Into the Night Without You

Ethan didn't sign.

He acted as if the divorce papers weren't even there, flipping them facedown on the table.

"We're going to the hospital first."

I stopped packing and looked at him.

"What?"

He grabbed his car keys.

"I want your hand checked, and I want to see the medical reports from the accident."

His voice had returned to its usual commanding tone.

I used to like that about him.

I thought it made him strong. Dependable.

No matter how bad things got, as long as he was standing beside me, I would somehow feel safe.

But now?

It only annoyed me.

"I already went."

"Serena Miller."

Whenever he called me by my full name, it usually meant he was angry.

I lowered my head and wrapped Dad's old mug in protective paper.

"Don't look at me like that. You don't have the right."

He froze.

I didn't look at him again.

"I'm busy today. I still have to go to Dad's place tonight and sort through his things. If you're not going to sign, then leave."

Ethan stood there for a long time.

In the end, he said nothing.

He simply took off his jacket, bent down, and started carrying boxes for me.

I frowned.

"You don't need to."

"I've got it."

"I really don't need your help."

He paused for a moment.

He must have realized how much I was resisting him.

I rarely used to turn him down.

Even if I was just trying to open a bottle of water, the moment he held out his hand, I would automatically pass it to him.

When he wasn't around, I often realized only after opening a bottle that I could do it myself.

So I could do it on my own after all.

A lot of things were like that.

It wasn't that I had never been capable.

I had just gotten used to relying on him.

Habits are strange.

They can take years to build.

But sometimes, all it takes is one night to break them.

That night, Dad was in surgery.

The digital clock in the hallway went from 9:47 p.m. to 3:17 a.m.

And somewhere in those hours, I learned how to stop depending on Ethan.

—

In the fifth year of my marriage to Ethan, Chloe came back.

She was a dancer.

When she was twenty-two, she injured herself during a competition overseas and tore a ligament in her right knee. After that, she spent years traveling around Europe for treatment.

That was also the year she and Ethan broke up.

I had known their story for a long time.

Long before Ethan and I got married.

He had never hidden it from me.

Back then, I even thought that was a good thing.

He had been completely honest.

"It's in the past," he told me. "If it bothers you, we don't have to get married."

I was so mad I stomped on his foot.

"Ethan, are you serious? You already bought the ring, and now you're asking me if I still want to marry you?"

He looked down at me.

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

Then he slowly pulled me into his arms.

"Then we'll get married. Just don't regret it later."

I never thought I would.

I had liked him for years.

Back in college, Ethan was the guy everyone knew in the architecture program.

He was handsome, smart, and came from a wealthy family.

He always dressed in simple shades of black, white, and gray, yet somehow, he still stood out in every crowd.

We didn't even go to the same school.

The first time we met was during a joint urban-renewal project between our universities.

I was responsible for surveying the historic district.

Ethan was in charge of the overall planning.

During one meeting, I was so busy sneaking glances at him that I entered two entire columns of measurements wrong.

My professor lectured me for half an hour afterward.

My friend laughed at me for being hopeless.

I agreed.

But sometimes, having a crush really does make you pathetic.

I thought I was the only one secretly paying attention.

Then, three years later, Ethan showed up outside my office and waited for me.

It was raining that day.

I was carrying a yellow umbrella.

He stood beneath the awning and watched me for a moment.

The first thing he said was, "Do you like me?"

I almost threw my umbrella at him.

It was mortifying.

I denied it immediately.

"Who likes you?"

Ethan nodded.

"Okay, then forget it."

He turned and started walking away.

I stood there in the rain, stamping my feet in frustration.

In the end, I ran after him and grabbed his sleeve.

"What is wrong with you? You already asked. Aren't you even going to try a little harder?"

Ethan turned back.

Rain fell behind him.

For the first time, there was a hint of amusement in those usually unreadable eyes.

"How am I supposed to try?"

I stood there for ages, my face burning.

"Like... maybe tell me you like me too."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he lowered his head and kissed me.

My umbrella slipped from my hand and landed in a puddle, sending water splashing around us.

"Serena Miller," he said, "I've been pursuing you for six months."

I froze.

Only then did I realize.

Those coffee shops where he just happened to show up.

Those lectures where he somehow ended up sitting beside me.

That car that kept appearing outside my office.

None of it had been a coincidence.

So even after I found out about Chloe, I never thought much of it.

I trusted Ethan.

Because once, he had loved me so openly that I never thought I had reason to doubt him.

I thought that once something like that existed between two people, it couldn't simply disappear.

Later, I learned I was wrong.

The first time Chloe appeared in front of me was at a project meeting for the company's new cultural center.

Ethan's company had acquired an old industrial site and planned to transform it into a cultural district combining a theater, art museum, and shopping area.

