When I Gave Him My Heart, He Regretted It

Chapter 2

But the staff told me they didn't process applications on weekends.

To get a formal agreement drafted, I'd have to wait until tomorrow.

Fine, I could wait one more day.

I'd just walked up to the entrance of my apartment complex when I spotted a tall, elegant figure standing in the cramped, narrow alleyway. Winter had just set in, and tiny flurries of snow dusted Ethan's hair. The glowing red tip of his cigarette flickered on and off between his fingers, and thin, frosty haze softened the edge of his gaze.

He was turned sideways, and that angry red scar jumped straight out at me.

I remembered the year we'd gone to Vornpeak. We'd been lucky enough to catch the legendary sight of the sun gilding the snow-capped mountain peaks, only to get hit by a sudden avalanche right after.

Ethan had hauled me tight against his chest to shield me, and a flying branch had raked across his skin, leaving a gash that stretched from his neck all the way up to his right cheek.

That injury cost him his chance to be an actor. He lost the stage he'd dreamed of his whole life.

I'd been so wracked with guilt that day I cried so hard my chest ached.

He was the one who should've been devastated, but he'd comforted me instead, "Zoe, remember how this raw, real cry feels right now. Don't be so fake in your next acting class. Who needs to be an actor anyway? I can be a director, right? All actors have to do what the director says. When that happens, I'll make you my exclusive leading lady."

The memories faded slowly, and I realized I'd walked right up to him without even noticing. I met those cold, distant eyes and asked, my voice rough, "Ethan? What are you doing here?"

Ethan crushed his cigarette out under his boot with a soft crunch. He waved the Canon camera in his hand, his face ice-cold, and his eyes brimmed with unmistakable disgust.

"The sooner we get this shoot over with, the better. I don't want anything to do with you anymore."

I froze for a second; a dull, spreading ache bloomed across my chest.

I lifted my chin and tugged a weak smile onto my face. "Then would you mind waiting downstairs for a minute, Ethan? I need to go change and touch up my makeup."

I turned and walked into the building, stepped into the elevator, and pressed the button for the basement level.

I'd sold our family home long ago to cover medical costs for my two sick relatives.

Now I lived in a tiny basement unit. It wasn't big, but it was enough for just me.

I put on light makeup, just enough to cover my sickly pale complexion, and pulled on a thin yellow sweater despite the freezing winter cold.

Yellow was my lucky color. I'd bought this sweater specifically when I found out Ethan was planning to propose to me.

I'd figured wearing my lucky sweater would make sure we got to spend the rest of our lives happy, side by side.

Who would have guessed I never got to wear it back then? Instead, I ended up putting it on today, the day I'm taking my funeral portrait.

There's a park close to my place, so I led Ethan there for the photoshoot.

Winter had settled in for good. The tree branches in the park stood bare and gnarled, and the park benches were sheathed in a glossy, thick layer of ice.

Ethan scouted the perfect spot, set up the lighting, arranged the backdrop, walked me through how to pose, and carefully adjusted every last setting on the camera.

I'd thought he'd phone this in, at least the way he used to back in the day.

When he took photos of me before, he never bothered hunting for good light, let alone fussing over angles or adjusting where I stood.

Every time I'd tease him for being so lazy about it, but when I saw the final shots? Even his casual, off-the-cuff snaps oozed that warm, dreamy vibe only he could capture.

"Done."

His icy, detached voice snapped me right out of my wandering thoughts.

Ethan held out the camera. "Pick one yourself."

I took the camera and started flipping through the shots, but the tiny flicker of hope in my chest sputtered and died little by little.

These photos weren't terrible, exactly, but they weren't nice either. They had none of that magic his old shots of me used to hold.

I swiped through the photos one by one, a heavy weight settling in my chest. Even the camera felt heavy as lead in my hands.

But I couldn't say a thing.

What was I supposed to say? That these didn't have that same warm feel the old ones did? Or that he'd done a bad job?

How could I force someone who didn't love me anymore to take photos that felt like love?

I bowed my head and kept scrolling, resigned to my fate, determined to find something usable.

I couldn't bother him any more than I already had. I had to pick at least one shot that worked.

I flipped to the last photo, and the next image that popped up was of another girl, grinning bright and carefree, all bright energy and confidence.

It was a candid shot Ethan had taken while she was bustling around the kitchen.

A tight, burning lump swelled in my throat.

So it wasn't that he couldn't take good photos anymore. He just couldn't take good photos of me.

The camera was suddenly wrenched out of my hands. Ethan's brow was furrowed, and his voice was colder than a mid-December frost.

"I'll send all the photos to your email. You can pick from them there."

With that, he held his palm out in front of me.

I froze for a second, my hand lifting on reflex, ready to rest it in his like I'd done a thousand times before.

He pulled his hand back before I could reach it. "Give me your phone. I need to delete the photos off the camera."

I let out a quiet, dumb "oh", tugging my silly, overreacting hand back awkwardly as I fished my phone out to hand to him.

The second it left my fingers, I regretted it.

But it was too late. He tapped the screen, and it lit up, and an old photo of the two of us stared right back at us.

Next thing I knew, the phone recognized his face and unlocked itself automatically.

Ethan's fingers paused for a split second.

I wanted to explain, tell him I'd forgotten to change the lock screen, forgotten to delete those old photos.

But when I watched him tap into the photo album, select the folder labeled "With Lover" and hit delete, I bit back the words. It was useless anyway.

He didn't care.

Any excuse I made would just look like a sad attempt to save face, and it would only disgust him more.

There were over three thousand two hundred photos stored in that folder.

He didn't scroll through them, didn't even glance at a single one. He tapped "select all" without blinking, then hit delete.

Seven whole years of dating him, erased with a single tap.

Every last memory we shared was gone, just like that.

My heart felt like it was caught in the grip of a huge, invisible hand, squeezing so tight it might burst. I wondered stupidly if life had a one-tap clear button too.

Ethan handed the phone back to me without another word, turned on his heel, and started walking away.

I stared at that cold, unforgiving back of his, and before I could think better of it, I called out, "Ethan..."

He glanced over his shoulder, and I spoke in a rough, hoarse voice, "I wish you happiness."

I added silently, and I'm sorry for everything that happened between us.

The snow picked up, swirled wildly, the cold seeping right through my clothes to my bones.

Ethan stood there unmoving in the blustery snow for a long moment, then spoke, his voice sharp as shards of ice. "Zoe, if you actually want me to be happy, do me a favor and never show up in my life again."