I was scrolling through a forum late at night when a post caught my eye. [Giving away my girlfriend of 7 years, free of charge. Lightly used.] [5'5", 104 lbs, D-cup. The devoted type. Your wish is her command.] [DM for her contact info.] The comment section was a dumpster fire, already a thousand replies deep. 【Dude, post pics or it didn't happen.】 【Who cares what she looks like in the dark? With a body like that, I'm in. OP, check your DMs.】 【If she's so great, why are you giving her away?】 The original poster replied. 【Too clingy. It's annoying.】 My brow furrowed the more I read. I was about to close the tab when a notification pinged on my phone. A new friend request. [Hey. You've been given to me.] 1 It took less than a second for the pieces to click into place. Bernard had posted me online. A giveaway. Like an unwanted piece of furniture. The irony was laughable. A moment ago, I was feeling sorry for the poor woman whose boyfriend would write such a thing. Now, with a strange, chilling calm, I clicked on his profile. The account was new. His first post was in March. [No one in this world gets me.] In April, a new lament. [My art is as worthless as I am. There's no hope for my life.] Then came May. I stared at the photo of a girl’s back, her silhouette against a sunlit window. [She has finally appeared.] [Jasmine understands me. She understands my art.] [We are kindred spirits. Soulmates.] [A meeting of minds, long overdue.] [The gardenias are in bloom.] He didn't mention me until June. [I noticed a split end in C's hair. It was disgusting. Like a smudge on a clean canvas, a misplaced brush, a torn piece of paper.] C. The first letter of my name. Chloe. [Vulgar.] By July, their romance was in full swing. [I wish I had met you from the start.] [I've painted you, my beautiful Jasmine.] I felt like a clown, a peeping Tom spying on my own life’s demolition. And then, August. [Giving away my girlfriend of 7 years, free of charge. Lightly used.] Click. The bedroom door opened. Bernard walked in, heading straight for the closet to pull out his favorite white suit. I had ironed it for him after I got home from work; not a single crease marred the fabric. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of satisfaction. “You can go to bed,” he said coolly, on his way out. “Don’t wait up for me.” He didn’t even look at me. He hadn’t touched me in two months. The last time we’d been intimate, he had abruptly pulled away, his face a mask of disgust. “Are you feeling sick again?” I had asked, concerned. He gave a barely perceptible nod, his gaze sliding away from my body. Now I knew why. He must have seen that single, offensive split end. It was 11:30 PM. He left, dressed to the nines. I lay in bed, reading those thirteen posts over and over again. At one in the morning, I smashed the lock on his studio door. 2 I had given him half of our 1300-square-foot apartment for his studio. I didn’t even have a key. I flipped on the switch, and the room was flooded with the harsh glare of a fluorescent light. It was immaculate, spotless. Paintings were stacked neatly against the walls. I scanned them one by one, my eyes finally landing on the only framed piece in the room, tucked away in a corner. The ornate frame was a testament to how much he cherished it. The girl in the portrait was ethereal, her expression full of life and charm. How long does it take to create an oil painting so detailed you could see the pores on her skin? I had no idea. The portrait he painted of me had been a two-hour rush job. I remembered how thrilled I had been, circling the canvas again and again, chattering excitedly. I had ignored the coolness in his eyes. The painting I had treasured like a priceless artifact was nothing compared to this masterpiece. I squeezed my eyes shut, a familiar ache twisting in my gut. I remembered the first time I saw Bernard. He was standing on the ledge of a sixteen-story building. I had called out to him, coaxing him, practically tricking him, until he was safely back on the roof. It was only when the danger had passed that I realized my own legs were trembling. He just stared at me, silent. Such a fragile soul. In my arrogance, I thought I could save him. A decade of my life had been tangled up with his since that day. He was an artist. He’d list one painting a month for sale, but no one ever bought them. So, every month, I would anonymously buy his work for a thousand dollars. I worked overtime, schmoozed clients, drank until my stomach bled. When I was discharged from the hospital, the first thing I did was buy him a bouquet of roses. He said nothing. He just posted online. [Vulgar.] So, it was Jasmine he liked. Beautiful Jasmine. A laugh escaped my lips, sharp and humorless. How stupid I had been, unable to see the disgust that was so plainly written. How naive, to waste my youth and arrive at thirty with nothing to show for it. Ten years of my life, summed up by him in two words: "The devoted type." My phone pinged. A text from Bernard: [Wake up and accept the friend request.] Ten minutes later, another one. [He's the new boyfriend I found for you.] 3 My hand tightened around my phone. I took a picture of the painting and sent it to him. [This is Jasmine, right?] Bernard, usually so aloof, was suddenly frantic. [How did you get into my studio?] [Chloe, don't you dare touch my paintings.] He rushed home, his white suit slightly disheveled. He visibly relaxed when he saw the painting was unharmed, but his brow quickly furrowed in anger. “What the hell is wrong with you? Breaking into my studio in the middle of the night?” “My studio?” I said, my voice cold. “I walk into a room in my own damn apartment, and you think I’m crazy?” “You post your girlfriend for sale online, and that’s not crazy?” “You send a strange man her contact info, and that’s not crazy?” A flicker of surprise crossed his face