1 Our graduation trip was supposed to end with us island-hopping to Honeymoon Island, a tiny, sun-drenched paradise. But I was the only one who actually set foot on the shore. My boyfriend, Wyatt, had sent me a hurried text just as the ferry was boarding, claiming that my best friend, Fiona, was having a severe allergic reaction to some insect bites. He told me to go ahead and wait on the island; they would take the next boat and meet me shortly. I waited. I watched the sun climb to its peak, and then I watched it sink into the horizon, taking the very last ferry back with it. There was still no sign of them. I was forced to spend the entire night stranded at the open-air ferry terminal, acting as an all-you-can-eat buffet for the island's relentless, toxic mosquitoes. When dawn finally broke, I caught the first morning boat back to Ibiza, shivering and exhausted. As the boat pulled away from the dock, my phone buzzed with a message from Wyatt. There was no apology, only irritation. You’re still on the island? How old are you, Valerie? Do you seriously not have any common sense? Sitting on the damp plastic seat of the speedboat, I rubbed my swollen, bloodshot eyes. The backs of my hands were covered in angry, throbbing red welts. Out on the water, a solitary dolphin’s dorsal fin sliced through the morning mist, catching the first rays of sunlight. I felt a profound, heavy exhaustion settle into my bones. I was done playing my part in this endless script, waiting for promises that would never be kept. … It was nearly ten in the morning by the time I made it back to our hotel. My clothes, damp with salt water and cold night dew, clung to my skin like a second, freezing layer of skin. My hands were shaking so violently that it took me three tries to slide the keycard into the slot. The moment the lock clicked open, Fiona’s bright, bubbly laughter drifted through the gap. "Wyatt, be honest, does this angle make me look fat?" She was curled up on the sofa, enveloped in Wyatt’s oversized jacket, holding her phone up to his face. Wyatt was leaning in close, his arm draped casually along the back of the sofa behind her, a relaxed, easy smile on his lips. I recognized that jacket instantly. Before we left, terrified of the chilly ocean drafts, I had packed it into his suitcase myself. At the time, he had laughed at me, calling me dramatic. Now, it was draped over Fiona’s shoulders, the soft sleeves pooling around her wrists like a protective shield, keeping her safe from any draft. I stood in the doorway, frozen. The stray grains of sand trapped inside my sandals ground against my raw soles, sending sharp, tiny needles of pain up my legs. Fiona noticed me first, her eyes widening with a sudden, performative cheerfulness. "Valerie! You’re finally back!" She waved me over, her tone incredibly light. "Come help me pick a photo. Wyatt's photography skills are absolutely dreadful, no wonder he never posts pictures of you on his feed." She caught herself a second later, sticking her tongue out in a playful, apologetic gesture. Wyatt looked up, the warmth instantly draining from his face, replaced by his usual stern, disapproving mask. "Why are you just getting back now?" My throat felt like it had been stuffed with dry sea sponge. I swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "You said you’d be right over." "Then you should have used your head," he snapped. "Once the last ferry left, why didn't you just ask a local for help? Why didn't you find a guest house on the island? You're an adult, Valerie. Did you really just stand there like an idiot waiting for sunrise?" Fiona gently nudged his arm, whispering, "Wyatt, stop it, don't yell at her." Though her words were soft, her eyes were fixed on the backs of my hands, where the swollen, angry red bites had begun to weep clear fluid and blood from where I had scratched them in the night. Wyatt noticed them too. He paused, his expression shifting slightly as he stepped forward and grabbed my wrist. For a fleeting second, I thought he was going to ask if I was alright, or if it hurt. Instead, a small, patronizing chuckle escaped his lips. "Look at you. You really are clumsy, aren't you? Didn't you even know how to find a shelter to hide in?" His tone held that familiar, affectionate condescension. It was the same tone he had used a thousand times before. He loved to call me stubborn. He loved to tell me my brain didn't know how to adapt. He loved to tell me that he was the only man on earth who could ever tolerate my rigidity. For years, I had foolishly mistaken that condescension for love. Now, I realized that his "tolerance" was nothing more than a invisible leash. He would slip it around my neck, pull it tight, and leave me standing there, quietly questioning if I was indeed the one who was always in the wrong. Fiona reached for a small green tin on the coffee table. "Valerie, don't be mad at Wyatt," she said, sliding the tin into my hand. "He spent ages looking for this yesterday." It was a cheap tin of mentholated cooling balm, its metal edges already slightly bent from being pried open. "He knew