I was the lead architect.

I had spent two full years on the project.

From the initial site research to the early design proposals, I had pulled more all-nighters than I could count.

Ethan was the last person to enter the conference room that day.

A woman followed behind him.

She was very thin.

She wore a white blouse and a long black skirt, and there was a slight stiffness in her right leg when she walked.

I recognized her almost instantly.

Chloe.

She looked gentler in person than she did in photos.

There was nothing sharp or intimidating about her.

Her features were delicate, and even her voice was soft.

Ethan introduced her.

"Chloe. The company brought her in as an artistic consultant for the theater."

The room went quiet for a second.

Apparently, quite a few people knew about their history.

Someone glanced at me.

I lowered my head and flipped through the plans as if I hadn't noticed.

Chloe took the seat beside me.

"I've heard a lot about your work, Ms. Miller."

I smiled.

"Just call me Serena."

The meeting actually went smoothly.

Until we got to the entrance of the black box theater.

In my design, the entrance had a low ceiling, with the old factory trusses used to create a narrow transitional passage.

Visitors would walk through sixty feet of shadow before emerging into a soaring lobby.

It was my favorite part of the entire design.

Chloe, however, said, "I don't really like it."

I looked at her.

She explained, "Dancers are very sensitive to the way their bodies move through a space. An entrance that enclosed could feel oppressive and make people tense before they even enter the theater."

"But this was originally an industrial building," I said. "I want to preserve some memory of the original space. And that transition from compression to openness creates a sense of drama in itself."

She smiled.

"I just think a theater should make people feel relaxed."

I was about to respond when Ethan spoke from the head of the table.

"Change it."

The room suddenly went silent.

I looked up at him.

"What?"

"Make the entrance open."

"Chloe has a point."

For two seconds, I just stared at him.

"But that would disrupt the entire circulation plan."

Ethan's tone remained flat.

"The design is supposed to serve the people using the space, not the architect's personal expression."

Every eye in the room turned toward me.

Heat crept into my face.

Not because he had rejected my design.

That happened all the time in this line of work.

I could handle any professional disagreement.

What hurt was that he hadn't even let me finish explaining my reasoning.

After the meeting ended, I stayed behind until everyone else had left.

Ethan was packing up his laptop.

"Do you really think Chloe was right?" I asked.

He looked up.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"She doesn't have an architecture background."

"She's an end user."

"Serena."

He closed his laptop.

"Don't you think you're being a little too sensitive lately?"

I had no answer.

Maybe he realized his tone had been too harsh, because he reached out and ruffled my hair.

"It's just work. Don't overthink it."

"Okay."

And back then, I really did try to convince myself.

It was just work.

Don't overthink it.

Later, I would tell myself the same thing about a lot of things.

After Chloe came back, Ethan started getting busier.

He used to text me whenever he had to work late.

Even if it was just two words:

'Home late.'

At least I knew whether to wait for him for dinner.

But gradually, even those texts stopped coming.

One night, I made his favorite tomato beef stew.

I waited from seven until ten.

I reheated it three times.

He finally came home at eleven twenty.

There was a faint scent of gardenia on him.

I had a sensitive nose.

I noticed it immediately.

Chloe had posted before that her usual perfume smelled like gardenias.

I stood by the front door and watched him.

Ethan was undoing his cuff links.

"Why are you still up?"

I didn't answer.

"Where were you?"

His hands paused.

"At the office."

"Since when does your office smell like gardenias?"

The second the words left my mouth, I realized how much I sounded like I was interrogating him.

Embarrassment immediately washed over me.

He was silent for a few seconds.

"Chloe's old injury flared up during rehearsal. I took her to the hospital."

My throat tightened.

"Why did you have to take her?"

"The driver wasn't available."

"Doesn't she have any friends?"

Ethan frowned.

"Serena, she seriously injured her knee before. She couldn't even stand. What was I supposed to do, leave her there?"

I pressed my lips together.

Suddenly, I didn't want to argue anymore.

I turned away.

He caught me by the shoulders from behind.

When he spoke again, his voice had softened.

"Serena, there's nothing going on between us. You don't need to be this guarded around someone from my past."

My nose stung, but I still nodded.

"Okay."

That night, he held me while we slept.

I lay with my back to him.

He fell asleep quickly, his breathing soon steady and even.

I stayed awake all night, staring at the sliver of light coming through the curtains.

The next morning, I told myself it really was nothing.

He had only taken an injured woman to the hospital.

If it had been me, I would have helped too.

Getting married didn't mean you stopped showing basic kindness to other people.

Again and again, I found excuses for him.

Looking back, I was like someone constantly patching cracks in a wall.

The wall was already leaning.

But every day, I kept telling myself,

'It was okay.

I just had to patch it one more time.'

