Chapter 2

Julian and I fell in love during the first heavy snowfall of our college winter.

The boy who tucked my freezing, shivering hands into his coat pockets once looked at me with eyes brighter and more sincere than the stars.

Over those years, he would hold me close again and again, his eyes full of dreams: "Elara, someday I'm going to plant a whole greenhouse of white roses just for you. We'll have the grandest wedding right in the middle of that garden, and I'll make you the happiest bride on earth."

Every single word of that vow became my deepest anchor and yearning for five whole years.

On countless late nights—when my hands were covered in hives from tending the seedlings and my back ached too much to stand straight—I pushed through the exhaustion just by imagining what it would feel like to wear a white gown for him on that day.

And now? When the Juliet white roses were finally in full bloom, he simply brushed it all aside with one sentence: "Let's push the wedding to next year. Chloe needs the greenhouse for her experiments right now. Elara, we've been together for five years—a few more months won't change anything, right?"

With just a few effortless words, he crushed the dream I had treasured for five years into the mud.

Over the next few days, Julian left early and came home late, pouring himself entirely into modifying the greenhouse for Chloe.

"Elara, Chloe's experiment requires precise lighting. I need to redo the shading system on the greenhouse roof, so I won't be home for dinner tonight."

"Elara, Chloe accidentally broke a few petri dishes and cut her hand. I'm taking her to the clinic—you go to bed early."

To every text, I replied with a single short word: "Okay." I didn't tell him to be safe, nor did I ask what time he'd be home like I used to.

Because I was busy quietly erasing my life, piece by piece, from the apartment we had shared for the last four years.

Once I actually started packing, I realized I owned far less than I thought.

In the study, I didn't touch a single photo on the corkboard covered in memories from our last five years together.

My eyes lingered on the photo pinned right in the center—a snapshot from our trip to Iceland.

In it, Julian was kissing me beneath the brilliant northern lights, promising to cherish me forever.

As warm as that memory once felt, this empty apartment felt equally cold now.

A long, hollow ache swelled up in my chest, threatening to pull me under.

What felt most ironic was the pair of wedding rings sitting in the nightstand—rings we had picked out together ages ago.

I had blushed countless times imagining the moment he would slide one onto my ring finger, but now, they just felt like an insult.

I looked at them, letting the very last thread of resentment and lingering affection wither away in the silence.

Then, I calmly closed the velvet lid and pushed the ring box all the way to the deepest back corner of the drawer.

That evening, as I was flipping through our wedding planning portfolio, the lock clicked. Julian had come home early.

His eyes fell on the wedding plans, and his relatively relaxed expression darkened instantly.

"Elara, are you leaving this out as some kind of silent protest? I already told you—we're postponing the wedding."

I closed the portfolio. "A promise five years in the making deserves to be honored by someone."

Julian stared at me, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That's enough. Call the planners tomorrow and tell them all the original wedding arrangements are canceled."

With that, he turned on his heel, walked into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

Early the next morning, Julian wheeled his suitcase out of the bedroom.

"I'm heading to the botanical garden in the next city over with Chloe this weekend," he said coldly as he put on his shoes by the entryway. "We need to collect some special soil samples for her."

I looked at his back.

I knew he wasn't going on a research trip. Last night, an email notification had popped up on his iPad left on the coffee table—a booking confirmation for a couple's suite at the Cliffside Starlight Hotel in that same city.

At midnight, Chloe had updated her social media status: [Can't wait for my birthday trip today.]

He was just going to celebrate her birthday—and running away from the fiancée who had become an annoyance to him.

"Okay."

Watching him turn to leave, I said, "Goodbye, Julian."

The word was barely a whisper, empty of any lingering attachment—a final, permanent farewell to all five years of our history.

His hand paused on the doorknob. He looked back at me, frowning. "Did you say something?"

"Nothing," I said flatly. "Have a good trip."

He didn't give it a second thought, pulling the door open and walking out.

He would never know that once that door clicked shut behind him, our future was gone forever.