We were in the thick of wedding planning, curled up on the couch watching a movie, when I felt Eric’s hand drift toward his pocket. He stopped himself, his fingers hesitating in mid-air before retreating to the coffee table to grab a mint instead. "Giving up smoking?" I asked casually. His fingertips paused on the candy. "You said you hated the smell, didn't you?" he murmured with a faint smile. I tilted my head, studying him. "I've been trying to get you to quit for years. Why the sudden change of heart?" He avoided my gaze, unwrapping the mint with a soft crinkle of paper. "Someone told me… smokers die young." The crinkling sound seemed to echo in the quiet room. "Who told you that?" I pressed, my eyes fixed on his profile. His movement hitched for a fraction of a second before he let out a relaxed laugh. "Who do you think? A doctor, of course." 1 On the screen, light and shadow danced across a dramatic scene. Eric popped a mint into my mouth. The intense, cool flavor spread across my tongue, so sharp it made my eyes water. My fingers curled into a fist without me realizing it. The movie’s dialogue dissolved into meaningless noise, my focus entirely gone. The sweet, clean scent of citrus that clung to Eric’s shirt suddenly felt foreign, and I subtly shifted away from him. "Did you change your shower gel?" "Hm?" Eric glanced down at the now-empty space in his arms, his expression carefully neutral. "Just grabbed something random at the supermarket." "You go to the supermarket by yourself now?" I let out a soft, skeptical laugh, looking him straight in the eye. A flicker of something—was it panic?—crossed his face before he composed himself, shrugging with forced nonchalance. "They opened a new one next to the office. A colleague dragged me along during our lunch break." It was a seamless excuse, but Eric was never the type to be easily "dragged along." He wasn't a people-pleaser. I said nothing more, just snuggled back into his embrace. But the unfamiliar scent wrapping around me was a persistent, unsettling hum beneath the surface of our evening. All the little details I’d brushed aside began to connect, forming a thread that pulled my heart down, heavy as lead. Eric, who despised oranges, had bought calamansi-flavored mints. He’d switched his shower gel to a citrus scent—a fragrance so refined it was definitely not a generic supermarket brand. Later that night, when I used his phone to order takeout, the app's top recommendation was a restaurant famous for its sweet and sour dishes. Eric hated overly sweet food as much as I did. The glass in my hand trembled, water spilling over my knuckles. The icy chill on my skin did nothing to quell the sharp, rising panic in my chest. Eric was cheating on me. He was cheating on me with a girl who smelled of citrus and loved sweet and sour food. 2 Eric stayed over at my place that night. After we made love, he fell into a deep, soundless sleep. Everything felt the same as always; even the scent on his skin had mingled with mine, becoming familiar again. But I couldn't sleep. I stared at his phone, face down on the nightstand. It felt like an eternity before I summoned the courage to pick it up. The passcode was still our anniversary. I swiped it open. His call log was filled with work numbers. His most recent texts were in a group chat with colleagues, discussing a project. His photo album, aside from pictures of meeting slides, was full of the cherry blossom photos we’d taken in the park a few weeks ago. I checked his purchase history, his food delivery apps, his travel logs. I scoured every corner of his digital life and found nothing. Not a single crack in his story. I started to wonder if I was just overthinking things, my anxiety amplified by the stress of wedding planning. Then, my heart pounding, I took his car keys and crept downstairs. The car was spotless, the air inside clean and fresh. But the GPS history showed two frequently visited locations: Westwood Medical Center and an unfamiliar residential address. And then I saw it. On the passenger’s side, a faint, smudged footprint was pressed against the inside of the windshield. My mind exploded with fragmented images. They would have pushed the passenger seat all the way back. Maybe he would lean in to bite her earlobe while they were tangled together, just like he’d done with me moments ago… My nails dug into the leather of the driver's seat, leaving shallow crescents behind—marks as invisible and damning as the footprint on the glass, a silent taunt. My knuckles were white. The scenes playing out in my head made me want to vomit. I had always thought my life was on a perfect, smooth track. For the first time, I understood what it felt like for your heart to turn to ash. 3 When I slipped back into bed, Eric, still asleep, instinctively pulled me into his arms. "Babe…" he murmured. That one word was all it took. Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the framed photo on our nightstand. In it, we were in our high school uniforms. Eric was grinning, his canines showing, his arms wrapped around a map where he’d circled our two hometowns. "Just wait," he had said. "The straight line between us… it’s only going to get shorter." I had even planned to surprise him at our wedding by changing from my gown into that same school uniform. I’d imagined the look on his face, his eyes red with emotion. But now… How could this happen? The question echoed in my mind. How could it be him? The boy who had loved me through college, grad school, and ten years of long distance without ever wavering. The man who always tilted the umbrella to cover me in the rain, who set all his passwords to our anniversary, who murmured my name in his sleep. How could he turn around and offer that same tenderness to