The moment graduation ended, I boarded a five-hour train to Boston to see my boyfriend. While waiting for Lewis at South Station, I was scrolling through my feed when I stopped on a viral post with thousands of likes: “Am I being too sensitive? My childhood best friend ditched me to pick up his girlfriend, and it kind of hurts.” “His girlfriend is my close friend. The three of us grew up together, a tight-knit trio. He’s always been incredibly good to both of us.” “A few days ago, I had a high fever. He panicked, carried me to the ER in the middle of the night, and even took a day off work to stay by my side. When my thesis advisor rejected my draft, he stayed up all night rewriting it with me...” “I used to think nothing of it, but lately, hearing him on the phone with his girlfriend for hours makes my stomach twist.” My heart skipped a beat. I remembered calling Lewis a few nights ago, only to find his phone switched off. He didn’t call back until the following afternoon. He claimed he’d been busy with research, but never mentioned who he was with. In the comments, people were egging her on: “Call him back! Let’s see who he chooses—you or the girlfriend!” I was about to leave a reply when a text from Lewis popped up. “Hey babe, something came up and I can’t pick you up anymore. Grab an Uber, okay?” My breath caught. I tapped on the poster’s profile. Her location tag showed the exact city I was standing in: Boston. … I froze, the noise of the crowded station fading into static. I kept telling myself I was overthinking, grasping at ghosts. Then, I saw the poster's reply from a minute ago: “He says he’s almost here.” The comment section was in a frenzy, waiting for updates. I opened my rideshare app, my fingers trembling so hard I could barely type the address. In the four years I’d been visiting him in Boston, Lewis had always been there to meet me the second I stepped off the train, rain or shine. This was the first time he hadn’t shown up. Maybe it was the heavy, overcast sky, but a cold weight began to settle deep in my chest. I switched to a burner account and followed her profile. A few minutes later, she posted an update. The caption was dripping with playful affection: “I knew I was his favorite.” Beneath it was a photo of two hands, fingers tightly intertwined. I recognized the hand instantly. The watch on his wrist was the designer chronograph I’d bought him for Valentine’s Day. To afford it, I had worked two part-time jobs for nearly two years, draining every single cent of my internship savings. Taking a shaky breath, I read the rest of the text. “He heard me cough on the phone and rushed right back. My heart is so full.” The comment section was in a frenzy. “Go confess your feelings! We’re rooting for you!” Irene replied: “I don’t know, it feels wrong. He’s been with my best friend for seven years.” Someone shot back: “So what? Ever heard of the seven-year itch? Your friend is ancient history to him. You’re the one who owns his heart now!” A sudden crack of thunder echoed overhead, and the heavens opened up, pouring rain onto the Boston streets. Standing near the drafty exit of the station, I shivered violently. Seven years. Lewis and I had been together for seven years. We survived three years of high school drama and four years of a grueling long-distance relationship. When he and Irene got into the fast-track Ivy League graduate program here, I spent every waking hour planning to relocate to Boston so we could finally be together. During a FaceTime call a few days ago, I saw Irene drape her arms around Lewis’s neck, whispering something directly into his ear. He didn’t even flinch, let alone push her away. They just laughed, sharing some private joke, before abruptly ending the call. My stomach had dropped then, but I forced myself to swallow the doubt, telling myself they were just close. I hadn’t realized that their “closeness” had long since crossed the line of acceptable friendship. It took me twenty agonizing minutes to finally secure a ride. By the time the Uber pulled away, the rain was coming down in sheets. The radio announcer warned of a historic storm hitting the northeast, predicting days of heavy, unrelenting rain. The sedan I was in had low clearance, and as we hit a flooded intersection downtown, the engine sputtered and died. The driver cursed the weather, threw his hands up, and told me he couldn’t go any further. I had to get out and walk. Standing on the rain-slicked sidewalk, I dialed Lewis’s number. He usually answered on the first ring, but this time, the line rang and rang, stretching into a painful silence before he finally picked up. I stood at the street corner, drenched, freezing, and utterly exhausted. The moment I heard his voice, the tears I’d been holding back spilled over. “Lewis, please, can you come get me? I’m stuck near—” “Grace,” he interrupted, his voice flat and heavy. “You’re not a child. I can’t drop everything to rescue you every single time. Just call an Uber and head to the apartment, okay? Be reasonable.” “No, Lewis, listen—” Before I could explain that the streets were flooded, the line went dead. Just then, a notification pinged on my screen. It was an email from a prestigious firm in Boston—a formal job offer. To bridge the gap between us, I had spent the last four years killing myself academically—stacking my resume with internships, maintaining a