The night Nana started fading, Seraphina finally promised to come home. Nana was clinging to her last threads of life, her lungs rattling with every breath, desperate to see the woman I’d loved for seven years one last time.

We were halfway there, the San Francisco skyline flickering in the rearview mirror, when Seraphina’s phone buzzed. It was Christian. He was sobbing. I could hear his voice cracking through the Bluetooth: "Sera, I’m at the clinic alone. I’m scared.

I can’t breathe." Seraphina’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

She went silent for a heartbeat, then she pulled a sharp Uturn, tires screeching against the asphalt. "Artie, you’ll have to explain things to Nana for me," she said, her voice tight with that practiced urgency she always reserved for him. "Christian saved my life years ago," she added, as if that old debt was a shield she could use against my silent judgment. "I can’t just leave him when he’s like this." She pulled over and let me out at the curb.

I stood there, the cold bay wind biting through my jacket, watching her taillights bleed into the fog until they disappeared. This wasn’t the first time. On my birthday, she was at a tailor’s with him, helping him pick out a threepiece suit.

When I was shivering with a 103degree fever, she was at a therapist’s office, holding his hand because he had a "panic attack." Now, with Nana on her deathbed, Seraphina still chose him.

At 3:00 AM, Nana’s hand, gnarled and frail, squeezed mine. "Is she... is she almost here, Artie?" I forced a smile, my heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. "Almost, Nana.

Just a few more minutes." But the minutes turned into hours, and by the time Nana’s chest stilled for the last time, Seraphina hadn’t shown up. I reached out, gently closing Nana’s eyes.

On the bedside table sat a small, crumpled envelope Nana had been clutching all night—a gift she’d prepared for the granddaughterinlaw she never got to meet. I tucked it into a drawer, my movements mechanical and numb. My phone lit up.

A text from Seraphina: [Christian finally fell asleep. I’ll head over in a bit.] I didn’t reply. I just slid the drawer shut. In that moment, I realized I was locking away the version of myself that had waited for her for seven years, too.

I didn't call her for the funeral. I handled the arrangements myself. I drove the hearse to our small coastal hometown in Carmel, held the urn against my chest, and stood alone on the hillside as the cemetery workers filled the grave.

My aunt was hysterical, clutching my arm, her voice raw with grief and anger. "Artie, where is she? Where is that woman? Her own grandmotherinlaw passes away, and she doesn’t even show her face?" "She’s busy," I whispered.

My throat felt like it was filled with broken glass. After the last shovel of dirt was leveled, I knelt by the headstone and placed a plate of Nana’s favorite lemonlavender shortbread on the grass. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Seraphina.

Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Artie, I’m at the furniture gallery. I’m looking at dining tables for the new house. Do you prefer the round marble one or the long walnut trestle?" I stared at the headstone, stunned.

It had been months since she’d asked for my opinion on anything. Before I could speak, Christian’s voice drifted through the line. "Sera, go with the square one.

Artie doesn’t have many friends anyway; a square table is more than enough for his small circle." Seraphina hummed in agreement, then asked me again, "What do you think?" "I—" "Oh, look at this sideboard!" Christian interrupted, his voice closer now. "White is so boring.

The dark mahogany looks much more highend. Artie’s wardrobe is so bland and gray; we can’t have the house looking just as depressing, right?" Seraphina let out a small, soft laugh. "You’re right.

He really doesn’t have a sense for these things." I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. I had wanted the round table.

Nana always said that a family should eat in a circle, so that everyone could see each other, so that no one felt left out. "Artie?" Seraphina prompted. "You’re being quiet.

Which one?" "Whatever you guys want," I said, the words feeling heavy and hollow. "See?" Christian’s voice was smug and sweet. "I told you, Sera. Artie is the easiest person in the world to please. He never complains." The easiest person.

I felt a sudden, crushing exhaustion. We had been good once. But ever since her old college mentor returned to the States with Christian in tow, I realized some ghosts never stay buried.

In college, they were the "Golden Couple." They shared the same major, the same rhythm, the same effortless chemistry. Christian’s return had turned our life into a threeperson tragedy where I was merely an understudy. Seraphina listened to him.

She consulted him on her business deals and deferred to him on our home decor. And Christian—he thrived on it. He’d make a decision, finalize the details, and then turn to me with a fauxapologetic smile: "Sorry, Artie. Did I overstep?

I just wanted to help." From the dining table to the curtains, to the very sheets we slept on—it was supposed to be our home, but I was being erased from it before we even moved in. "Just do what Christian wants," I said finally.