you’d get bitten by the bugs out there, so he told me to keep it safe for you." A heavy, suffocating sensation pressed down on my chest. So he knew. He knew Honeymoon Island was crawling with mosquitoes. He knew I would stay there and wait. He knew exactly what would happen to my skin. And yet, he still chose not to come. Wyatt reached over, snatched the tin from my fingers, and pressed it firmly into my palm. "Alright, drop the attitude. I bought you the medicine, didn't I? What else do you want from me?" The tin was freezing cold. Pressed against my inflamed skin, it felt like a heavy piece of ice. My mind flashed back to six months ago, when Wyatt had first emailed me the travel brochures for Honeymoon Island. The pictures had shown pristine white sand, crystal-clear water, and wild dolphins playing in the surf. He had kissed my forehead then, whispering, "We're going there for graduation." When I asked him why, he had simply smiled. "You'll see when we get there." A few weeks later, I had accidentally seen his search history on his laptop: Honeymoon Island proposal ideas, sunrise dolphin proposal spots. I remember sitting in the university library that afternoon, staring at the screen with a silly, ecstatic grin on my face. I couldn't focus on a single page of my textbooks. I had truly believed that island was where our future would begin. So when he told me to wait, I waited. I waited from the moment the sun was high in the sky until the ocean turned pitch black. I waited until the tourists cleared out and the ticket booths shut down. I sat on a cold plastic chair, clutching my backpack, watching my phone battery slowly drain away to zero. The mosquitoes buzzed loudly in my ears as I sent him text after text. Wyatt, where are you guys? The last ferry is leaving soon. I'm getting really scared. He never replied. I had held the dying phone to my chest, listening to the slow, heavy thud of my own heart, feeling like a tiny flame being snuffed out by the cold ocean wind. And now, he stood in front of me, telling me to lose the attitude. Fiona smiled up at me, entirely unaffected. "Valerie, why don't you go take a shower first? We wanted to head out to the night market later." Wyatt patted my head, his tone dismissing my silence. "Go on. Don't ruin the schedule for the rest of the day." I looked at him, my voice flat. "Wyatt." "Yeah?" he replied, already pulling out his phone. I had wanted to ask him if he had spent even a single second yesterday wondering if I was safe, or if I was terrified out there alone. But the words died in my throat, turning into a heavy lump of lead. I walked past them, unzipping my suitcase to grab a change of clothes. As the bathroom door clicked shut behind me, I caught Fiona’s lowered voice through the thin wood. "Do you think she's really mad?" "She's always like this," Wyatt replied, his voice indifferent. "She'll get over it." Then the rush of the shower drowned out the rest of their conversation. The hot water hit my skin, sending a sharp, burning agony through the raw welts on my arms and hands. I leaned my forehead against the cold, tiled wall and slowly slid down to the floor, curling into a tight ball. The tears fell silently, mixing with the hot water. I didn't make a sound. I had finally realized something very simple. It wasn't that Wyatt was incapable of keeping his promises. It was just that his promises always expired when they were meant for me. And the proposal I had spent the entire night waiting for on Honeymoon Island had already sailed away on that very last ferry, leaving me behind in the dark. At four in the afternoon, Wyatt shook my shoulder to wake me. "Come on, get dressed. We're going out for dinner." I had only managed to fall asleep an hour prior, and my head felt incredibly heavy. When I opened my eyes, the harsh tropical sunlight was piercing through the gap in the curtains, making my eyes sting. "I don't want to go," I muttered, turning my back to him. The room fell silent for a few seconds. Then, the door creaked open further as Wyatt stepped into the room, holding the half-empty bottle of water I had left on the nightstand. "Didn't you say you wanted to try the local seafood? I went out of my way to book a table at that trendy beachside restaurant as a makeup. Don't be stubborn." A makeup. The word sounded incredibly cheap coming from his mouth, like a free postcard you'd find at a hotel lobby, easily tossed into the wind. I looked up at him, my voice hoarse. "My skin is having an allergic reaction. I need to eat something plain." He glanced down at his phone, his thumb typing rapidly. "Fiona’s been dying to go to this place, and reservations are almost impossible to get. Don't be a party pooper." I didn't argue. I got out of bed and dressed. I wanted to see just how far his favoritism could actually go. The restaurant was right on the beach, the setting sun painting our table in a warm, orange glow. The staff brought out platter after platter of rich, fragrant seafood: spicy local crab, salt-and-pepper head-on shrimp, and rich curry clams. The heavy red oil floated on the