someone else? For a decade, distance was an invisible thread connecting us. We grew on opposite ends, but our lives were always intertwined. We’d weathered so many storms together. The time I had a 104-degree fever, wrapped in a blanket, sobbing into the phone to him from across the ocean. The time he was mugged abroad and took three stab wounds to protect the ring he’d bought for me, only to brush it off as "just a scratch." Six months ago, he’d secretly quit his high-paying job overseas and shown up at my office in a tailored suit, holding a bouquet of sunflowers—my favorite flower since high school. "I told you," he’d said, lifting me up and spinning me around as I leaped into his arms, my dress flying. "The line was bound to get shorter." We decorated our new home together. We booked the wedding venue. We told every friend from high school, every teacher, that we were finally getting married. So why, when we were just one step from the finish line, did he get lost? In that moment, I realized it wasn't just the physical betrayal that gutted me. It was that he was changing, becoming "better," for someone else. For all the years he’d catered to my every whim, the one thing Eric wouldn’t do for me was quit smoking. No matter how many times I pouted or complained about the smell, he’d just laugh and kiss me. "A man needs his vices," he’d say. I couldn’t accept it. He had finally quit for "me," but the real reason was another woman, one who probably said, "I don't want to taste smoke when we kiss." The feeling was like being stabbed by the person you loved most in the world. Ten years of our lives felt like shattered starlight, glinting with memories that could no longer be pieced together into a picture of love. 4 I didn't sleep a wink. The next morning, I told Eric I had a meeting across town and didn’t need a ride. Then I took a cab to the hospital that kept appearing in his GPS history. A woman's intuition is a terrifyingly accurate thing. At a quarter to eight, Eric's car pulled up to the main entrance. The girl who stepped out of the passenger seat had eyes as clear as a stream and a smile that lit up her whole face. As she waved goodbye, even the breeze seemed to carry that sweet, cloying scent of citrus. Back at the office, it took me less than an hour to find her profile on the hospital’s official website. Clementine Horberg. M.D., Resident Physician in the Respiratory Department. It didn't take much more effort to find her social media. Like many medical professionals, she used it to share public health information. I scrolled down her feed until I found it. A post. She was in her white coat, holding up a pair of lung CT scans—one healthy, one not—clearly listing the dangers of secondhand smoke. At the end, she added a gentle reminder: "For the health of those around you, please avoid smoking in enclosed spaces." The top comment, pinned for all to see, was from an avatar I knew all too well. The tone was sickeningly intimate. "Got the message loud and clear from Dr. C! All cigarettes have been trashed. Ready for inspection, boss!" It was followed by a little red flag emoji. Compared to the serious, professional tone of her post, his comment felt like the candy he now carried in his pocket: brazenly, unapologetically sweet. And then I remembered where I'd seen her before. Three months ago, Eric's grandmother had been hospitalized for pneumonia. In the respiratory ward. I’d visited her several times. Clementine had been her attending physician. Eric had spent every day at the hospital back then. My mom had even praised him for it. "You picked a good one, Ava. Eric is such a devoted grandson." Looking back, it was clear his devotion had been directed elsewhere. Other overlooked details now screamed at me. A few days ago, on his birthday, he’d received a flood of "Happy Birthday" texts from various boba tea chains. He only ever drank black coffee. He got a new, trendier haircut and started working out, claiming it was all to look good for the wedding. I had always believed Eric was the most trustworthy man alive. He let me look at his phone whenever I wanted, always told me where he was going, and his social media was a shrine to me. Our anniversaries were never forgotten. I had become so complacent that when I first felt a flicker of doubt, my immediate reaction was to question my own sanity. When my workday ended, Eric called. He said he was heading to the gym first. I kept my voice light. "What's with the sudden fitness kick?" There was a slight pause on his end before he chuckled. "Got to stay in shape to keep up with you, right?" I laughed too, a hollow sound. I resisted the childish urge to ask, Keep up with me, or with her? After we hung up, I opened the smart watch app on my phone. He had probably forgotten that when we were long-distance, I’d given him the watch so we could see each other's heart rates in real time. Right now, for someone who claimed to be "at the gym," his heart rate was as flat and steady as a calm sea. I sent him a text. "I'm free tomorrow. Want to go get our pre-wedding health check-ups done?" It took him a long time to reply. When he did, the message was cheerful. "Of course, babe." He even added a cute emoji. The forced pleasantries felt like a layer of plastic wrap, stretched tight over something that was slowly rotting inside. That was enough. I wiped the cold tears from my face. Better to rip off the bandage and face the ugly, broken mess underneath than to slowly suffocate in a lie. 5 The next day, I drove to pick up Eric. He was quiet the whole way, staring blankly out the window. It wasn't until I pulled into the parking garage of Westwood Medical Center that he snapped out of it. His head whipped around, his brow furrowed. "I thought we were getting our