When tickets for the express train to New York went on sale, Bruno habitually ordered two. One for himself. One for Isla.

Only after locking in their seats did he turn to me and ask, "Callie, did you get your ticket?" I froze. On his screen, his seat was right next to Isla’s.

When I opened the app a second later, the only remaining seat on the train was in the adjacent car. I stared at the seat number, a sudden, hollow laugh catching in my throat.

From our summer trips to college orientation, whenever there were three of us, they were always a pair. I was always the odd one out, running to catch up behind them.

Not long after, Isla dropped a picture of a lease agreement into our group chat. Under the tenant column were two names: hers and Bruno’s.

She tagged me with a cheerful emoji. "Callie, Bruno said it’s safer for you to live in the dorms.

But you can always come over to our place for dinner on weekends!" "Our place." Something sharp pricked my chest.

I hadn’t even stepped foot onto a college campus yet, and I had already been locked out of his future. A moment later, Bruno sent me a private text. "Don’t overthink this.

Isla renting an apartment on her own isn’t safe. I promised her parents I’d look after her. Don’t make a scene over something so minor." I stared at the phrase "something so minor".

Slowly, I opened the university portal on my phone. The Columbia University enrollment confirmation page was still active, waiting for my final click. I hit back.

I navigated over to the lateclearing admissions portal for University College London. This time, I stopped chasing their train car.

And I stopped chasing Bruno’s life. … Canceling my enrollment at Columbia still required me to hand over paper forms in New York. The day the train departed, the station was packed.

Bruno and Isla sat side by side, one car ahead of mine. Before we left, he’d promised to help me with my heavy luggage.

But after passing through ticket control, he went straight ahead, finding Isla’s seat and lifting her small wheelie bag onto the overhead rack with practiced ease.

I was stuck one car back, dragging two oversized suitcases through the narrow aisle. People bumped past me, muttering complaints under their breath.

I texted him, asking if he could come help me for a second. Ten minutes later, he replied: "Isla gets motion sick.

She just fell asleep." "My mom specifically told me to keep an eye on her on the way down. I can’t move right now." I looked at the screen, my hands and feet turning icecold.

In the end, I had to stand on my tiptoes and hoist the heavy bags up myself.

The weight was too much; my wrist gave out, and the suitcase slammed down, sending a shot of numbness straight up my arm.

A woman sitting nearby caught the edge just in time, preventing it from hitting anyone. I thanked her profusely, my voice shaking.

A minute later, Isla posted a photo in the group chat. In the picture, Bruno was kneeling in front of her, carefully draping his jacket over her shoulders.

On the folddown tray sat a paper cup of hot milk and a box of nondrowsy Dramamine.

That box of medication was something I had tucked into his backpack that morning, worried I might feel sick on the ride.

I tagged him in the chat. "Could you bring me a Dramamine pill?

I’m feeling really nauseous." Two minutes later, his private text arrived. "You’ve never gotten motion sickness before." "Just drink some warm water." I turned off my screen and looked out the window.

The dull ache in my chest fermented slowly with every rattle of the train tracks. Halfway through the trip, a heavily intoxicated man sat down in the empty seat next to me.

Reeking of cheap whiskey, he kept leaning over, his elbow brushing against me, even reaching out to touch my bag whenever the train lurched. My stomach churned with anxiety.

I dialed Bruno’s number. The first time, no one answered. The second time, he hung up on me. Immediately after, a text popped up: "Isla just fell asleep.

Stop causing drama." "Stop causing drama." Those four words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

In the end, a conductor noticed the situation during her walkthrough and reassigned me to a safer seat. It was near midnight when we pulled into Penn Station.

Bruno held Isla’s hand as they walked off the platform ahead of me. Watching their fingers intertwined, I suddenly remembered the night of our high school graduation.

The summer breeze had been soft that evening.

He had held my hand just like that on the school rooftop, whispering softly, "Callie, once we get settled in New York, we’ll make it official." We had been inseparable since sophomore year.

Everyone assumed it was only a matter of time before we put a real label on it. Now, he was holding someone else’s hand, never once turning around to see if I was behind them.

Without looking back, Bruno called over his shoulder, "Isla’s blood sugar dropped.

I’m taking her straight to the apartment to rest." "Take a cab to the dorms yourself." With that, he hailed a yellow cab, shielded Isla as she slid inside, and sped off into the night.

I stood in the freezing wind, dragging two massive bags, waiting thirty minutes in the taxi line.

The night was pitchblack, and my driver got confused by the road construction, taking a wrong turn into an unfamiliar, deserted industrial strip.

Terrified, I texted Bruno my realtime location. The message sank into an abyss. No reply.

It wasn't until my resident advisor noticed I hadn't checked in and sent two upperclassmen out to locate me that I finally made it to the temporary dorms.

My phone battery was down to one percent when his text finally arrived: "Let me know when you arrive.

Don't make people worry." I stared at that belated burst of concern, a wave of dark irony washing over me.

A second later, a push notification popped up on my screen. "UCL Clearing Application: Preliminary Review Passed." I stared at the prompt asking "Do you wish to proceed?" for a long time.

Then, I tapped "Confirm". …… The next morning, Bruno sent me a text. "Come over for lunch." My high school transcripts, passport copy, and registration documents were still packed in the side pocket of his suitcase—documents I needed to officially withdraw from Columbia and send to London.

I had no choice but to go to their rented place. Bruno opened the door. He punched the passcode into the keypad right in front of me, not even bothering to cover the screen.

A string of six beeps. I recognized those numbers instantly. It was Isla’s birthday.

My mind flashed back to graduation night, when he had promised that when we had our own place in New York, the front door code would be the date we officially became a couple.

Now, the apartment living room was filled with new, spotless furniture. By the window sat a sleek wooden desk—the exact model I had drooled over months ago.

Today, it was cluttered with Isla’s makeup mirrors, luxury perfumes, and Polaroid prints.

The refrigerator door was covered in sticky notes. "Isla doesn't eat onions." "Isla needs warm oat milk in the morning." "Isla is terrified of the dark—leave the hallway light on." Every single note was written in Bruno’s unmistakable, neat handwriting.

I pointed at the fridge, my voice surprisingly steady. "What am I to you, Bruno?" Bruno paused, his hands resting on his hips. "My parents set this place up for Isla.

She’s a girl alone in a huge city with no family. I’m just staying here temporarily to look out for her." "You can come over whenever you want, of course.

But Isla’s a light sleeper, so just let us know in advance before you pop in." "Let us know in advance." I looked him dead in the eye. "And what about me?

I’m alone in a dorm room on the other side of town. Do you ever worry if I'm scared?

If I'm safe?" Bruno frowned, annoyance slipping into his tone. "You’re in a university residence hall. You have roommates, an RA, building security.

What could possibly happen to you?" "Isla is different.

She hasn't had parents around since she was a kid." "Callie, stop being so petty about everything." The words died in my throat.

Isla was our high school classmate, the daughter of a longtime friend of the Lawson family.

After her parents died in an accident years ago, Bruno’s family had practically taken her in. His parents treated her like a second daughter.

In the past, whenever Bruno ditched me for her, he used the exact same line: "She doesn't have parents, Callie.

Just yield to her a little, okay?" At first, I felt sorry for her too.

It was only now, standing in this warm, beautifully lit apartment, that I realized her tragedy had long become his ultimate excuse to ignore me.

Without another word to me, he reached into his pocket and dropped a spare set of house keys into Isla’s purse. "You’re always losing things, Isla.

Keep a backup set in your bag." I stood in the middle of the room like an uninvited guest. At noon, the smell of sautéing peppers drifted from the kitchen.

Isla sat on the sofa, dramatically covering her nose, whining that she couldn't stand spicy food. Bruno immediately turned to me. "Callie, let's keep things mild today.

I'll make you a full spicy meal another time, okay?" I remembered our dinner dates back home.

He used to laugh softly as I ate spicy noodles until tears ran down my cheeks, gently wiping my face with a napkin, teasing that he’d have to buy me safety goggles just so he could cook my favorite meals once we moved in together.

Back then, no matter what we talked about, he always framed it around our future life together. Now, I was entirely erased from his present.

That evening, a sudden storm caused a power outage in the old apartment complex. The living room plunged into total darkness.

Isla shrieked, throwing herself directly into Bruno’s arms. "Bruno! I’m scared!" Bruno wrapped his arms around her tightly. "Don't worry.

I'm right here." Meanwhile, I was in the dark kitchen, gathering up the lunch dishes. A sharp piece of broken porcelain sliced deep into my index finger.

Blood gushed out immediately. In the living room, they whispered gentle words of comfort to each other. Neither of them turned around to check on me.

When I left, I demanded my documents back. Bruno unzipped his suitcase.

My file folder was crushed and crumpled at the very bottom, while Isla’s medical records, lease forms, and campus orientation maps were neatly organized in a pristine clear sleeve right on top.

I pulled my papers out and walked out the door without saying another word.

Back in my temporary room, I logged into the London university portal and uploaded all my finalized materials.

The day I went to the Columbia administration building to process my formal withdrawal, the cut on my hand still hadn't healed.

Bruno, who had promised to accompany me for campus registration, dropped me the second Isla couldn't find the medical center building.