surface of the sauces, the sharp, spicy aroma hitting my nose and making my stomach churn. My hands were still hot and throbbing; even without seeing a doctor, I knew touching any of this food would make my allergies flare up violently. Fiona, however, was beaming. "Wyatt, you actually remembered this is my favorite!" Wyatt handed the menu back to the waiter. "And we'll add an order of the spicy Tom Yum soup, please." Fiona picked up a large, steaming shrimp and dropped it onto Wyatt’s plate. "Wyatt, my hands are so sore from yesterday." She held out her wrist, pointing to two tiny, almost invisible red dots on her pale skin. Without a word, Wyatt picked up the shrimp and began to peel it for her, his movements incredibly practiced and careful, even going so far as to neatly remove the vein. Fiona glanced over at me, her expression entirely innocent. "Your girl isn't going to get jealous over a single shrimp, is she, Valerie?" I didn't answer. Wyatt placed the neatly peeled shrimp into her bowl, then turned to look at my empty plate, his face darkening. "Why aren't you eating?" "I can't eat shellfish right now." "Here we go again," he muttered, tossing his wet wipe onto the table with a wet slap. "I bring you out to a nice restaurant, and you decide to give me the silent treatment. Are you seriously still holding a grudge over yesterday? It's getting ridiculous." My fingers tightened around the rim of my glass. "A grudge over yesterday?" Wyatt looked at me like I was a petulant child throwing a tantrum. "You already ruined an entire day of our vacation. Fiona didn't even complain about her allergies, and here you are, playing the victim." Fiona gently reached over, tugging on his sleeve. "Wyatt, don't say that. Valerie is probably just feeling really under the weather." Wyatt didn't back down. "She always does this. Anyone else would let it go after a quick apology, but she has to make sure the entire world revolves around her." I raised my hand, calling over our waiter. "Could I please get a glass of warm water?" The waiter nodded and hurried away. Wyatt stared at me, his jaw clenched, his eyes filled with frustration. He was probably waiting for me to argue, waiting for me to lay out my grievances one by one so he could play the judge and tell me why I was being unreasonable. But I didn't. I simply took a sip of the warm water when it arrived. The liquid was tasteless and plain, but as it slid down my throat, it felt as though it was washing away the very last drop of hope I had kept for him. By the time we got back to the hotel, Fiona was complaining about being exhausted. Almost the second we entered our room, she wrapped herself in a blanket and followed us inside. "Valerie, I think the air conditioning in my room is completely broken," she murmured, standing near the door with her eyes cast down. "And with my allergies acting up from yesterday, I’m really scared to sleep alone." I turned my head to look at Wyatt. He was in the middle of unbuckling his watch, but he paused, looking up at her. "You can just sleep here, then." I froze. "If she sleeps here, where am I supposed to go?" Wyatt looked at me, as if the question hadn't even crossed his mind. After a brief silence, he shrugged. "You can go sleep in Fiona’s room." Fiona immediately chimed in, her voice hushed. "Oh, that’s really not fair to Valerie. I can probably just manage in my room..." Though she spoke of leaving, her feet didn't move, and she sat down comfortably on our sofa. Wyatt looked at me, his tone completely matter-of-fact. "Fiona has always been easily frightened, and she’s sick. You’ve always been independent, Valerie. What’s the big deal about taking one for the team for a single night?" I stared at the large king-sized bed. On the nightstand sat our matching travel mugs, one blue, one white. Before we had left the room yesterday, I had filled the white mug with warm water, planning to use it to take my allergy medication when I returned. Now, that very white mug was in Fiona’s hands. She took a small sip, wrinkling her nose. "It’s a bit cold." Wyatt took the mug from her, poured the water into the sink, and refilled it with fresh, steaming water from the kettle. A hollow, cold sensation bloomed in my chest. And then, slowly, a smile touched my lips. So my strength, my independence, was nothing more than an easy excuse for them to push me aside whenever it was convenient. My place in his life could be handed over with a single, careless sentence. Seeing my smile, Wyatt’s annoyance flared. "Don't look at me with that sarcastic face." I didn't say a word. I walked over to the wardrobe, pulled my clothes out of the drawers, and laid them out on the bed. The sound of my suitcase zipper running open was incredibly loud in the quiet room. Fiona watched me, her head tilted. "Valerie, are you really leaving? I can honestly just go back to my room." I placed my wash bag into the suitcase. "No. You don't have to." Fiona’s smile faltered slightly. Wyatt stood in the center of the room, looking genuinely shocked that I was actually packing my things. "Valerie, is this really