Unkept Promises

Today is the first anniversary since Eric Lynn and I ended our seven-year long-distance relationship. We booked the Y Hotel downtown, known as the "couples' sanctuary." The room was spotless, the air laced with the sweet scent of white roses—my favorite flower, and he remembered. "Tired? Want to rest for a bit first?" Eric Lynn pushed my suitcase into the corner, his voice carrying a deliberate gentleness. I shook my head, leaning against the headboard. "I'm okay, traffic wasn't too bad." He smiled, picked up the towel draped over the chair back, and said, "I'm going to take a shower. Later, we'll eat at that fancy restaurant downstairs." "Okay." I nodded, watching him walk into the bathroom. His phone lay on the bedside table, the screen dark and quiet. Seven years of long distance had taught us to be completely honest with each other. His phone was never locked, and neither was mine. As I reached for the remote to change the TV channel, the phone suddenly lit up. It wasn't the familiar green W Chat icon, nor the message envelope, but a symbol I'd never seen before. Compelled by some strange impulse, I reached for the phone. My fingers brushed the cold device, and my heart unexpectedly skipped a beat. There was no password; a simple tap unlocked it. I opened that unfamiliar app, and the very first post on the homepage was from this account. The profile picture was a blurred night sky, completely unrecognizable. The post was short, but it made my blood run cold instantly: "Seven years of long distance have ended, but I'm not happy at all—just exhausted and lost, unsure if this relationship should continue." The poster was the account owner, Eric Lynn. A few comments hung below, each replied to one by one. Between the lines, there was nothing but resistance and fatigue towards the relationship. "So, have you stopped loving her?" Someone asked. He replied, "I don't know. Maybe it was wrong from the start. I've just endured seven years, gotten used to forcing it." "Have you told your partner?" "I don't dare, and I don't want to. She's full of hope, and I don't want to be the bad guy." "Has he stopped loving me?" That thought hit me like a tide, instantly flooding my mind. Seven years apart—I survived countless nights alone in an empty room, endured feeling fragile and uncared for when I was sick, and the helplessness of saying "I miss you" through a screen. What kept me going was always his promise: "Wait until I'm stable, then we'll never be apart again." The sound of water in the bathroom stopped, and footsteps gradually drew closer. I hurriedly put my phone back in place, my fingertips trembling. Instinctively, I grabbed the pillow to straighten it, pretending nothing had happened. Eric Lynn stepped out, drying his wet hair, a white bath towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets sliding down his neck. His gaze swept over the bedside table, then landed on my face, his eyes briefly flickering away for some reason. "What's wrong? You look awful." He came over and reached out to touch my forehead, then hesitated and pulled his hand back. I clenched my palm tight, forcing calm: "It's nothing, just a little tired, maybe." He made a soft "oh," grabbed his phone and glanced at it quickly, his fingertips tightening, knuckles paling. The air grew suddenly heavy; we said nothing, just the faint hum of the air conditioner between us. My mind churned, wanting to question him about that post, to ask if he really saw this relationship as torture — but the words got stuck. I was scared of hearing what I didn't want, scared of breaking this fragile 'completeness' we'd barely managed to hold together.