Chapter 1: The Breaking Point

After another silent standoff with Derek, I was about to type out a long, overthought Facebook post hoping to smooth things over when, suddenly, a barrage of imaginary comments flashed through my mind:

[Here we go again—the guy gets hyped up by his buddies to start another cold war with his girlfriend. So dumb.]

[He ditches his bros’ umbrella and realizes—oh, look, no storm. Classic.]

[Just keep this up. If he really dumps his girlfriend, his friends will be lining up for a chance at love.]

[Girl, look at that childhood friend of the guy who always acts like he hates you. If you just smiled at him, he’d give you his life.]

I stared at my screen, half in disbelief, and sent a message: "Happy breakup."

The next second, my Facebook feed exploded with likes.

1.

I fought with Derek again.

This time, it was because he said I was too controlling.

"What’s wrong with me having a drink out with the guys? Why do you have to make a big deal out of everything?" Derek’s voice was sharp with impatience.

It was already eleven thirty at night.

You could hear the hum of traffic from the open window, the city never really sleeping, while I sat in my sweats, the TV quietly looping reruns in the background.

"You know your stomach’s not great. You can’t drink much."

I tried to keep my voice even, but there was a tremble in it. I fiddled with the edge of a kitchen towel, worrying a thread between my fingers. My words hung in the air, just another reminder that I was the "nagging" girlfriend. The fridge hummed in the corner, louder than either of us.

But Derek clearly didn’t care. On the other end of the phone, I could faintly hear his friends egging him on:

"Derek, how old are you? Still getting called home like a kid."

"Just leave her, man. Don’t let your girlfriend boss you around—go home and sleep on the couch, haha!"

Their teasing made Derek lose face. He got angry out of embarrassment and hung up on me.

When I called again, he immediately declined.

I stared at my phone, thumb hovering over the call button. My chest was tight, my mind racing with every memory of caving first—every time I swallowed my pride to patch things up. I wanted to call one more time, but suddenly, imaginary comments flashed before my eyes:

[So funny, the guy’s being hyped up by his friends to fight with his girlfriend again.]

[He clearly likes being called home, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.]

[Now he’s swiping his phone so much his fingers are smoking, just waiting for her to call a third time.]

I stood there, stunned. Were these comments talking about me?

The girlfriend is me, the boyfriend is Derek?

It seemed so. Derek was always awkward, always having silent standoffs with me. But as long as I made the first move to reconcile, he’d accept—usually on the third try, pretending to be reserved.

The comments were already urging me to call again. But my attention was caught by the first line—those friends who kept hyping Derek up.

Pressing my lips together in annoyance, I dialed another number:

"Why do you always ask Derek out drinking? Don’t you know someone’s waiting for him at home?"

There was a pause, then a cold voice:

"When did I ever ask Derek to drink?"

It was Caleb, Derek’s childhood best friend—and the one who disliked me the most. He’d always looked down on me, never giving me a kind word.

Right now, my anger flared and I didn’t care about our past conflicts:

"If not you, then who? Don’t you know he has stomach problems? Why do you keep dragging him to bars?"

Caleb was scolded directly by me and seemed to laugh out of anger:

"I just got home from a business trip. Haven’t been to any bar you mentioned."

He sent a photo. In it, he looked freshly showered and relaxed, his abs faintly visible:

"Also, I’m home by ten every night, no wild parties. Some of us know how to behave."

He seemed to be hinting at something:

"I’m not like others. If I had a partner, I’d listen to everything they say."

For a moment, I could only stare at the photo—Caleb, ever the responsible one, showing off his routine like a badge of honor. The contrast to Derek’s recklessness stung more than I cared to admit. There was a strange, teasing warmth in his message, like he wanted me to know he’d be different. Even his smugness felt oddly comforting in that lonely kitchen.