Ever since Aaron first picked up a scalpel, he had operated less like a man and more like a calibrated machine. I learned early on never to complain to him. Not about the depressing cafeteria food, not about sudden downpours, and certainly not about the hollow ache of living under the same roof while feeling like complete strangers. His logic was absolute: "Next to life and death, everything else is background noise." "Cheryl, stop being so dramatic." So I adapted. I handled everything on my own, burying my feelings where he couldn't see them. Until the night my older sister, Nicola, called me late from New York, sobbing through a breakdown about work stress and how much she missed Mom’s slow-braised short ribs. The commotion woke Aaron. The next morning, Nicola’s usually abandoned Instagram feed lit up with a rare update: [Dr. Christian... you’ve always been my ultimate safety net.] In the photo was the hand that held human lives in its grip every day—the hand that had refused to wear a matching band with me because he claimed any metallic sensation would compromise his tactile sensitivity in the operating room. That exact same hand was holding a pair of chopsticks, dropping a tender piece of homemade braised beef into Nicola’s bowl. Eight hundred miles away. In that quiet second, the truth finally crystallized for me. It wasn't that he found emotional needs "dramatic." He just found "mine" pathetic. And after all, I was never the only girl he had grown up with. 01 Looking back, it’s almost funny. Right before I saw Nicola’s post, I had been on the phone with a friend, making excuses for him: "Forget it. Long distance is just too brutal." "He’s a trauma surgeon. He gets called into the OR at all hours. If I take that job transfer in another city, we’d barely see each other once a month. That’s not a real relationship anyway." Every flimsy excuse I had crafted for him withered and died in an instant. My thumb moved involuntarily, refreshing her profile over and over. A mutual friend had commented: "That beef looks burnt! Dr. Christian cooked that? Terrible chef skills." Nicola had replied seconds later: "Hey! Cut him some slack—those hands are meant for saving lives!" Right. Aaron’s favorite line: "In the OR, there is zero room for error." Because of that, I had treated his hands like sacred glass. He insisted that wearing a ring created an unnatural sensation that messed with his precision, so I never asked for couple's bands. I took over every single household chore, guarding the kitchen like a fortress to keep him away from knives and hot oil. I lived in constant fear that a stray burn or cut might ruin his career. When you do all the heavy lifting, you get hurt. Whenever I scraped a palm or cut a finger, Aaron would pull out his medical kit to clean and dress the wound. His fingers were long and elegant, his movements unnervingly steady and meticulous. The way his fingertips pressed against my skin felt like a pianist touching keys. I used to sit there, watching him like a fool, smiling through the sting. "What’s so funny?" he’d ask. "Dr. Christian’s surgical skills are so good," I’d whisper, "I don’t even feel the pain." And his sharp, aloof face would soften into a look of quiet exasperation. "Silly girl," he’d murmur. I thought that was his highest form of tenderness. I never imagined that the distance I treated like a insurmountable monster—the eight hundred miles from Chicago to New York—was nothing more than a minor inconvenience when it came to Nicola. It dwarfed every single step he had ever taken toward me. My hands shook as I hung up on my friend and dialed Aaron’s number. He answered on the third ring, his voice clipped and cool. "What’s wrong?" "Where are you?" I asked, cutting straight through. A brief silence hung on the line. Then, "You saw." My throat locked up. He let out a quiet sigh. "I caught a flight right after my afternoon conference. It was a last-minute decision, so I didn't get a chance to text you. I have a major procedure scheduled for eight tomorrow morning, so I’m dropping off some things for her and heading straight back to the airport." "Cheryl, don’t overthink this. Be good." His voice was terrifyingly candid. And that honesty was the very thing that broke me. In that split second, I found myself praying that he would lie. I wanted him to tell me he was stuck at the hospital doing emergency rounds. At least a lie would mean he felt a flicker of guilt. A shred of remorse. Instead, there was nothing. A laugh bubbled up in my chest—sharp, hollow, echoing off the bare walls of our empty apartment. "Cheryl..." Aaron hesitated, but before he could finish, Nicola’s voice drifted through the receiver from somewhere nearby. It was low, smoky, and laced with her signature effortless charm. "Who’s calling this late, Aaron? Little Cheryl?" Aaron’s breath caught, barely noticeable. "...No. Just a colleague." My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. "He lied." Just not to me. "Another hospital emergency? God, you’re insufferable," Nicola teased in the background. "You finally come to town and you won't even stay a day? Take a couple of days off! I’ll show you around Manhattan." "I have surgery in the morning." "So what?" She laughed, breezy and reckless. Aaron was a dedicated doctor. He should have reprimanded her flippancy. He should have delivered his usual stern lecture about how a surgeon never gambles with a patient’s life—the way he had lectured me for fifteen years. Instead, all he said was, "Alright, stop pouting." His tone was soft, almost paternal, coaxing a spoiled child. Then, the line went dead. I looked down at the dark screen of my phone. My reflection stared back at me, ghostly and drained of blood. 