perfect GPA, winning competitions. I had turned down great offers back in my hometown of Philadelphia, sending out over a thousand applications to Boston-based companies instead. After nearly fifty rejections, I had finally landed my dream job here. This was supposed to be the happiest moment of my life, but looking at the screen, I felt absolutely hollow. I stared at the acceptance button for what felt like an eternity. Then, with a numb finger, I clicked Decline. By the time I finally reached the apartment building, the city was draped in pitch darkness. I stood in front of the door, shivering, and punched my birthday into the keypad. Incorrect code. I tried again, and then again. The red light flashed mockingly. Before I could try a fourth time, the door clicked open from the inside. Lewis stood there. The moment his eyes fell on me, he froze. I was half-drenched, my hair plastered to my forehead, and water was pooling around my suitcase. He frowned, taking my suitcase with a look of mild irritation. “How did you manage to get yourself this soaked?” I didn't answer. My eyes drifted to the shoe rack. There were several pairs of women’s heels and sneakers. None of them belonged to me. Irene sat up from the sofa, her voice dripping with sweet concern. “Grace! You’re finally here! You must be exhausted. I kept telling Lewis he should go pick you up, but he just wouldn’t listen…” Lewis grabbed a throw blanket and gently draped it over her shoulders. “You still have a fever. I wasn’t going to leave you alone.” Irene snuggled into the fabric, a delicate blush creeping onto her cheeks. I stared at the blanket wrapped around her. It was a custom cashmere throw I had bought him for his birthday. He’d told me it was too precious to use every day and kept it folded away in his closet. Now, it was keeping another woman warm. I looked directly at Lewis, my voice hoarse. “Why did you change the door code, Lewis?” The keypad code had been my birthday for four years. He had never changed it. Not once. “Irene kept forgetting it,” he said casually. “So we changed it to something easier.” But the three of us had grown up together. There was no way she didn't know my birthday. I bit my lip, forcing the next words past my throat. “She’s here that often? Or... are you two living together now?” Only a few months ago, Lewis had promised me this apartment would be our sanctuary—the place we’d build our life together once I moved here. But looking around, every corner of this “home” bore the unmistakable stamp of another woman. Lewis’s expression instantly hardened. “Grace, what are you implying? Irene is our childhood friend. What’s wrong with her staying over for a few days while she recovers?” A draft seeped through the window, making me shiver. I broke into a sudden fit of coughing, my eyes watering from the strain. Lewis grabbed a towel and tossed it over my head. “Go take a hot shower. You look like a mess.” I clutched my change of clothes and ran into the bathroom. The moment the door clicked shut, my composure shattered. On the vanity, my toothbrush, my face wash, my towels—everything I’d left here—were gone. In their place were Irene’s things. Two matching, pastel-colored toothbrushes sat in a single ceramic cup. A couple’s set. From outside the door, soft voices drifted in. “Lewis, don’t be so harsh on Grace. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have stayed; I didn’t think about how it would look.” At the mention of my name, Lewis sighed, his tone laced with irritation. “It’s not your fault, Irene. She’s just being insecure. She always blows things out of proportion.” I turned the shower on full blast, letting the sound of rushing water drown out my muffled, breaking sobs. When I finally stepped out, Lewis and Irene were huddled over a laptop at the dining table, working on her thesis. They were sitting so close their shoulders brushed, their faces inches apart under the warm glow of the lamp. Lewis’s voice was gentler than I had heard it in months. “The transition in this paragraph is a bit weak. Let me smooth it out for you, and we should check these data points...” He was entirely focused on her screen, never once looking up to see if I was okay. I was a ghost in my own future home. I retreated to the bedroom and closed the door behind me. My suitcase sat untouched in the corner. When I opened the closet, half of the hanger space was filled with Irene’s cardigans and dresses. The vanity was covered in high-end makeup brands I didn’t recognize. This wasn’t a temporary guest staying over. Irene had moved in. She had claimed this space as her own, and suddenly, I was the intruder. I had absolutely no right to be here. As I pulled up my phone to book a train ticket back home, a text from Irene popped up. “Grace, please don't take today the wrong way. Lewis and I are just friends.” But a few minutes later, my burner account refreshed to show a new post on her profile. It was a candid photo of Lewis, his brow furrowed in concentration as he edited her paper. The image was softly lit, capturing a quiet, intimate warmth. The caption read: “It's official. I think my childhood best friend likes me back. Should I confess?” Within sixty seconds, the post was flooded with comments. “Do it! We need a happy ending!” “He’s so gorgeous, honestly, I would have fallen for him too!” With a numb hand, I typed three words under the