—

On my thirty-first birthday, Ethan promised to take me to an urban heritage exhibition.

I had been looking forward to it for weeks.

Before he left that morning, he even asked, "What do you want for dinner tonight?"

I deliberately put on an aloof tone.

"Mr. Tanner can figure that out himself."

He gave me a faint smile.

"You're hard to please."

I was in such a good mood that I even touched up my lipstick in the restroom at lunch.

Six o'clock came.

Ethan didn't show up.

At six thirty, I texted him.

No reply.

At seven fifteen, he finally answered my call.

It was noisy on his end.

I could hear music in the background.

"Where are you?"

He hesitated for a second.

"Something came up."

"Did you forget what today is?"

That seemed to catch him off guard.

Then he said, "I didn't forget."

Some of the tension in my chest eased.

But the next second, I heard a man calling out in the background.

"Ethan! Chloe's shoe is stuck. Come take a look!"

He sounded close by.

I tightened my grip on the phone and said nothing.

Neither did Ethan.

A few seconds later, he spoke.

"Chloe's performing for the first time since her recovery today. Something came up at the last minute. I'll come see you later."

"You're with her right now?"

"Yeah."

"It's my birthday."

"I know."

"Then why did you still go?"

Silence stretched between us.

So long that I started to feel like I was the one being unreasonable.

Finally, he said, "Serena, she's waited seven years to get back on that stage. Today means a lot to her."

I suddenly laughed.

"What about me?"

"What?"

"Today means a lot to me too."

He didn't answer.

My eyes slowly began to burn.

But when I spoke again, my voice was quieter than ever.

"Forget it. Go do what you need to do."

I went to the exhibition alone that night.

Ten minutes before closing, a staff member came over to remind me.

"Ma'am, we'll be closing in ten minutes."

Only then did I realize I had been standing in front of the same display case for almost half an hour.

Inside was a restoration drawing of an old building.

Beside it was a single line:

'Restoration doesn't mean returning to the way things were.'

I stared at those words for a long time.

It was snowing when I walked out of the museum.

At 11:40 p.m., Ethan texted me.

'Where are you?'

I didn't reply.

At 12:03 a.m., another message came through.

'Happy birthday.'

My birthday was already over.

I turned off my phone.

It was the first time since we got married that I hadn't replied to one of Ethan's messages.

But the next day, he came home with an expensive designer bag.

And I softened again.

He hung the bag in my closet, then wrapped his arms around me from behind.

"I'm sorry about yesterday."

"How did Chloe's performance go?"

"Fine."

He paused.

"She got pretty emotional afterward, so I ended up staying longer than I expected."

Suddenly, the bag felt unbearably heavy in my hands.

But I still said,

"It's okay."

Because back then, I still couldn't bring myself to replace those two words with the truth.

'It really bothered me.'

—

As the cultural center project moved into the detailed design phase, I started seeing Chloe more and more often.

To be fair, she rarely went out of her way to provoke me.

She was always polite to me, actually.

So most of the time, I felt like I didn't even have the right to dislike her.

Then came one design review.

I had stayed up three nights in a row putting together a plan to optimize the theater's interior acoustics.

The day before the review, Chloe suddenly proposed converting an entire equipment area behind the stage into a lounge for the dancers.

I disagreed.

It would directly affect both the acoustics and the emergency evacuation routes.

We argued in the conference room for more than ten minutes.

Finally, Chloe looked at Ethan.

"Ethan, I just think the people who actually stand on that stage should have somewhere they can breathe."

Ethan flipped through the drawings.

"Do it her way."

I stared at him.

"No."

It was the first time I had ever openly challenged him in a meeting.

Everyone looked over.

I pointed at the plans.

"The egress distances won't meet code. And shrinking the equipment area will create maintenance problems later. This isn't an aesthetic issue."

"Then redo the technical plan," Ethan said.

I looked at him.

"You're making the entire team redo everything just because she asked for it?"

His expression hardened.

"Serena Miller. Watch your tone."

The room went completely still.

My fingertips started trembling.

Chloe quickly stepped in.

"Forget it. If it's really that difficult, we don't have to change it."

The more reasonable she sounded, the more petty I looked.

Ethan closed the folder in front of him.

"Come to my office after the meeting."

I didn't.

I went straight back to the design firm.

At eleven that night, Ethan came home.

I was still in the study revising the plans.

He stood in the doorway.

"Why didn't you come see me?"

"I was busy."

"Are you sulking?"

I looked up at him.

"Ethan, I'm just working."

It was the line he always used on me.

Apparently, he caught the irony.

His expression darkened.

"You're bringing your personal feelings into the project."

"I'm not."

"You're biased against Chloe."

"What about you?"

It was the first time I had finally asked him.