02 Booking a last-minute, same-day round trip usually leaves you with the worst red-eye flights imaginable. Aaron was a total germaphobe who had never voluntarily flown budget economy in his life. By the time he walked through the door early the next morning, he was exhausted, his hair messy, his brow furrowed in irritation. I didn't get up to greet him like I usually did. Instead, I sat on the couch, slowly tearing open a bag of lime tortilla chips. The loud crunch of the plastic wrapper caught his attention immediately. Aaron’s jaw tightened. "How many times have I told you not to eat on the sofa?" A strange wave of disorienting nostalgia washed over me. Since we started dating, he had established an endless list of ground rules. "Don’t call me before I text you first. Don’t reorganize my desk items. Don’t let your phone screen light up the dark room after I’ve closed my eyes." Subtle, precise commands. But this specific rule—"don't eat on the sofa"—was the very first command a fifteen-year-old Aaron had given to a thirteen-year-old me. Even back then, his youthful face carried the heavy, unyielding severity that would come to define his adult life. "Crumbs fall into the cushion seams," he had scolded. "They’re impossible to vacuum out, and eventually, they attract pests." To my thirteen-year-old self, Aaron’s words were scripture. I had scrambled to pull the chewed cap of my pencil out of my mouth, stammering, "I’m sorry..." "And stop biting your pen—it’s filthy—" "God, Aaron, you’ve only been tutoring her for ten minutes and you’re already barking at her?" Nicola had strolled into the living room back then, holding a bowl of fresh grapes, flopping onto the couch with effortless grace. She had just gotten back from a date, her cheeks flushed, looking radiant. Nicola was stunning, charismatic, and always surrounded by a court of adoring boys. "Cheryl might be a little slow, but if you’re mean to my little sister, you’ll have to answer to me!" The moment Nicola entered the room, Aaron’s eyes had locked onto her, dark and unreadable. Desperate to impress him, I had piped up back then: "Nicola, Aaron said we shouldn't eat on the couch..." Aaron had cut me off before I could finish. "Forget it," he had said quietly. "Cheryl, look back down at your math sheet." From age twelve to twenty-seven. It took me fifteen years to understand the true meaning of that phrase: "Forget it." My eyes stung with sudden heat. I quickly lowered my head. "You should go wash up," I said softly, my voice tight. "It’s just for today. I wanted to watch a show while I—" Aaron stepped closer, reached out, and pressed the power button on the TV remote. The apartment fell dead silent. He stared down at me, his voice entirely flat. "Are you jealous?" I met his gaze. "No." "Liar." His response was prompt, absolute. "Cheryl, I’ve explained this to you a dozen times. If there were ever going to be anything between Nicola and me, it would have happened years ago. Every man who cheats is hunting for novelty—without exception. And between Nicola and me, there is zero novelty left." He set a small, elegant paper bag onto the coffee table. The heavy thump echoed in the room. It bore the logo of a luxury French bakery in Midtown Manhattan—the exact place I made a point to visit every time I went to New York for work to buy their signature chestnut Mont Blancs. Once he set it down, he didn't give me another glance, turning on his heel and heading toward the bathroom. He left me standing in the middle of the living room, cold to the marrow. He slapped me down for having feelings, then tossed me a treat from his high horse. A slap and a sugar cube. Like training a dog. And now he was waiting for me to go to him, to apologize, to admit that I was being dramatic, petty, and paranoid. Except... Nicola was the only one who knew how much I loved those chestnut pastries. Aaron despised sweet foods. Years ago, whenever I craved them, Nicola would wink at me and say, "It’s okay, little sister. I’ll help you hide them from him." 03 When Nicola called me two days later, her tone was entirely casual. It was as if she hadn't posted that photo, as if she hadn't deliberately kept it visible to me. "Cheryl, New York is just moving too fast for me right now," she sighed over the speaker. "I’m thinking about quitting my job to reset, but I really don’t want to go back home and listen to Mom nag me. Do you guys have a spare room? Is it okay if I crash with you in Chicago for a bit?" I paused, then said, "Sure." I added, "Aaron will be really glad you’re staying." Two minutes later, she sent back a cute, blushing emoji. No text. I set my phone down just as my supervisor walked over to my cubicle. "Hey, if you’re definitely accepting the corporate transfer, make sure you get all your paperwork finalized," she said warmly. "You’ll have a month to wrap up your current accounts here, and then you’ll head out to lead the Denver branch. This is a huge step for your career, Cheryl. Go make us proud." I nodded, my voice firm. "I