before it was replaced by his usual indifference. “Relax. I vetted them.” “The one I sent you was the best of the bunch. Thirty-two, five-ten, in good shape, stable job. He’d be a good husband.” He added, as if it were a kindness, “We were together for seven years. I put some thought into it.” It was the middle of a sweltering August, but a chill crept deep into my bones. We had known each other for ten years, been in love for seven. The man standing before me was a block of ice I could never melt. I took a deep breath. It was all so pointless. “We’re breaking up, Bernard. And who I marry is none of your goddamn business.” The moment, when it came, was far quieter than I had ever imagined. I always thought a breakup like this would be a gut-wrenching, soul-tearing affair. He looked stunned. “Chloe, are you serious?” “Yes.” He frowned, then whispered, “Okay… Thank you.” I nodded. “Get your things and be out by tomorrow.” My gaze swept over the expensive art supplies. “Take what you need. Throw the rest out.” We were as calm as if we were discussing what to have for dinner. He hesitated. I rubbed my temples and turned to leave. Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. “Are you angry with me?” His brow was knitted together, a hint of panic in his eyes. I used to love smoothing out those lines with my thumb, murmuring words of comfort. Now, I was just tired. So incredibly tired. “Honestly? Posting that was deeply disrespectful. If you wanted to break up, you could have just told me. You didn't need to be passive-aggressive, you didn't need to give me the silent treatment, and you certainly didn't need to humiliate me like that. I wouldn't have clung to you.” “Let’s just leave it at that. I have to work in the morning. If you’re going to pack now, please be quiet.” 4 He let go of my wrist, his frown deepening. “You’re still so materialistic. All you care about is money.” “Jasmine isn’t like that. She loves art, just like me.” A bitter smile touched my lips. “It’s three in the morning. Do whatever you want, you high-minded, brilliant artist.” Whether he stayed to say goodbye to his precious studio or ran off to find his soulmate, it had nothing to do with me anymore. He looked as if I’d struck him. “Fine,” he repeated, nodding. “Fine.” I reached the doorway when he called my name again. “Chloe!” I wanted to ignore him, but then he said, “Why did you have to ruin my painting?” I turned back. He was pointing at the frame. There was a fingerprint on it, so faint you had to be inches away to see it. But for him, it was as intolerable as the split end. His face was a mask of revulsion. “You’re jealous of Jasmine, so you just casually destroyed a painting I spent a whole month on?” “You can pretend to be all calm and collected, but you can’t hide the vulgarity in your soul!” His contempt was a scalpel, trying to peel back my skin. He called me dirty, because of what had happened to me when I was eighteen. He called me materialistic, because at thirty, I drank with clients until I was hospitalized. He spat out the final words. “You’re disgusting.” A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. My fingertips trembled as I reached out and smudged the fingerprint on the frame. “What are you doing now?” he demanded, his voice tight with anger. I smiled, a thin, sharp curve of my lips. Then I grabbed a nearby tube of paint and squeezed its contents all over the canvas. The faint, beautiful smile on Jasmine’s face vanished under a wave of color. The entire painting became an ugly, grotesque mess. His expression froze, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. I looked at him, at the fire that was starting to burn in his eyes, and said, enunciating every word, “Get. Out. Of. My. House. Now.” “Fine! Don’t you regret this!” he roared. “Don’t come crying back to me!” He slammed the door on his way out. The sound was so loud it made my own heart shudder. I didn’t have the energy to clean up the mess. I dragged my exhausted body back to my room and collapsed into bed. As I closed my eyes, the forum post replayed in my mind. A comment in the thread asked: 【What do you mean by ‘lightly used’?】 His reply: 【She’s not clean.】 Four words I had scrolled past, deliberately ignored. Now they echoed in my head, a relentless loop. Bernard thought I was dirty. I had always known. After the first time we were together, he spent the entire night throwing up in the bathroom. I had curled up in bed, pretending to be asleep. Maybe that was when he started to hate our relationship. Or maybe it was even earlier. A dull ache throbbed in my chest. I swallowed a sleeping pill, praying for a quick, dreamless sleep. 5 The company hired a new intern. Her name was Jasmine. One minute she was passing out snacks, the next she was recommending movies. In a single morning, she was friends with everyone. A colleague whispered to me, “Youth is a wonderful thing. She’s so bubbly and cute.” I said nothing, turning my attention back to the proposal for that evening’s client meeting. The last thing I expected was for my boss to assign an intern to shadow me. Before we left, Jasmine asked me to wait a moment. She reappeared in a white slip dress. “Sorry, Chloe,” she said with a little pout. “I spilled something on my clothes. Good thing I had a spare dress in my bag.” She stuck out her tongue and gave me a harmless little smile. At the dinner table, she was a whirlwind of activity, pouring drink after drink for the client, a man named Mr. Henderson, flattering him endlessly about how young and successful he was. She knew nothing about the project and didn’t mention it once. Mr. Henderson, an old acquaintance, shot me a confused look. I kept my eyes down, picking at the food on my plate. It was actually fine. At least someone else was doing the drinking for a change. I just wondered if Bernard would think his precious