Seraphina sounded relieved. "Okay, we’ll go with his pick then." I hung up and pressed a piece of the shortbread into the damp earth. "I’m sorry, Nana.

I’m sorry you have to be here alone." On the bus ride back to the city, Seraphina called again, her tone frantic. "Artie, I heard you went back to Carmel alone? Why didn't you tell me?

I'll drive down tomorrow to visit Nana with you." I stared out the window at the blurred coastline. "Don't bother. She's already buried." There was a long, stunned silence. "Why didn't you say something? I..." The line went dead.

I assumed Christian had interrupted her again. That evening, Seraphina’s mother called. No "how are you," just business. "Artie, I heard about your grandmother. My condolences. But the wedding is only two weeks away. Keep the mourning lowkey, okay?

We don't want a 'dark cloud' over the ceremony.

It’s bad luck." I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the cold bus window. "And Seraphina has been exhausted lately," she continued. "Christian’s health is so fragile; don’t go dumping all your emotional baggage on her right now.

Christian is going to be the best man, but he’s weak, so don’t have him running errands. Since you don't have much family left, we can keep your side of the guest list short." "I don't have any family," I said quietly.

She paused, then moved right along. "Just make sure the wedding goes smoothly. Your grandmother would have wanted you to marry my daughter with some dignity." Nana wanted me to be happy.

She had clutched that red envelope all night, waiting to bless a woman who never came. But to them, Nana was just a footnote. I opened Instagram. Christian had posted a new photo. It was him and Seraphina at a highend sushi bar.

He was grinning at the camera, a piece of Toro held between his chopsticks. Seraphina was partially out of frame, but I recognized her hand—the one wearing our engagement ring—pouring soy sauce for him.

The caption read: [Huge thanks to my favorite person for feeding the 'patient.' Feeling the love.] It was posted at 6:00 PM. Precisely when I told her Nana was in the ground, she was choosing the perfect cut of fish for Christian.

I turned off the phone and stared at the ceiling of the bus, feeling nothing at all.

Three days later, I walked into the wedding planner’s office. The receptionist recognized me instantly. "Mr. Miller! You just missed Mr. Shaw.

He was here this morning to sign off on the final proofs for the invitations." "Final proofs?" "Yes, for the invites." She pulled out a sample. "Mr. Shaw said you’d delegated everything to him, so we let him give the final okay." I looked at the card.

The elegant gold foil initials at the bottom were SC. "The 'S' is for Seraphina," I said, my voice eerily calm. "What is the 'C' for?" The receptionist blinked, checking her notes. "Oh, Mr. Shaw said the groom’s name was Christian.

He said you were changing it legally before the wedding?" Christian. The initials weren't for the bride and groom. They were for her and her "soulmate." I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. "Cancel it." "Excuse me?" "Cancel the wedding.

Terminate the contract. Keep the deposit. Send me the bill for the killfee." I slid my credit card onto the desk. The planner came rushing out, panicked. "Mr. Miller, is this a lover’s quarrel? Maybe you should talk to Ms. Rhodes first? Or Mr.

Shaw—" "He has nothing to do with this." I signed the papers and turned to leave, only to see Christian walking through the door. He was wearing a crisp white linen shirt and the vintage Omega watch Seraphina had bought him last month. "Artie!

You’re here! Perfect, I wanted to talk to you about the color for the groomsmen's vests—" "Don't worry about it," I said, walking past him. "Talk to the planner." He caught my arm, his fingers light but firm. "Artie, are you mad?

Is it because I changed the dessert menu? I swear, I thought the lemon tart was more 'Californian' than that lavender shortbread thing you wanted..." I looked down at his hand. His nails were manicured, his skin soft.

I thought of Nana’s hands—calloused, twisted with arthritis, the hands that had raised me. "Christian," I said, pulling my arm back. "The shortbread was for my grandmother.

It was the only thing she asked for." His face stiffened for a fraction of a second before melting into that familiar, wounded pout. "I didn't know... Artie, why didn't you say something?

If you’d told me, I never would have changed it." For seven years, it was always 'Why didn't you say something?' If I spoke, he ignored me.

If I stayed silent, he took it as consent. "It’s fine," I said, forcing a smile. "Your choice was better anyway. I’m leaving." I walked out into the blinding San Francisco sun. A sharp, stabbing pain blossomed in my gut.

It had been getting worse for three months—a dull, gnawing ache that never truly went away. I leaned against a streetlamp and swallowed two extrastrength painkillers without water.

Three months ago, the day I got the diagnosis, I had sat on a plastic chair in the oncology ward, calling Seraphina. I called seven times.