will. Thank you." Aaron’s schedule had always been chaotic. He was rarely home. To take care of him and to maximize the tiny pockets of time we might share, I had turned down three different promotion opportunities over the last few years. My boss had always thought I was crazy. At the time, I thought I was being a good partner. I believed that counting every compromise in a relationship was too transactional. It felt natural that one person might give a little more than the other at different stages. But now, with a branch manager title and a substantial raise waiting for me in Denver, I no longer had a reason to stay. One month. After knowing him for fifteen years, I just had to endure thirty more days, and then our paths would diverge forever. When Nicola sent me her flight details, I took a half-day off work to pick her up at O'Hare. She looked as stunning as ever, the fast-paced energy of New York giving her an effortless, glowing polish. When she pulled me into a hug, a crisp, familiar fragrance filled my senses. It was Aaron’s signature cologne. I acted completely oblivious, gently patting her back. "Welcome to Chicago. I made your favorite braised short ribs for dinner." She pulled back, buckling her seatbelt in my passenger seat. "You are a lifesaver, sweetie! You have no idea how abysmal airline food is—" As she spoke, she pulled a small tin of butter cookies out of her handbag. I reflexively spoke up. "Nicola, don’t eat in the car. Aaron..." "Oh, I know, it’s his new baby, right?" She giggled, unbothered. "When he was shopping for cars last month, he called me constantly because he couldn't decide. I knew he’d end up picking this exact trim. Don't worry, if he yells at you, I’ll yell right back at him. As long as I’m here, he won't bully you!" She had packaged it so neatly, turning my boundary into a joke. I forced a faint smile and didn't push it further. "Right. Thanks, Nicola." 04 For the first two days of Nicola’s stay, Aaron didn't come home at all. She leaned against the kitchen counter, crunching on chips, and asked, "Is he always like this?" "He has overnight shifts," I replied calmly. "When he has back-to-back surgeries scheduled, he just sleeps in the hospital's call room." Nicola chewed thoughtfully. After a pause, she sighed. "How pathetic." My hands froze mid-motion over the sink. I couldn't tell if she meant Aaron—or me. On the third evening, Aaron finally came home. He didn't come home to see us; he came to interrogate me. The front door slammed shut with alarming force. His voice was icy. "Did you eat in my car?" I was wearing an apron, holding a dish towel, frozen in the hallway. "It was me," Nicola said, stepping out from the kitchen. "Cheryl warned me not to, Aaron. Don't be mean to her." Aaron’s eyes widened slightly. The furious aura radiating off him vanished instantaneously, deflating like a punctured balloon. "...When did you get to Chicago?" he asked, his tone shifting entirely. "That’s not important," Nicola said, stepping in front of me and placing her hands on her hips playfully. "Hey, do you always talk to Cheryl like that? You haven't changed a bit since we were kids, have you? I’ll Venmo you fifty bucks so you can get the car detailed. It’s a bag of cookies, Aaron—is it really worth barking at your girlfriend over?" Aaron’s jaw flexed. His expression flickered through a chaotic wheel of emotions. "You..." Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily as if forcing his temper down into his chest. "Forget it." He looked at her. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" Nicola smiled, like a woman who knew with absolute certainty that his anger could never touch her. She stuck her tongue out. "It was a surprise!" Aaron walked past me without looking at my face. Then, he paused, turning his head slightly. "What are you standing there for?" Just seconds ago, he had accused me, losing his temper over a mistake I hadn't made. And yet, there was no apology. Not a single word. I stood motionless on the hardwood floor, my fingernails digging into my palms until it hurt. Suddenly, I felt a strange, detached confusion. I looked at the man I had loved for half my life, and I genuinely couldn't remember why I had spent so many years enduring it all. 05 I used to wish, every single year on my birthday, that Aaron would come home for dinner. It was a quiet prayer I carried for a decade. And now, I was watching that wish come true with terrifying ease. Because Nicola was here. Aaron liked to say that in front of a doctor, every human life was equal. But standing there as an outsider looking in, I realized how painfully obvious the difference was between loving someone and merely enduring them. That night, Aaron lay beside me in the dark, his arm draped over my waist, his breathing rhythmic and steady. I couldn't sleep. He knew my body better than anyone; he could feel the unnatural stiffness in my spine. "What’s wrong?