Jasmine was being materialistic now. She drank too much. While we were waiting for a car outside the restaurant, she swayed and leaned heavily against me. “Don’t worry, Chloe,” she slurred. “My boyfriend is coming to get me.” “He’s a really famous painter. One of his paintings sells for a thousand dollars.” “If he sells… like, eight or ten a month, I won’t have to work at all.” She tried to count on her fingers, then giggled foolishly. She leaned in closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper in my ear. “You know, he had a girlfriend for seven years. Well, ex-girlfriend now.” “I heard she was a total doormat. So I suggested he ‘give her away’ like an old piece of furniture. Funny, right?” “The post even went viral. I’ll share it with you when I get home.” Seeing my blank expression, she smiled, her voice dropping lower. “I know it was you, Chloe.” “You two had a rough night last night, huh? Your dark circles are terrible.” “A woman hits thirty, she starts to age fast…” She moved closer and closer. I frowned and took a step back. Jasmine lost her balance and tumbled to the ground. “Jasmine!” It was Bernard. He was wearing his white suit, jogging over to help her up. He looked up at me, his eyes blazing with fury. “Ruining the painting wasn't enough? Now you have to go after her personally?” “Chloe, I never realized you were so vile.” Without thinking, I nodded. “That’s right. The sight of you two makes me sick. Get out of my life, or I’ll make yours a living hell every chance I get.” “You paint a few pictures and think you’re some great artist? Calling yourselves soulmates, kindred spirits? Let’s call it what it is: one of you is a cheater, and the other is a home-wrecker who knew exactly what she was doing.” His face went slack with shock. “What did you say?” I laughed. “I’m not repeating myself. You can figure it out.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but Jasmine tugged on his sleeve. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lip trembling pitifully. “I feel so sick,” she whimpered. “I drank so much tonight.” “It was my first time drinking like this. But what could I do? I’m just an intern… and I ran into your ex-girlfriend.” Bernard’s expression softened into one of pure tenderness. He kissed her forehead, then glared back at me, his face instantly hardening. “Chloe. Apologize to Jasmine.” I felt like I had just heard the world’s most absurd joke. I turned to leave, but his hand shot out and clamped down on my wrist. The force was crushing, as if he meant to shatter the bone. Pain shot up my arm, and I sucked in a sharp breath. He repeated, his voice low and dangerous, “Apologize. To Jasmine.” 6 I didn’t say a word. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My face was pale, and my whole body was trembling. He could break my arm, and I still wouldn’t apologize. I had done nothing wrong. Bernard’s brow furrowed, a strange emotion flickering in his eyes. Jasmine saw it, and a shadow passed over her face, gone in an instant. She blinked her watery eyes and said in a choked voice, “The painting is gone… I had to drink all that wine…” “Chloe, what will it take for you to be satisfied?” Two tears rolled down her cheeks. She sniffled, then seemed to make a decision. “Just hit me!” she cried. “If it will make you feel better, if you’ll just treat me normally at work, I’m willing to take a slap!” A surge of pure rage washed over me. My free hand started to lift, but it was caught in an iron grip. “Jasmine,” Bernard said, his voice as cold as ice. “You’re not the one who deserves to be hit.” “She is.” He pinned both of my arms. I watched, helpless, as Jasmine’s lips curved into a triumphant smirk. She raised her hand. A sharp, stinging slap landed across my face. The burning pain spread from my skin straight to my heart. In that instant, a thousand memories flashed through my mind. For the first time, I asked myself: Why did I save him? Why did I let him drag me to this point? A broken laugh escaped me. “I regret it so much,” I rasped. A flicker of something—pity? regret?—crossed his face. It was quickly replaced by ice. “It’s too late for regrets now. You should have thought of the consequences when you ruined my painting, when you deliberately targeted Jasmine.” I shook my head. “No.” “I regret saving you.” His pupils constricted. His heart plummeted. He forced a smirk. “Well, you did.” He released my arms, waiting. He probably expected me to scream, to attack him, to have a complete breakdown. But I did none of those things. I didn’t even look at him. I simply turned and walked away, my back straight, my steps unwavering. A black Porsche Cayenne pulled up beside me. A handsome man got out and opened the passenger door. I got in. I never looked back. 7 An inexplicable panic began to coil in Bernard’s stomach. He tugged irritably at his collar, wrinkling his already rumpled shirt. For once, he didn’t seem to care about his appearance. He raised a hand to rub his temples. Then he froze. That was Chloe’s habit. A small gesture she made when she was exhausted after working late into the night. “Wow, calling a cab and a Cayenne shows up,” Jasmine said bitterly beside him. “Some people have all the luck.” The thought was broken. He dropped his hand and muttered, “A cab?” “What else? Where would she meet a rich, handsome guy? He’s probably just killing time with her.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Didn’t you drive here today?” she asked, looking around. He blinked. The car he had driven to pick her up in belonged to Chloe. It seemed Jasmine had misunderstood. He was about to explain, but then he saw the slight frown on her face. For some reason, he chose to lie. “It’s in the shop. Let’s just walk.” He could just sell one of his old paintings and buy a car. It wasn’t a big deal.
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