necessary?" "Yes," I said, snapping the locks of my suitcase shut. His face turned incredibly dark. "It’s just for one night." I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Wyatt, last night was just for one night, too." By the middle of the night, I was burning up with a fever. As dawn approached, my feverish dreams were filled with the image of that empty ferry terminal on Honeymoon Island. The lights were out, the ocean wind was howling, and the metal chairs were as cold as blocks of ice. I sat there, clutching my backpack, watching boat after boat pull away from the dock, their white wakes swallowed up by the dark, churning water. Suddenly, a loud knocking woke me. "Valerie, open the door!" I opened my eyes, my head throbbing with a dull, heavy ache. The knocking on the door was loud and impatient. "Valerie, hurry up! We're going to miss our diving slot!" It was Fiona’s voice. I pushed myself up from the bed, the room spinning violently for a second. My feet felt like lead as I dragged myself to the door. When I opened it, Fiona was standing there, dressed in a bright bikini with a sheer white cover-up, her hair neatly styled. Wyatt stood behind her, holding a large waterproof dry bag. The moment his eyes fell on me, his brows knit together. "Why aren't you ready yet?" I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe for support. "I have a fever. I'm staying in today." Fiona’s face fell instantly. "But the diving spots are so hard to get." I looked past her, staring straight at Wyatt. "Diving wasn't on our itinerary." Wyatt’s eyes flickered, looking away for a fraction of a second. "We booked it yesterday." Yesterday. While I was stranded on an island, shivering in the dark, they had been planning their next adventure together. My throat felt incredibly tight. "I'm staying at the hotel to rest." Wyatt’s expression hardened into pure disgust. "Valerie, can you stop throwing tantrums? You already ruined our plans yesterday, and now you're pulling this. We didn't come on this trip just to watch you sulk in bed." I raised a hand, touching my burning forehead. "I am genuinely sick, Wyatt." He glanced at the swollen welts on my arm. "Fiona had the exact same reaction yesterday, and she’s perfectly fine after a bit of rest. Stop using your health as an excuse to get attention." Fiona quickly stepped in, her voice sweet and conciliatory. "Wyatt, don't be like that. Maybe we should just skip it. I can stay behind and keep Valerie company." Yet, as she spoke, her fingers tightened around the strap of her beach bag. Predictably, Wyatt’s expression softened into concern for her. "You've been looking forward to this dive for months. Why should you have to miss out?" He turned back to me, his tone icy. "She's being incredibly accommodating, Valerie. What more do you want?" I took a step back into the room. "Then go. Have a good time." Wyatt let out a cold sneer. "Here we go again. Do you expect me to get down on my knees and beg you? Fine, suit yourself." He grabbed Fiona’s arm and slammed the door shut. Through the thin walls, Fiona’s soft voice carried down the hallway. "Do you think Valerie is really furious with us?" "Just ignore her," Wyatt replied. "She'll come around." Their footsteps gradually faded down the corridor. I collapsed back onto the floor, my back sliding down the door. The coarse carpet fibers scraped against my bare knees. My head was throbbing violently, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I pulled out my phone, trying to book a ride to the local hospital, but the local apps were entirely in a foreign language, and the address on the hotel keycard was too blurry to read. My fingers kept slipping on the screen, inputting the wrong details. Finally, I forced myself to stand, using the wall for support, and made my way down to the lobby. The receptionist on duty was a young woman, her name tag reading Nadia. The moment she heard me asking for hospital directions in raspy Mandarin, she looked up from her computer. "Are you from back home?" she asked, her eyes softening. I managed a weak nod. She looked at my pale, sweaty face, and then at the severe red swelling covering my arms and hands. "You are in no condition to go to the clinic alone." "I can manage," I whispered, but my knees buckled slightly as the words left my lips. Nadia quickly stepped out from behind the counter, catching me by the arm. "I'm coming with you." "But you're at work," I protested weakly. "I'll have my colleague cover for me," she said, grabbing her purse. "We're both far from home, we've got to look out for each other." Her words were incredibly quiet, but they felt like a warm blanket wrapping around my shivering frame. Nadia helped me into a taxi, registered me at the emergency clinic, and translated everything the doctor said. The physician confirmed that the mosquito bites had caused a severe secondary skin infection, warning me to avoid spicy food and seafood, and prescribed a course of intravenous fluids. I sat in the quiet clinic, the cold IV fluid slowly dripping into the vein on the back of my hand. My phone buzzed. I