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. In the pitch-black room, I asked him softly, "Why did you decide to be with me, Aaron?" It was a pathetic, insecure question. I expected him to ignore it, to tell me to go to sleep. Perhaps he felt how quiet I had become since Nicola arrived. After a long pause, he pressed his forehead against the back of my hair and let out a tired breath. "Cheryl, you’re the easiest to deal with. You never give me trouble." "You're the easiest." The realization settled over me like frost. "So," I whispered, "you didn't end up with Nicola simply because she wasn't ‘easy’ enough for you." His grip on my waist tightened instantly, hard enough to bruise. "This is between you and me. I am telling you one last time, Nicola and I have nothing—" "I know," I cut him off smoothly. Because we both knew the truth. Nicola would never mold herself to fit his tidy, rigid world. I had asked for an answer tonight only because... I had suddenly forgotten how I fell in love with him in the first place. I remembered a birthday years ago. A friend had recommended a charming little bistro downtown, and I had been bursting with excitement, inviting my favorite boy and my older sister to go with me. Nicola had giggled. "Oh, Cheryl, sweetie... Aaron and I went there months ago." My smile had frozen on my face. It hadn't just been the bistro. The trendy bubble tea shop, the quiet corner of the library after school, the abandoned rooftop where we watched the sunset—they had already been to all of those places. Just the two of them. Looking back now, it wasn't a tragedy. But to my teenage self, it felt as though I were an intruder trying to elbow my way into a story that had already been written. An outsider stealing someone else’s memories. "What’s the big deal?" teenage Aaron had spoken up, breaking the awkward silence. "We’ll just go again." He had looked down at me, his gaze focused and serious. "Cheryl, what do you want to eat?" That single sentence had made my heart race wildly in my chest. In the shadow of my radiant, popular sister, my teenage self had been a dull, awkward duckling. I didn't know how to dress, my grades weren't top-tier, and I was too shy to say clever things. My mother used to say, "You’re neither a boy nor as impressive as your sister." Aaron was the only person who actually "saw" me. Except I had gotten one fundamental detail wrong. It was only because I was constantly trailing behind Nicola that the people looking at her naturally caught me in their field of vision. Nothing more. Thankfully, the strange, suffocating equilibrium of our three-person dynamic didn't last much longer. A few days later, Aaron’s mother arrived. 06 Mrs. Christian had never liked me. Her reasons were virtually identical to my own mother's, with one added grievance: she firmly believed that if Aaron hadn't gotten stuck with me, he could have found a much better partner. Someone like Nicola. The moment she stepped into our apartment, she grabbed Nicola’s hands, holding them warmly as she showered her with affection. "When you graduated from college, I told your mother that a girl living all the way in New York with no one to look after her was going to suffer," Mrs. Christian said smoothly, patting Nicola’s cheek. "Now that you’re visiting Chicago, if you need anything, you tell Aaron or me. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of." Nicola smiled, looking charmingly demure. "Mrs. Christian, I really need to go on a diet." "Nonsense! Aaron’s a doctor—ask him! Do you look like someone who needs a diet?" Aaron said mildly, "From a clinical perspective, we only recommend weight loss for patients classified as overweight. You look fine as you are." I couldn't stomach another second of it. I stood up and turned toward the hallway to head into the bedroom. Behind me, Mrs. Christian’s voice rose, thick with disgust. "Look at that. The adults have been sitting here for an hour and she hasn't said a single word of greeting." She sneered, lowering her voice slightly, though not enough. "I still don't understand why your mother felt the need to have a second kid. A complete disappointment." I stopped dead in my tracks. I turned around, gripped the glass water tumbler on the console table, and slammed it onto the hardwood floor with every ounce of strength in my body. A violent, deafening CRASH echoed through the apartment. Shards of thick glass erupted outward in every direction. Mrs. Christian shrieked, jumping backward. "You—you crazy bitch! Are you out of your mind?!" "Cheryl!" Aaron took two long strides, stepping over the shattered glass to reach my side. His face was thunderous, darker than I had ever seen it. Even I was stunned by my own explosion. When Aaron’s fingers clamped down hard around my wrist, my entire body flinched violently. I recoiled, pulling back as if I expected him to strike me. Aaron’s dark eyes flickered. His hand froze in mid-air. "...Cheryl," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "You’re bleeding." I followed his gaze down to my bare leg. A flying piece of sharp glass had sliced a shallow cut into my skin. Small crimson beads were gathering, coalescing into a thin red line that trickled down toward my ankle. Aaron dropped to one knee, reaching out with unsettling gentleness to cup my heel. "Don't move. Let me clean it." "Don't touch me!" I yanked my leg away from his grip, taking a deep, shaky breath. "...I know where the first-aid kit is." "I’m going to clean it myself. Excuse me." As I turned my back, Mrs. Christian’s hysterical screaming ripped through the air behind me. "Look at her! Look at her!" "Where in the world do you find... such an ungrateful, malicious woman?!"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "560128", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel