Chapter 2: Seven Years of Silence

I opened old videos I’d recorded, and the ugly truth stared me in the face.

The faint whirr of my laptop fan filled the quiet apartment. My reflection shone ghostlike in the dark screen between videos. The glow cast faint shadows across the books stacked by my bedside—music theory, poetry, and a battered copy of The Bell Jar.

Seven years together—nothing but a cruel joke.

Chase never once spent my birthday with me.

Even his first gig, when I promoted him online until I passed out from exhaustion, all I got was:

"Lila, thanks for all your hard work."

Even in bed, lost in passion, the name he whispered, obsessed, was always "Lila."

He never held back; when he hurt me, I tried to use sign language, but it was pointless.

Afterwards, he always looked innocent and said:

[Be good, your hands are shaking, babe, I can’t understand.]

But lately, he’d use sign language to ask if it hurt.

I’d never seen him so gentle.

Now I get it.

He said: "Just right to use the little deaf girl for practice. Lila’s delicate, can’t let her get hurt."

A sour ache filled my chest, tears streaming down.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, muffling a sob. My chest felt tight, raw—like all the air in the room had been used up on someone else’s story.

How could he be so cruel?

When he broke with the Preston family and had nothing, chasing his music dream,

the one who left him and moved to London was Lila Evans.

The one who stayed, from nothing to Grammy nominations, was me.

My phone lit up.

It was a message from the doctor.

[Ms. Lane, are you sure you want to give up further treatment overseas?]

[You endured cochlear implant surgery before. It’s a shame to stop now.]

I wiped my tears and replied:

[I’ll go.]

I don’t want Chase anymore.

The date to fly out was set for a week later.

Coincidentally, it was the night Chase would propose on stage at his concert.

……

That night, Chase didn’t come home.

The clock ticked past midnight, the apartment lit only by the city glow outside and the soft hum of my phone screen. The hollow silence was louder than any argument.

I got a message from Lila Evans:

[Don’t wait up, babe. Chase is playing me to sleep. Told him I’m fine, but he’s just so sweet. Guess old habits die hard, huh?]

[You know, after seven years, it’s crazy how much he remembers.]

In the photo, over her bare shoulder,

the man is playing piano.

He’s in a black T-shirt and an antique silver chain.

That cold, elegant face, under the warm yellow lamp, looks heartbreakingly gentle.

His long fingers move over the keys like he’s caressing a lover.

Lila keeps showing off:

[That’s all. If he catches me on my phone, he’ll be mad.]

After all these years, she still can’t stand to see me happy.

But I don’t want to compete anymore.

Chase is tainted now. I don’t want him.

[Oh, by the way, want this? Poor thing, beg me—maybe I’ll give it to you.]

[laugh.JPG]

Seeing the photo, my heart clenched.

I tossed my phone onto the bed, pressing my fist to my lips. The ache behind my eyes burned, but I refused to give Lila the satisfaction of a single tear. Let her keep him, I thought. I deserve better than this—didn’t I?

I scrolled back through every photo, every message, every lie. My thumb hovered over delete.