If you can't handle it, just break up

A Shattered Screen, a Broken Heart

She put on a dress that was outdated in style but made of decent fabric—probably the “most presentable one” she’d dug out of the back of her closet. She applied heavier makeup than usual, laying on a bit too much foundation in an attempt to conceal the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the dullness caused by chronic sleep deprivation. She had her hair pulled back, but it wasn’t as perfectly neat as it used to be—a stray strand had slipped down over her forehead, though she likely hadn’t even noticed.

Her steps faltered noticeably as she entered the restaurant. The 80th-floor dining room, filled with candlelight and white linen tablecloths, echoed with the crisp clink of crystal glasses. All of this had once been part of her life—the high-society occasions she’d taken for granted before her family went bankrupt. Now, however, it felt like an old garment that no longer fit, revealing her vulnerability at every turn.

Leon gestured for her to come over and pointed to the chair beside him. “Sit down. Have something to eat first. Take a few pictures of us later.”

Isabella sat down, fidgeting nervously with the napkin on her lap. Her fingers kept subconsciously twisting the edge of the tablecloth; her nails were painted a pale pink, the edges already chipped and peeling.

Leon handed her his phone, having already set it to camera mode.

“Make them look good. I want to print them out and hang them at home.”

Then he stood up from his chair, walked over to me, and leaned down. One hand rested on the back of my chair, while the other gently lifted my chin. His face was suddenly mere inches away, his nose almost touching mine. The light fell into his amber eyes, like melted caramel.

He leaned close to my ear, his lips barely grazing my earlobe, his breath brushing against my hairline, his voice so low that only the two of us could hear it.

“Baby, smile. It’s our fifth anniversary.”

I smiled. Not because I was too immersed in the role, nor because his acting was so masterful, but because the whole situation was so absurd it made me laugh. Five years ago, I stood at the bottom of the dorm building, watching him propose to Isabella with a huge bouquet of red roses. Five years later, here I am sitting in the city’s most upscale restaurant, performing a carefully rehearsed act of happiness right in front of the “white moonlight” he once longed for but could never have.

I’d played the leading lady in this man’s script for five years. It wasn’t until this very moment that I fully realized I’d never been the leading lady. Not even a supporting actress. I was merely a prop he used to provoke another woman.

A flash went off. Then another.

Isabella’s hand was trembling, causing the image on her phone screen to waver slightly.

“This one didn’t come out right… your poses are a little…” She bit her lip and raised her phone again. “Let’s take another one. Um, Vera, lean a little to the left—yes, just a little more—”

“Enough!”

She suddenly dropped her phone, her voice snapping like a string stretched to its limit that had finally snapped.

Tears welled up in her eyes, one after another, falling in large drops onto the snow-white linen tablecloth and spreading into small, dark circles of moisture. The way she was crying was a complete transformation from her usual self—no longer the carefully controlled, tear-streaked, restrained sobbing, but a complete, uncontrolled collapse. Her shoulders shook violently, the tip of her nose was bright red, and her eye makeup had smudged into a blurry black smear.

“Leon, I know I was in the wrong before… I was immature, I rejected you, I was blind…” She sobbed, her voice breaking in fits and starts, like a drowning person desperately clinging to a last piece of driftwood. “But why are you doing this to me? Deliberately bringing me to a place like this, deliberately getting intimate with her right in front of me, deliberately making me take photos of the two of you… Do you find it particularly, particularly amusing to watch me suffer, to watch me regret it?”

As soon as she cried out, guests at the surrounding tables turned to look. A middle-aged man in a dark blue suit set down his knife and fork and frowned as he looked over. A waiter approached carrying a silver tray, but upon seeing the scene, he silently retreated back to the serving station. Losing one’s composure and crying in a high-class restaurant like this was a more shocking breach of etiquette than wailing on the street—because it shattered the carefully maintained decorum of everyone in the room.

Leon’s body froze for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the muscles in his jaw tighten and his Adam’s apple bob once. The wine glass in his hand wobbled slightly, the liquid lapping against the glass and nearly spilling out.

Then he let go of the back of my chair.

He muttered a low curse under his breath; I didn’t catch the words, but I caught the tone. That irritation of a plan gone awry, that impatient frustration. Then he pushed back his chair and snatched his coat from the back of it. His movement was so swift it knocked over the salt shaker on the table, scattering a small patch of fine white salt onto the dark linen tablecloth. Without even glancing at it, he rushed out.

I sat alone at the long table draped in white linen, facing two main courses I hadn’t yet touched. The pan-seared cod had gone cold, a thin layer of fat congealed on the surface; a film had formed on the surface of the lobster bisque, ready to crack at the slightest tremor. The candlelight danced across the empty chair opposite me, like a lighting technician in a one-man show, meticulously directing the spotlight.

Glances from the neighboring tables fell on me in small groups, carrying a mix of caution, curiosity, and sympathy. A woman in a black long dress nudged her male companion’s arm, signaling him to look my way. I was becoming the topic of conversation to accompany their dinner tonight.

I lowered my eyes to my phone. It lay quietly on the tablecloth, its screen shattered. Earlier, when Isabella set it down, she’d accidentally bumped it against the metal trim along the edge of the table. A spiderweb of cracks had spread from the corner, cutting across the entire screen. Our photo together had been sliced into pieces by the cracks—breaking right across my face, while his remained perfectly intact.

I picked up the phone; the shards of glass pricked my fingertips, causing a slight sting. The screen saver still lit up, and there was that photo we took last Christmas—he was smiling with his teeth showing after a rare night of drinking, and I was leaning against his shoulder, wearing a Santa hat he’d casually placed on my head. Now the photo was sliced into pieces by the cracks in the glass; my face was shattered into fragments, while his smile remained so perfectly intact it was almost blinding.

I tapped the shattered screen and sent a message to Susan.

“Moving things up. Help me find a place. I’ll be there next week.”

She replied instantly. “Got it. I’ll be waiting. I’ve already started checking for vacancies in the neighborhood.”

Then I flipped the phone over and placed it screen-down on the table. I pulled a black card—the supplementary card Leon had given me—from my purse and placed it on top of the bill folder. As the black card swiped past the sensor, it emitted a faint “beep,” like the curtain call signal at the end of this absurd play.

I stood up. Under the cautious stares of those around me, I calmly put on my coat, grabbed my clutch, slipped into my high heels, and walked step by step out of that cold restaurant suspended eighty stories above the city.

He didn’t come back that night.

I took a taxi back alone to that empty penthouse apartment, removed the heavy makeup from my face, changed into that slightly worn cotton nightgown, and heated up a cup of milk for myself. Then, cradling that cup of hot milk, I sat cross-legged in front of the living room’s massive floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city’s lights fade one by one.

The night sky shifted from deep blue to pitch black, then a faint grayish glow began to emerge from the depths of the darkness.

At 3:17 a.m., my phone suddenly lit up.

It was a message from Leon.

“I won’t be coming back tonight.”