When his text arrived, my heart gave a dull, familiar ache, though the numbness was already taking over. I told myself it was fine; I was cutting him out of my life anyway.

I dragged my luggage to the registration queue alone.

The student volunteer looking over my passport paused when she saw my name. "Wait, you're Callie Palmer?" She smiled warmly. "Isla mentioned you earlier!

She said you guys went to high school together, and that you’d be coming over to their place for dinner on weekends." She chuckled. "She was telling us how sweet they are together.

Honestly, you guys must be the power couple of the incoming freshman class!" "High school friend." "Their place." "Power couple." Every phrase felt like a tiny, deliberate twist of a blade.

At noon, a notification popped up on my feed. Isla had posted a new photo on Instagram. She was standing in front of the iconic university gates.

Bruno stood beside her, holding two iced boba teas and a massive bouquet of sunflowers. Her caption read: "Day one in New York with @Bruno.

We both have a brand new home!" The comments were already flooded with high school classmates. "Wait, is this official?!" "What about Callie though?" "Honestly, childhood sweethearts always win in the end." Bruno didn't reply to any of them, nor did he deny it.

If it had been me tagged in a photo like that, he would have instantly posted a public correction: "Just friends, guys.

Don't make rumors." A torrential downpour hit the campus around two in the afternoon.

I was stuck inside the main administration building while my heavy suitcases and paper records were still sitting under a temporary canvas canopy near the registration plaza.

I messaged Bruno, asking if he could push my bags inside the lobby.

He texted back: "Isla felt dizzy after her blood draw." "I need to stay with her in the clinic for another thirty minutes." "Your luggage is hardshell and waterproof anyway, stop worrying." By the time I ran through the rain back to the plaza, the canvas tent had given way.

My bags were completely soaked, and my printed files were dripping wet. I grabbed my files. As I pushed myself up, my wet shoe slipped on the marble step.

I fell hard, crashing against the concrete ledge. The scab on the back of my hand tore wide open, blood mixing with rainwater as it trickled down my wrist.

My vision swam with gray spots. I couldn't stand up. My assigned advisor happened to pass by and quickly pulled me into the dry hallway.

She flipped through my wet registration file, concern written all over her face. "Can you hear me? I need to call your emergency contact.

Did he come with you today?" She dialed Bruno’s number on speaker. First call: No answer. Second call: Straight to voicemail.

When we were filling out our preorientation safety forms back home, Bruno had insisted on being my emergency contact.

He had taken my phone, typed his own cell number into the field, and said, "If anything ever happens to you in New York, the school needs to call me first." I had believed him.

The advisor stared at the silent phone for a few seconds, then looked up at me gently. "I can't reach him, sweetie.

Rest here for a bit, and once the rain slows down, I'll walk you to the health center." Thirty minutes later, Bruno finally rushed into the lobby—holding a fresh set of dorm bedding he had just picked up for Isla.

He took one look at my drenched, disheveled state and scowled. "Callie, why do you always have to make things so complicated?" Isla peeked out from behind his shoulder, her voice tiny and sweet. "It's all my fault, Callie...

If I hadn't felt sick, Bruno could have come over to help you sooner." Bruno immediately turned to her, his voice softening. "This has nothing to do with you, Isla." The advisor stepped forward, her voice sharp and uncompromising. "Is this young man your boyfriend?

You were listed as her primary emergency contact, sir. She was injured and stranded in a downpour.

If you accept that responsibility, you step up—you don't come in here and blame the victim." I lifted my head, staring at his face.

For a brief, fleeting second, I wanted to ask him: "Were we ever actually boyfriend and girlfriend?" Then I caught myself, feeling a bitter wave of selfridicule.

Whether we were or weren't didn't matter anymore. The answer was already staring me in the face.

That night, I logged into the residence portal and officially canceled my dorm reservation.

I reprinted my UCL admission documents, carefully placing each clean sheet into a protective plastic sleeve.

Just as I tucked the final page into my envelope, an email from London popped up on my screen. "Clearing Application Approved.

Please complete final registration and travel verification within three days." That same night, I booked a oneway flight to London Heathrow for three days later.

The night before my flight, the freshman group chats exploded.

Someone had taken a screenshot of Isla’s post and reshared it to the campus gossip page, commenting on the handsome new couple living together offcampus.

I stared at the endless stream of comments reading "So cute!" and "Relationship goals!", my fingertips trembling on the glass.

Deep down, a tiny, foolish part of me was still unwilling to accept that years of shared memories were nothing more than a fever dream I had experienced alone.

In a moment of final, tragic hope, I typed a comment under the main post: "Don't misunderstand.

