the entryway turned on automatically, its cool white glow illuminating the empty living room. The entire apartment felt like an empty museum—the night view of the city spread out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, dazzling yet distant, like a painting I could never touch. The pure white marble floor reflected the spotlights on the ceiling, resembling the surface of a frozen lake. All the furniture was meticulously arranged exactly where it belonged; everything was orderly, yet cold and devoid of any human warmth.

I walked into the master bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light.

A pure white marble sink, pure white walls, pure white light. The space was so clean it was almost sterile, like a small operating room. I unwrapped the pink box, took out the slender plastic stick, and performed the ritual I’d rehearsed in my mind countless times. Thirty seconds. One minute.

Two red lines appeared, deeper, redder, and more undeniable than the first time.

They lay quietly in the small window of the test strip, like two blood-red exclamation marks, announcing an event destined to change everything.

I wrapped the pregnancy test in a tissue, flushed it down the toilet, and watched it disappear into the depths of the pipes amid the swirling water. Then I tossed the box into the trash can, covered it with a few scraps of paper, and buried it in an out-of-sight corner.

Then I walked over to the vanity mirror, rested my hands on the cold marble countertop, and looked at myself in the mirror.

Vera Grey, twenty-seven. Her skin was well-cared-for, her makeup still intact, though her lipstick had smudged slightly from the coffee cup and the long wait, revealing the dry, natural color of her lips beneath. Her hair was curled into the large waves he liked, sweeping in soft arcs over her shoulders. She wore his favorite silk robe—beige, with delicate lace trim at the neckline. Everything was perfect. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned.

Except for one unexpected twist.

I reached out and gently placed my hand over my lower abdomen. Through the smooth silk fabric, I could feel no warmth, nor could I sense any movement. It was still so small—too small to be perceived, so small that medically it was merely a vague “gestational sac,” a cluster of cells so tiny it could only be seen under a microscope.

But it was already a life.

“You’ve come at the wrong time,” I said to my reflection in the mirror, my voice so soft it barely echoed in the empty bathroom. “But it’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

I wasn’t speaking out of anger, nor was I trying to comfort myself. I was stating a calm, well-considered fact.

The moment I found out I was pregnant, I began planning my departure.

The feeling was strange—not sadness, not anger, but a peculiar sense of relief. Like a frog that had been boiled in lukewarm water for too long, finally sensing, in a single instant, the last subtle shift in temperature before the boiling point. I finally had a reason I simply had to leave—a reason I didn’t need to explain to anyone, a reason that allowed me to steel my resolve and make the decision.

All these years, I’ve known I should leave. But every time I thought about leaving, I’d remember all the troubles he’d sorted out for me, the hand he’d extended when I was at my lowest, and the photo of Grandma basking in the sun in the best hospital room. Then I’d tell myself, just hold on a little longer, just a little longer.

But now, those two red lines on this pregnancy test have torn all that “just hold on a little longer” to shreds.