He Wished I’d Break Up With Him, So I Did—on My Way to the Airport chapter 07

“Paris?”

“Yes. She applied for the overseas transfer herself and left as soon as it came through.”

Ethan thanked the receptionist and walked away. He stood on the sidewalk outside the office building, lost in thought. Paris. She had gone to Paris, leaving without a single word to him.

He sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently.

The next afternoon, he boarded a flight bound for Paris. He barely slept during the dozen-hour journey, his mind flooded with memories of our time together.

The plane landed at seven in the morning local time. Dawn had just broken, and the airport bustled with crowds. Unable to read French street signs, he relied entirely on a translation app to ask for directions until he finally reached the entrance of my office building.

He waited at the entrance. From morning until noon. From noon until evening. Streetlights flickered on as darkness fell. At last, he spotted me walking out.

I wore a grey coat with my hair tied back, holding a document folder and glancing down at my phone as I moved. I looked a little thinner, yet my complexion was brighter than before.

His heart raced wildly beneath the streetlamp. I walked slowly across the courtyard, lifted my head and caught sight of the distant lights — and then saw him. My steps faltered for a moment, but I kept walking as if he was not there.

“Chloe.”

I did not stop. He hurried over and grabbed my arm.

“Please, listen to me.”

“Let go.” My voice was icy cold.

“I won’t.”

“Ethan, let go of me.”

“I can’t. If I do, you’ll disappear again.”

I turned to face him, my gaze so calm it filled him with dread.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to take you back.”

…

“Home.” A faint, humorless laugh escaped me.

“Ethan, we never had a home.”

I pulled my arm free and stepped back.

“Chloe…”

“Don’t say anything else. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I have to say it, whether you like it or not.” He took a deep breath. “I wrote that comment, but I never meant a single word. Mia was right there pushing me to do it, so I gave in.”

“I know I was terrible. I never should have said those things just to please her. None of it was true.”

“You were never just someone who threw petty tantrums. You poured so much into this relationship. I was blind, taking all your kindness for granted. I messed up, truly.”

I stared at him, my face devoid of any emotion.

“Finished?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

“Chloe, wait!”

“I did.”

“I’ve heard enough. You can leave now.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Suit yourself.” I turned and walked away, and he made no move to follow.

The next day, he showed up outside the office again, holding a bouquet of flowers. They were not roses, but peonies — the flowers I’d once said I loved far more than the popular roses. He had remembered. I refused to take them, so he left the bouquet with the receptionist and departed.

On the third day, he brought a box of macarons from the brand I’d once mentioned craving online. He had queued for two whole hours just to buy them. I did not eat a single one, and passed them around to my colleagues instead.

On the fourth day, he held a photo album and held it out to me.

“Just look through it. I’ll leave afterward.”

I took the album and flipped open the cover casually. The first page held our photo from the first year we dated. With his arm around me and my head resting on his shoulder, we both grinned foolishly at the camera.

The second page was a snapshot from our third year together. On my birthday, he had bought a cake with candles arranged into a heart shape. He had caught me stealing a glance at him while I made a wish.

The third page dated back to our fifth year. He had taken me to the seaside. I had written his name in the sand, and he stood beside me wearing a proud smile.

Beneath every photo was a line of handwriting:

Year one: I promised I would marry you.

Year two: I promised to build a home for us.

Year three: I promised to make you the happiest person alive.

Year four: I started to forget all those promises.

Year five: I met someone new.

Year six: I lost you.

I closed the album and handed it back to him.

“Keep these for yourself. I don’t want them.”

“Can you really be this cold?”

“It’s not coldness. I’ve simply let go.”

His eyes reddened.

“I’ll make it right, again and again, until you forgive me!”

“It’s no use, Ethan.”