He has a girlfriend." It was the first time I had ever publicly claimed my place in his life. "Just give me one sign," I thought. "If Bruno stands up for me just once, I’ll give him one last chance." Within an hour, my comment was screenshotted and pinned at the top of the thread.

The new headline was vicious: "Freshmen Living Together? Real Girlfriend Steps Up?

Who’s the Side Chick?" The comment section erupted into chaos. "He has a girlfriend and he’s renting an apartment with another girl?

Isla is literally a homewrecker." "Wait, I saw them at orientation, they looked totally like a couple!" "I went to high school with them.

Bruno and Callie were definitely dating." "Isn't Isla an orphan? The Lawson family has been taking care of her for years." "Even so, zero boundaries!

Who moves in with a guy who has a girlfriend?" Isla was soon sobbing in the group chat.

She claimed she was only staying there temporarily, that Bruno was helping her purely out of family obligation.

She said being an orphan was hard enough, but now she was being publicly branded a homewrecker on her first week of college.

She added that if I was really that insecure, she would break her lease and drop out of school altogether.

The post gained so much traction that the department dean called the three of us into her office the following morning.

The dean laid her tablet on the desk, the viral post still displayed on the screen. "This is spreading through the incoming class," she said, looking over her glasses. "Normally, I don't interfere in students' personal lives, but campus code of conduct is strict, and this isn't the reputation we want for our freshmen.

I need an explanation." She looked at Bruno first, asking if the cohabitation was real. Then she turned to me, asking what I meant by "girlfriend." The office fell deathly quiet.

I turned my head to look at Bruno. All he had to do was say one sentence—"She’s my girlfriend"—and the whole nightmare would end. He stayed silent for a terrifyingly long time.

Finally, he pulled out his phone and brought up a text thread from months ago, showing a message where I had asked, "Are we officially together now?" He showed only my desperate, insecure question, hiding all his previous replies where he had promised: "When we get to New York, we’ll be official." He looked the dean dead in the eye. "Professor, Callie has had a crush on me for a long time." "But I never officially accepted her." "We are not in a relationship." "Isla is not a side chick." "Isla and I are the ones currently seeing each other seriously." My body went numb.

I was pinned to the floor, frozen. All those years of quiet, tender devotion were instantly rewritten as the delusion of a desperate girl who couldn't take a hint.

Isla’s sobs grew louder, delicate and heartbroken. "I just started college...

I can't have everyone calling me a homewrecker..." Bruno immediately turned to comfort her, his hands rubbing her shoulders.

Then, turning his back to the dean, he leaned in and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Callie, apologize to Isla right now." I stared at him. "Apologize for what?" "Her reputation can't be ruined over this!" he hissed, his eyes pleading and angry all at once. "She doesn't have parents, Callie.

She can't handle this kind of humiliation. You know what I meant—just don't make things hard for her right now." My voice came out barely audible. "So to you...

I was never your girlfriend?" Bruno’s throat bobbed. Isla clutched his sleeve, burying her tearstained face in his arm.

He closed his eyes. "At least... not right now." In that exact second, I heard something deep inside me break into a million pieces. It wasn't a loud, dramatic shatter.

It was just a quiet, final snap. Something that could never, ever be put back together. I stood there for a long time.

Then, I turned to Isla. "I'm sorry." Everyone in the dean’s office let out a long, collective sigh of relief. Only I knew the truth. I wasn't apologizing for the rumor.

I was apologizing to the past version of Callie Palmer—the girl who had spent three years foolishly believing she was loved.

When I walked out of the administration building, I didn't offer another word of explanation to anyone.

I opened the UCL registration portal on my phone. "Do you accept your offer of admission to University College London?" I stared at the words for a long moment.

Then, I tapped "Accept". When the green confirmation checkmark flashed onto the screen, I finally let myself swallow the tears choking my throat. Bruno didn't run out after me.

I glanced back once through the glass doors. He was still in the office, using tissues to gently wipe the tears from Isla’s cheeks.

He probably assumed I’d be waiting outside, just like I always did, standing in the cold until he was done comforting Isla, waiting for whatever crumbs of explanation he decided to throw my way.

That evening, he finally went to the freshman residence hall to look for me.

When I ignored his endless stream of texts, he tried asking a passing student to take a message up to my room—only to realize he had no idea what my room number was.

Frustrated, he went to the housing desk.

The housing coordinator flipped through the system logs and looked up at him. "Callie Palmer withdrew her housing application this afternoon.

She moved all her luggage out hours ago." Bruno’s face drained of color. "What?" A student volunteer standing nearby overheard and chimed in casually, "Oh, Callie?

She transferred to UCL in London. She came by to turn in her keys today. Didn't you guys go to high school together? How did you not know?"