post: “Have some shame.” Almost instantly, defensive replies came pouring in. “Someone's bitter.” “Why are you hating on true love? Get a life.” The notifications piled up, filled with venom. Within minutes, my comment was deleted, and my burner account was blocked from commenting further. At 1:00 AM, Irene updated her caption: “I've decided! If this gets 100k likes, I'm going to tell him how I feel. I don't want to lose him.” The likes surged rapidly, hitting tens of thousands in minutes. Sitting in the dark bedroom, I tapped the heart icon myself. If they were so desperate to be together, I would get out of their way. I didn’t hear Lewis come to bed. When I woke up the next morning, his arm was draped over my waist, pulling me against his chest. But the scent that clung to him wasn’t his—it was the sweet, floral perfume Irene wore. It was beautiful, and it made me feel physically sick. I tried to push his arm away, but he only tightened his grip, burying his face in my neck. There were dark circles under his eyes, proof of another sleepless night dedicated to Irene. “Stop it, Grace,” he mumbled. “Let me sleep a little longer.” I slid out of his embrace, went to the bathroom to wash my face, and began quietly packing my suitcase. The rustle of the zipper woke him. He sat up instantly, catching my wrist. “Grace? What are you doing?” “I’m going back to Philly.” “You said you were going to look for a job here in Boston. Why are you going back?” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice remarkably steady. “Lewis, we're done. Let's break up.” He stared at me for a beat, then let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Are you seriously doing this because I couldn't pick you up from the station? Grace, do you hear yourself? How childish can you get?” Childish. That was his word for me every time I expressed hurt. It was always easier to dismiss my feelings as immaturity. But I was done arguing. When I kept silent, Lewis reached into the nightstand drawer and tossed a folder onto the bed. “Look, Irene and I pulled some major strings to get you an internship at a tech firm downtown. You start next week. We had to cash in a lot of favors for this, Grace. Grow up and stop making everything so difficult.” I glanced down at the folder. It was an entry-level internship with a small tech agency, paying barely enough to cover groceries, working six days a week. The offer I had declined this morning paid more than double that, with full benefits. I slammed the folder back onto the nightstand, my eyes burning. “Is that what you think of me, Lewis? That I’m some charity case who can't even get a job on her own?” Lewis stood up, looking down at me with a cold, exasperated sigh. “Grace, let’s be realistic. What credentials do you actually have? Irene and I graduated from Ivy League institutions. You went to a decent state school. Without our help, a resume like yours wouldn’t even pass their automated screening!” His words cut straight through me, sharp and precise. All our lives, Lewis and Irene had been the golden children, while I was just... ordinary. When we were younger and Lewis tutored me, he’d playfully knock my forehead and tease me for being slow. I had laughed it off then, thinking it was affection. Everyone in our hometown had always assumed Lewis and Irene would end up together; they were the perfect match on paper. When Lewis and I started dating, his parents made no secret of their disappointment. Every family dinner was an exercise in passive-aggressive remarks about how I wasn’t “intellectually compatible” with their son, how Irene would have been a much better fit. I had cried myself to sleep so many nights over those comments. Back then, Lewis would wrap his arms around me and whisper, “Don't listen to them, Grace. You're perfect for me. I love you for who you are.” But now, he was saying the exact same things. “So you agree with them,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You think I’m not smart enough for you. You think my degree makes you look bad.” Lewis blinked, a sudden flash of panic breaking through his arrogance. “No, Grace, that’s not what I meant. I just—” I pushed past him, refusing to listen. As I threw open the bedroom door, I found Irene standing in the hallway. She reached out, grabbing my forearm with a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Grace, please, you’re misunderstanding. We were just trying to help you get a foot in the door...” Something inside me snapped. I yanked my arm away with all my strength. “Get away from me!” I snapped. The force of my movement sent her stumbling backward. She let out a soft cry and fell hard onto the polished floor. From behind me, Lewis roared. He shoved past me, kneeling to scoop Irene into his arms. “Grace! What the hell is wrong with you? Don't take your frustrations out on her!” It was the first time he had ever raised his voice at me like that. A cold, suffocating pain radiated from my chest. I grabbed my purse, slammed the front door, and walked out into the rain. I didn't look back. And he didn't run after me. The storm showed no signs of letting up. I walked aimlessly down the slick sidewalks, the rain washing away the tears on my face. I remembered the night we got our college acceptance letters. Lewis and Irene were both headed to their elite Boston schools. They had begged me to go to a lower-tier