The Art of Not Missing You - Chapter 2

The car accident hadn’t left me seriously injured. After three days of observation, the doctor discharged me.

Since health insurance covered most of the costs, the balance was refunded directly to Ethan Foster’s account.

He hadn’t shown up or contacted me during those three days, but finally, he called.

“Already discharged? You should’ve told me earlier. I have a client meeting today, no time to pick you up.”

“Mm.”

I swallowed the questions bubbling in my throat.

His location showed he was at a hotel. What he was up to didn’t need further explanation.

Then I heard a woman’s voice in the background:

“Come help me dry my hair, ”

The call abruptly ended.

A few moments later, two transfers popped up on my phone from him: one for $13.14, and another for $5.20.

Numbers with sweet meanings, something I used to dream of posting on social media, but he always refused. I’d wanted to show off our love, like other couples did.

Now, I had them. But for reasons I didn’t understand.

I noticed his updated WhatsApp avatar: a matching profile picture with someone, not me.

I tapped “Refund.”

Ethan immediately sent a string of question marks. I didn’t bother answering.

The house was exactly as I’d left it. Clearly, he hadn’t been back since the concert that night.

Pushing down the ache in my chest, I began packing.

In just half a day, the home I’d carefully built over five years felt hollow. Most of the items were couple-themed, things Ethan had never used, always claiming he hated anything that “advertised” our relationship.

I used to joke he acted like an undercover agent.

Turns out, in his heart, I was never really his partner at all.

Halfway through packing, Ethan unexpectedly walked in.

“Sophia, what’s your problem? I called and texted, you ignored everything!”

The unfamiliar perfume clinging to him made me raise a hand to stop his approach. My gaze flicked to the faint lipstick mark on his neck.

“Busy. Didn’t check my phone.”

He scanned the half-packed rooms, irritation flashing across his face. “Don’t tell me this is what kept you busy. Shouldn’t you be resting after the hospital?”

He pointed at the untouched boxes, frowning. “You’re throwing all this out?”

I bent down to grab a box, but he took it from me.

“I’ll handle it. Stop wasting money on all this couple junk.” He headed for the door. “Change your clothes. We’re going to dinner.”

It was time to end this.

From the balcony, I watched him dump the items into the trash without hesitation, just like our five years together. Worthless.

At the restaurant, he ordered our usual dishes…and bitter melon scrambled eggs, the one thing I couldn’t stand.

My appetite vanished. “Waiter, take this dish off the table. We’ll still pay for it.”

Ethan yanked the plate toward himself. “You’re throwing a tantrum because I didn’t visit you in the hospital? If you’d watched where you were walking, you wouldn’t have gotten hit.”

I had seen how he used to care for me. His indifference now was like a slap in the face.

The man who once carried me to the ER, sobbing over a fever, couldn’t be bothered to show up when I was hospitalized. The man who’d avoided bitter foods on my behalf was now ordering bitter melon again, just like when we first met.

I smiled faintly. “I hate bitter melon. The smell makes me sick.”

“Then don’t eat it,” he snapped.

His impatience was obvious. My smile didn’t falter. “Let’s brea, ”

A girl suddenly appeared beside our table, cutting me off.

“Ethan, you still remember I love bitter melon after all these years!”