health check-up?" "What's the difference where we get it done?" I met his gaze. "Didn't you say the ones at the courthouse are just a formality? A big hospital will be more thorough." I parked the car. He gripped my hand, his own slick with sweat, and didn't move. "Ava," he said, his voice strained. "I just remembered I had breakfast this morning. You're supposed to fast for the blood tests, right? Maybe we should reschedule? Since we both took the day off, I could take you shopping instead. Or we could go to that new restaurant you wanted to try—" "We're already here," I cut him off, letting him hold my hand. I gave him a teasing, playful smile. "Eric, you don't have some secret illness you're hiding, do you? You seem awfully nervous." "Of course not," he forced a laugh, finally getting out of the car. As we walked toward the main building, Eric was glued to his phone, frantically typing. Seeing the undisguised panic on his face, I almost wanted to tell him that in a hospital this massive, with thousands of employees, the odds of running into one specific person were slim. Unless… I led him all the way to a consultation room before handing him his ID. I smiled brightly at him. "I already registered us." My smile widened. "And look at that, what a coincidence. Dr. Clementine is on duty today… You remember her, don't you? From when your grandma was here." Eric's gaze locked onto the nameplate on the door: Clementine Horberg, M.D. The color drained from his face. 6 I linked my arm through his and pulled him into the room. Clementine was writing in a patient's chart. When she looked up, her eyes landed on Eric and froze. A blush immediately crept up her neck, and her eyes started to well up. Eric’s arm tensed under my hand. He couldn't even bring himself to look at her. "Dr. Horberg, hello!" I chirped, my voice warm and friendly. "Long time no see. I hope you remember us?" I continued, not waiting for an answer. "My fiancé's grandmother was a patient of yours three months ago. You took such wonderful care of her." Clementine blinked, quickly composing herself. "Of course. It's my job." She cleared her throat. "So, what seems to be the problem today?" I rested my hand on Eric’s arm, my smile perfectly serene. "We're planning to start a family after the wedding, and since he was a smoker for so long, I was a bit worried about all the secondhand smoke I've inhaled. We wanted to get a thorough lung check-up." I paused, letting my words sink in. "I actually saw your health awareness page online. Your advice on quitting smoking was far more effective than my years of nagging, I'll tell you that." I brought up the smoking deliberately, watching from the corner of my eye as Eric's hand, resting on his knee, clenched into a tight fist. His eyes met Clementine's for a fleeting second before they both looked away as if they'd been burned. Her pen slipped, leaving a dark blot of ink on the chart. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. "Okay. I'll order a CT scan and some blood work for both of you." Noticing her red-rimmed eyes, I feigned concern. "Dr. Horberg, are you alright? Your eyes are so red. The flu is going around, you should take care of yourself." "Ava, let's not waste the doctor's time," Eric cut in, his voice tight. I shot him a playful, scolding look. "What's wrong with you? I'm just showing some concern. It feels like fate, running into Dr. Horberg like this." Eric opened his mouth, but no words came out. The air in the room was thick and suffocating. The silent, awkward tension was a net, trapping the three of us inside. And I watched, fascinated, as it slowly tightened. Clementine’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and resentment. "I just didn't sleep well… You should go get your tests done. Come back for a follow-up once you have the results." Eric's face was ashen. He practically dragged me out of the room. I stumbled behind him, a cold, triumphant smile hidden on my lips. 7 The dramatic confrontation I had anticipated never happened. When we returned with our test results, a different doctor was in the consultation room. "Dr. Horberg wasn't feeling well," the new doctor explained. "She had to take the rest of the day off." Eric's face went white, his anxiety palpable. "See?" I said, feigning innocence. "I told you she looked sick." He forced a weak smile. "Right. Well, it has nothing to do with us." He pulled out his phone, his brow furrowed. "Ava, I have to go back to the office for something urgent. I can't make dinner tonight." "But you already bought tickets for the premiere tonight," I pouted. Eric froze. Then, as if he’d made a firm decision, he leaned in and hugged me tightly. "Babe, you head home first. I'll come pick you up before the movie starts." Before I could reply, he was gone, flagging down a taxi at the hospital entrance. I didn't bother following him. I knew exactly where he was going. I drove home alone. I changed into the dress Eric had bought me and spent an entire hour on my makeup, making sure every detail was perfect. Lately, our mutual friends had been acting strange, like they were all in on a secret. My best friend, Chloe, had insisted on dragging me to Tiffany’s "just to look" at engagement rings. At a game night, when it was my turn for "Truth or Dare," the "truth" question was a ridiculously unsubtle, "Would you prefer a private proposal or one with all your friends?" When I’d casually mentioned a movie I wanted to see, Eric bought tickets for the premiere the very next day, telling me to keep the evening free no matter what. Everyone was buzzing with an anticipation they could barely contain. I wasn't blind to it. I had a pretty good idea of what Eric was planning for tonight.
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