college nearby just so we wouldn't have to be apart. I had stared at my laptop screen all night, torn. In the end, I chose to go to the reputable state university in Philadelphia. I wanted to build something of my own. When Lewis found out, he was furious. He tried to convince me to transfer, saying, “Grace, I just want us to be together. I don't care about the prestige of your school.” But I cared. I wanted to close the gap between us, even if only by a fraction. We hadn't spoken for a month after that decision. In college, Lewis continued to shine. His social media was a constant stream of photos from international competitions and academic conferences—almost always alongside Irene. When we hung out during holidays, they talked about research grants and professors I’d never heard of, leaving me sitting in silence, smiling politely at a conversation I couldn't join. There was no shortage of girls chasing him at school. Irene would always call to keep me “updated”—giggling as she told me about the freshman who confessed to him, or the department beauty trying to get his number. I had lived in constant, quiet terror during those years. I’d call him multiple times a day, even asking Irene to keep an eye on him. At first, Lewis was patient, reassuring me. But as the semesters dragged on, his patience wore thin. We began to fight constantly. Eventually, he started comparing us, hinting that Irene was much more understanding of his busy schedule. Terrified of losing him, I was always the one to apologize first. And with every fight we had, Irene moved a step closer to him. The warning signs had been there all along; I had just chosen to be blind. By afternoon, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. I walked back to the apartment to gather my things. Standing before the door, I stared at the keypad. I hesitated, then pressed the keys corresponding to Irene's birthday. With a soft, melodic beep, the lock clicked open. I let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. The tears flowed freely now. The living room was quiet, but a warm light spilled from the cracked bedroom door. I stepped closer and peered in. Irene was leaning over Lewis on the bed. Their foreheads were pressed together, their noses almost touching, close enough that they were breathing the same air. Irene wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline. “I love you, Lewis,” she whispered, her face flushed. Lewis looked stunned, but he didn't push her away. She smiled, leaning closer, her lips hovering just millimeters from his. Every ounce of pain and restraint I had built up over seven years shattered. I threw the door open, grabbed Irene by her collar, yanked her off him, and delivered a sharp, stinging slap across her face. “Are you seriously this pathetic, Irene? Sleeping with your best friend's boyfriend?” She shrieked, trying to scramble away, but I caught her by the hair, dragging her back. In the chaotic scuffle, she fell onto the floor, sobbing as her cheek began to swell. Lewis finally broke out of his stupor. He shoved me back forcefully and knelt beside Irene, his eyes filled with absolute panic as he examined her face. “Irene! Are you okay? Does it hurt?” He whipped his head around to face me, his eyes colder than ice. “Grace, have you lost your mind? Apologize to her right now!” I stared at his furious expression. I wanted to scream, to ask him how he could look at me like that, but I realized there was nothing left to say. I turned, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out. The elevator doors were just about to slide shut when Irene rushed in, catching the door. She grabbed my sleeve, her eyes red and tearful. “Grace, please, wait! I’m so sorry. I didn't mean to cross the line, I didn't want to hurt you...” I unlocked my phone and held her viral post directly in front of her face. “Don't you get tired of playing the victim, Irene?” The moment her eyes scanned the screen, the tears vanished from her face. She let out a quiet sigh. “Grace,” she said, her voice turning remarkably cold. “You and Lewis are too different. You were always going to break up. He’s surrounded by brilliant women every day. Even if it wasn't me, it would have been someone else eventually.” We stepped out of the lobby. I tried to walk to the curb to hail a cab, but Irene grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly tight. “You can't keep him, Grace. Just break up with him. Let him go.” “You are disgusting, Irene.” I pried her fingers off my wrist, but she lunged and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, refusing to let go. We struggled back and forth, stepping off the curb and onto the rain-slicked asphalt of the narrow street. A car suddenly rounded the corner, its headlights cutting through the heavy rain. The vehicle was moving too fast on the wet road, its high beams blinding us. Both of us froze in the middle of the street, our legs turning to lead. Through the glare, I saw Lewis sprinting toward us, screaming Irene's name. He reached out and, without a single second of hesitation, shoved me hard to the side, throwing his entire body over Irene to shield her. I stumbled backward from the force of his push, falling directly into the path of the oncoming headlights...
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "518515", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel