The One I Couldn’t Let Go

When Keith Walton got home, he didn’t see me in the living room.

So, he went upstairs.

I had only turned on the warm bedside lamp in the bedroom.

Shrinking into the flickering light, I crossed my arms and waited for him.

I didn’t want him to notice that I was crying.

That would make me lose the upper hand.

He wrapped his arms around me from behind, pressing a kiss against my neck.

There was a faint scent of lemon candy on him, and I couldn’t help but wonder—was he out messing around the night before our wedding too?

Otherwise, where would such a sweet smell come from?

I shoved him away abruptly.

Under the dim light, his eyes flickered with unreadable shadows.

He simply raised a brow.

"Dear?"

His fingertip brushed against the corner of my eye, grazing my skin like a spark.

"You’ve been crying?"

I hated how sharp he was, how he always seemed to read me so effortlessly just like how he toyed with me all along using this very skill.

"Keith, let’s not get married.”

He stared at me, stunned for a few seconds.

Then, before I could react, he clamped a hand over my mouth, pinned me onto the couch, and flicked off the light—all in one swift motion.

We fell into sudden darkness together.

His hair brushed against the hollow of my neck, sending a shiver through me.

I started kicking him, but he trapped my knees between his legs.

"Shh, you don’t have to say more, dear," he whispered.

Only in the dark did I notice that his voice had turned hoarse, low and trembling.

"You saw the chat logs."

Of course, he figured it out in an instant.

A stranger had sent me his past chat logs with his friends, and the content was just as sickening as a hunter stalking its prey.

He said the only reason he stayed with me for so long was because I was easy to fool.

He commented I was easier to coax than other girls, that I’d be overjoyed even receiving discounted Valentine’s Day roses.

He remarked he never once worn the scarf I knitted for him because it was too tacky.

And he also mentioned he was just playing around, that the way I took everything seriously was absolutely hilarious to him.

…

"Those were all edited."

His breath spilled over my collarbone, weaving through my hair like a lingering whisper. Then, without warning, he bit me—not hard, but enough to snap me out of my thoughts.

There were too many screenshots.

The timestamps on the phone matched up with real events.

Who would believe they were fake?

I grabbed the back of his neck, trying to lift his head away from me.

"Did you always think I was this easy to fool, Keith?"

"Does messing with me give you such a sense of accomplishment?"

In the darkness, he held onto me stubbornly and silently.

…

Looking back, I should have realized.

When we first got together, the only person who ever liked his posts was me.

We had mutual friends, yet none of them ever reacted.

Back then, I had foolishly thought it was because I meant something special to him.

How laughable.

It was just his way of dealing with a girlfriend—a pathetic trick, but one that worked well enough to fool me.

…

Last night, we slept in separate rooms—for the first time in two months and three days.

I had a dream that wasn’t exactly pleasant.

It unearthed memories I had buried away for a long, long time.

It was from when we had just started dating.

We made plans to go to the newly opened amusement park for the night session, agreeing to meet in front of the library.

That morning, I had already started dressing up, trying on outfit after outfit.

My roommates, used to my usual quiet demeanor, were surprised by how much effort I was putting in.

I arrived an hour early.