Goodbye, Ex

The first time I saw Eddie Shawn was by the window on the third floor of the university library. He wore a faded denim jacket, a pen pinched between his fingers, his head bowed over notes in a textbook, sunlight brushing the top of his hair with pale gold. We were classmates in different classes within the same department and grew closer through a group project. He wasn't very talkative, but he always noticed the little things; knowing I was afraid of the dark, he would take the long way to walk me back to the dorm after late-night study sessions. That winter of our junior year, he confessed to me under the camphor tree by the dormitory, his hands red and frozen, clutching a withered little daisy. I told him my family wouldn't approve; my parents wanted me to marry someone from a similar background for a stable and secure life. He pulled me into his arms, voice steady: "Ruby Scott, after I graduate, I'll do everything I can to give you a home, and I will never let you suffer even a single hardship." On graduation day, we didn't tell either of our parents. Carrying just a few simple bags, we boarded the train to a small town in the south. That was the first time I rebelled against my family, and the first time I pinned my entire future on Eddie Shawn. The rented room in that small town was barely ten square meters, its walls peeling. With no heating in winter, we squeezed onto a tiny bed, keeping each other warm. Eddie found a sales job, leaving early and coming home late every day. His leather shoes were worn through at the soles, but he couldn't bring himself to replace them. I worked as a clerk at a small company, earning a meager wage, yet always managing to save enough to cook him a hot meal when he came home. Once, he had a high fever—almost 40 degrees—but he was still thinking about meeting a client the next day. I held him, crying, pleading, "Let's go home, no matter what your parents say." But he shook his head with a smile and said, "Wait first." Were those days hard? So hard that I hesitated for what felt like forever just to buy an apple. But whenever I looked into Eddie Shawn's eyes, seeing the light there, and noticed he brought me a candy every day when he came home, I felt it was all worth it. He always said, once we'd saved enough for a down payment, we'd buy a house with a balcony, so I could fill it with all the flowers I love. To reach that goal, he pushed himself harder than ever, often working past midnight, sometimes even skipping meals. Three years later, propelled by his exceptional achievements, he moved to a major company as a department manager, with his salary multiplied several times over. We finally bought a house in the small town. It was modest, but it had a south-facing balcony where he had personally installed a flower stand for me. On moving day, he held me on the balcony, repeating the promise from years ago: "Ruby Scott, I've made it. From now on, you'll never have to endure hardship again." Leaning into his embrace and watching the sunset through the window, I felt this was the happiness I had always dreamed of. Over time, he rose steadily through the ranks, eventually becoming the company director, and our lives grew ever more stable. Our friends all envied us, calling us the model couple who had journeyed from campus to the altar—true love that had endured hardship. I had always believed that too, until Vivian Lincoln appeared. Vivian was a new intern in Eddie Shawn's department, fresh out of university, with gentle, curved brows but always a shy look about her. The first time Eddie brought her home for dinner, he said she was young, just starting out in her career, and didn't understand many things yet—he asked me to look after her. That day, Vivian wore a white dress. During dinner, she accidentally spilled some soup, and her eyes instantly welled up with tears. I was reaching for a tissue for her when Eddie Shawn stood up first, his voice gentler than I had ever heard: "Are you okay? Did it burn you?" I froze. As far as I could remember, Eddie had never been this careful with me. From then on, Eddie spoke of Vivian more and more frequently. He said Vivian worked hard but was careless and often made small mistakes; he said Vivian's family was poor, and it wasn't easy for her to find work. At first, I didn't think much of it; I just assumed he was supporting his team. But then I noticed he started coming home late more and more often. He said it was overtime for the department, but when I called his colleagues, I learned they had all left work hours ago. When I asked where he had been, he either gave vague answers or said he was with clients, his eyes darting away with a hint of evasion. One time, I went through his phone and saw a message he sent to Vivian Lincoln: "Don't be afraid, I'm here. I'll help you sort this out." At that moment, it felt like something stabbed straight through my heart—a dense, crushing pain.