When she finally picked up, there was shouting and crying in the background. "Artie, Christian is having another episode," she’d snapped. "I can’t talk. We’ll speak tonight." "Sera, I got the test results back.

The doctor said—" "Wait, Christian, don't cry! I'm here!" she shouted away from the phone. "Artie, the signal is bad. Let’s talk later." She hung up. That night, she came home exhausted and fell asleep on the sofa.

Her phone was faceup on the coffee table. A message popped up from Christian: [Sera, thank you for being my rock today. You must be so tired. Goodnight. xoxo] I stood over her, watching her sleep, and then I went into my study.

I took the pathology report, folded it neatly, and tucked it into the back of my journal. I never brought it up again. From the wedding planner's, I drove straight to Seraphina’s office. The pain in my stomach was a hot coal now.

I leaned against the elevator wall, sweating. The receptionist smiled as I approached. "Hey, Artie! Seraphina’s in a board meeting. Want me to tell her you're here?" I placed a thick manila envelope on the desk. "No need.

Just give her this." "You're not staying?" "No." As I passed Seraphina’s office door, I saw it was slightly ajar. Christian’s voice was coming through the speakerphone. "Sera, the new condo is perfect. The guest suite has its own entrance.

It’ll be so easy for me to crash there when I’m feeling under the weather." "Let Artie look at it first," Seraphina’s voice came through, weary but steady. "If he likes it, we'll sign." Christian chuckled. "Artie?

He’d be happy living in a cardboard box as long as you were the one who gave it to him. He’s obsessed with you, Sera." "Don't talk about him like that," she said, but there was no bite in her voice. "So, the invites are a go?

Artie won't get cold feet, will he?" Seraphina laughed. It was a cold, confident sound. "Artie? Get cold feet? He’s been following me around since we were twenty. He’ll sulk for a day or two, and then he’ll come crawling back.

He doesn’t know how to exist without me." I stood in the hallway, and for the first time in months, I wanted to laugh. She wasn't oblivious. She knew exactly how much I loved her. She used my devotion as her safety net.

My silence, my concessions, my heart—they were just the "interest" she collected on her investment. She was so certain I would never leave that she didn't even feel the need to look back when she walked away. I didn't stay to hear the rest.

I took the elevator down and hailed a cab. An hour later, my phone buzzed. Seraphina: [What's with the envelope? Your key and the gate fobs are in here.] I didn't reply.

Seraphina: [Arthur, what is this tantrum about?] Seraphina: [The wedding is in ten days. Don't make us a laughingstock. Pick up the phone.] I turned the phone off and started packing.

I’d lived in this apartment for four years, but everything I truly owned fit into a single suitcase. My documents, my medical records, a few changes of clothes. As I cleared out the nightstand, I found Nana’s red envelope.

The paper was wrinkled from her grip. I tucked it into my breast pocket. In the back of the closet, I found a gray silk robe. I pulled it out and saw the monogram on the inside collar: C.S. Christian Shaw.

I stared at it, and suddenly, the pain in my stomach vanished. It was replaced by a profound, icy numbness. My home had belonged to someone else for a long time. I didn't scream. I didn't take a photo.

I just folded the robe neatly and placed it in the center of the bed. Beside it, I lined up every piece of jewelry, every watch, and every gift she had ever given me. I called the landlord. "I’m out.

The keys are in the lockbox." "But Artie, the wedding—" "There is no wedding." I dragged my suitcase down the stairs. The air outside smelled like rain and jasmine.

I remembered Nana telling me once that a man should be like a cedar tree—strong, quiet, and rooted. But I had let myself be a willow, bending until I snapped. I hailed a taxi. "Where to, Mac?" the driver asked. "SFO," I said. "One way."

At 9:00 PM, Seraphina returned to the apartment. She’d called me a dozen times on the way home. No answer. When she pulled up, the windows were dark. She frowned, frustrated, and headed upstairs.

She slid her key into the deadbolt, but it wouldn't turn. She tried again, rattling the handle. Nothing. She knocked, then pounded. Finally, the door opened. A man in his twenties, wearing a Stanford sweatshirt, looked at her confusedly.

Seraphina froze. She looked past him. The apartment—the place she’d called home for four years—looked different. Sterile. The art was gone.

The photos were gone. "Who are you?" she demanded. "Where's Artie?" The guy blinked. "You mean the previous tenant? He broke his lease this afternoon. Moved out in a hurry.

Said he had to go somewhere for 'treatment.' He looked pretty rough, honestly."