thought it might be Wyatt, checking in on me. But when the screen lit up, it was a notification for a new social media update from Wyatt. It was a photo of Fiona in her diving gear, standing against the backdrop of a breathtakingly blue ocean, flashing a peace sign at the camera. His caption read: First time diving for this little scaredy-cat. She did amazing. Fiona had already left a comment below: Thanks to Wyatt for keeping me safe the whole time! He had replied with a simple, warm smiley face. The needle in my hand suddenly gave a sharp pinch, and a small line of dark red blood began to travel back up the clear plastic tube. Nadia quickly leaned over, pressing her thumb against the cotton ball over the injection site. "Don't move, Valerie. You'll blow the vein." "Right," I whispered, shutting my eyes and locking my phone screen. The tropical sun shone brightly through the clinic window. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled my senses, making my throat tighten. I sat there in that plastic chair, in a country where I didn't speak the language, burning with a fever, while my boyfriend of four years was busy documenting another girl’s milestone. I realized then, with painful clarity, that when you are no longer loved, even your illnesses feel like an inconvenience to the world. By the time the nurse hung the third bag of fluids, I unlocked my phone, opened my contacts, and placed both Wyatt and Fiona on my blocked list. My fingers didn't tremble as I did it. But my eyes burned, hot and dry. While Nadia went out to buy some plain rice porridge, I drifted off to sleep, leaning my head against the plastic back of the chair. When I opened my eyes, a warm hand was holding mine, gripping my fingers tightly. Wyatt was sitting in the chair next to mine. "Looks like the fever is finally coming down," he murmured, his voice slightly hoarse. His clothes smelled of sea salt and sun-dried cotton, and his hair was slightly windswept. He reached over, gently tucking the hospital blanket around my shoulders, his tone turning into a familiar, nagging murmur. "You really are something else, Valerie. Always so stubborn, trying to handle everything on your own without saying a word." I stared at him, my heart entirely flat. "Why did you block my number?" he sighed, rubbing his temples. "Don't be so petty. Fiona sent you a dozen messages, she’s been worried sick about you." I turned my head away, looking at the white wall. "Is this minor thing really worth making such a scene?" he asked, squeezing my hand. "I know you feel neglected, but you can't just cut me off like this. Fiona and I grew up together, you know how close we are." It was the same old pattern. First the blame, then the gentle coaxing, using his warmth to slowly quiet my anger until I began to doubt my own feelings. I looked at our joined hands. "Unblock me first," he said softly, leaning his forehead against my temple. "Okay?" I pulled my head back, creating a clear space between us. He let out a heavy sigh. "Fine. You rest up. I'll go get you some warm water." He let go of my hand, stood up, and walked out of the room. "Don't run off," he called back from the doorway. I waited. Ten minutes passed. Twenty minutes. Forty minutes. The hot water dispenser was only at the end of the short corridor. I pulled the IV needle from my hand myself, pressing down on the cotton ball as I slowly walked out of the ward toward the front desk. The nurse looked up as I approached. I used the basic phrases Nadia had taught me, but the nurse struggled to understand. Fortunately, a young volunteer translator stepped in to help. "The man who was with you?" the volunteer said, thinking for a moment. "Oh, yes. A young lady came looking for him about thirty minutes ago, and he left with her." I stood in the center of the quiet hospital corridor. The overhead fluorescent lights let out a low, constant hum. A medical trolley was pushed past me, its wheels squeaking loudly against the linoleum floor. I walked back to my room, folded the blanket neatly, and left it on the bed. The container of porridge Nadia had bought was still sitting on the nightstand, completely cold. I picked up the spoon and forced myself to swallow two bites. Then, I gathered my belongings, settled my bill at the reception desk, and stepped out of the clinic. The mid-day sun beat down on me, blindingly bright. I stood on the curb, opened my phone, and booked a ride directly to the international airport. It was only when the taxi pulled away from the curb that I realized I hadn't shed a single tear. My chest just felt completely empty, as if some vital piece of me had been quietly removed, leaving behind a hollow space where my feelings used to be. By the time the plane climbed into the sky, the island of Ibiza was nothing more than a tiny speck in the vast blue ocean, the white coastline shrinking into a thin, fragile thread. I leaned my head against the cool window pane and finally closed my eyes. I was done waiting.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "522224", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel