Chapter 2

A few weeks after returning from the cliffside sketching trip, the weather gradually began to cool.

On a Thursday morning, I received an email from the Paris College of Art.

Opening my inbox, I found an official acceptance letter for the curatorial studies program in the attachments.

My eyes lingered on the confirmation link at the bottom of the screen for a long time.

I had originally planned to share this good news with Liam over lunch.

I even played out a scenario in my head: if he heard the news and asked me to stay, or showed even a little bit of positive planning for our future, I would give up the opportunity to go to Paris and stay here to find a job as a curatorial assistant in a gallery.

At noon, I bought two cups of coffee and walked to the private studio Liam rented in the old factory district.

The corridor smelled of old cement. The door to his studio wasn't closed tightly; the wooden door was slightly ajar, leaving a gap a few inches wide.

I was just about to raise my hand to knock, but my movement stopped in mid-air.

Through the crack in the door, I could clearly see the scene inside.

The afternoon sun shone through the windows, and the strong scent of turpentine seeped out from the gap.

Liam was standing in front of that massive wooden easel, but he wasn't alone.

He was half-embracing Chloe from behind. Because of their height difference, his head was slightly lowered, and his right hand completely covered the back of Chloe's hand holding the paintbrush, guiding her strokes on the canvas.

Their bodies were pressed tightly against each other. Chloe tilted her head slightly, her lips almost grazing Liam's jawline.

I reached out and pushed the door open.

The old hinges let out a sharp squeak, breaking the quiet of the room.

The two people in front of the canvas froze and turned their heads toward the door simultaneously.

I stood in the doorway and asked in a perfectly steady voice, "What are you doing?"

Liam released his grip on Chloe's hand and turned to face me.

There was no guilt on his face from having his intimate moment interrupted. Instead, he furrowed his brows almost immediately. "Maya, don't you know to knock before coming in?"

He casually tossed the palette in his hand onto the wooden table beside him, producing a dull thud.

"You interrupted my creative train of thought."

I looked at the distance between them, which was less than half a meter. "This is your creative train of thought?"

Liam sighed and looked at me with highly critical eyes. "Don't always drag things down to such a vulgar level. My art is currently going through a severe bottleneck, and I need to break out of my old habits. Chloe is different. She is my new muse right now."

He took a step forward, his tone becoming even more self-righteous. "As for you, Maya, you're too static now. I could paint you with my eyes closed. Can't you be a bit more mature and support my artistic pursuits, instead of running over here making a scene like a complete amateur?"

Hearing these words, I didn't speak immediately.

At that moment, Chloe, who was standing behind Liam, lowered her head.

She rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand, her eyes instantly turning red.

She spoke in a small voice, "Maya, if you're so unhappy about this, I just won't come to paint anymore. Please don't blame Liam because of me."

The moment she finished speaking, Liam instinctively took a half-step sideways, shielding Chloe behind him with half his body.

He looked at me, clear anger in his voice. "Maya, when did you become so narrow-minded? You scared her. Apologize to Chloe, now."

I stood rooted to the spot, looking at the man I had loved for three years.

He stood protecting another woman with complete self-righteousness, using that high-sounding "art theory" to gaslight and belittle me.

At this exact moment, all the romantic filters I had viewed him through over the past three years shattered completely.

I didn't make a scene, I didn't scream at him hysterically, and I didn't apologize to Chloe.

I felt an unprecedented sense of calm.

I gave him one last look, turned around, and walked out of the studio.

I didn't slam the door; I simply and calmly pulled the wooden door shut for them.

Returning to the apartment we shared, the rooms were dead silent.

I went straight to the desk, opened my laptop, pulled up the airline's website, and bought a one-way ticket to Paris for a few days later.

After finishing that, I pulled my large suitcase from the top of the closet in the storage room and laid it flat on the bedroom floor.

I opened the wardrobe, took out my clothes one by one, folded them neatly, and placed them into the suitcase.

The sound of the suitcase zipper closing echoed exceptionally loud in the quiet living room.

I spent the next few hours silently cleaning up and packing away all traces of my life in this place.

I decided to leave him forever.