Jessie had a personal creed she lived by: "Explaining yourself is just making excuses." When I found a travelsized bottle of men’s cologne in her coat pocket—halfempty and clearly not mine—I didn’t speak to her for three days.

She didn't offer a single word of clarification.

On the fourth afternoon, she pulled up outside my lecture hall as if nothing had happened. "I don't make excuses," she had said, adjusting the rearview mirror without looking at me. "Those who trust me don't need to hear them.

Those who don't won't believe them anyway." Back then, I mistook her coldness for integrity.

When her mother cornered me, saying I was a dead weight dragging Jessie down, Jessie stayed silent, leaving me to endure the berating alone.

When her friends joked behind my back that I was punching way above my weight, she simply swirled the wine in her glass, leaving me to smooth things over with a strained smile.

Even tonight, at the department alumni mixer, everyone was buzzing about the undeniable chemistry between her and Seth. "Jessie, be honest—are you and Seth finally official?

The campus threads have been going crazy." "Seriously. Look at your outfits tonight.

Navy blazer, matching cream knit—if you tell us you didn't coordinate, nobody’s buying it." My throat tightened. We had been together in the shadows for five years.

Five years of hidden glances and locked doors.

Every time I asked why we couldn't just go public, why she couldn't clear the air, she would give me that same dismissive line: "Truth needs no defense." Until the conversation shifted to the semester’s final rankings.

Someone brought up how Seth, who usually hovered around the bottom third of the class, had miraculously landed the number one spot in the department.

The snide undertones were impossible to miss. "You couldn't even break the top hundred last term, Seth.

Did you hire an offshore ghostwriter or what?" Before Seth could even open his mouth, Jessie intervened. "I hired an elite academic coaching team from Cambridge to do oneonone virtual prep with Seth every evening," she stated, her voice slicing through the chatter with absolute authority.

She didn't stop there. She rattled off the lead consultant’s name, their credentials, and the exact timetable of their sessions.

Every sentence, every detail, was a calculated defense designed to shield Seth from scrutiny. "He earned the top spot because he worked for it," she concluded, surveying the table with a chilling gaze. "I won't sit here and let baseless gossip undermine his achievement." She couldn't stand the thought of Seth being misunderstood.

Yet she had let me drown in misunderstandings for five years. Right then, something inside me went completely still.

I realized I would never need anyone to speak on my behalf ever again. … The girl who had questioned Seth shrank back, her cheeks burning in embarrassment.

A wave of whistles and playful catcalls erupted across the private lounge. "Damn, Jessie protecting her man! Who’d dare argue with that?" "Right?

You guys aren't even officially out and you’re already bringing out the heavy artillery." Seth lowered his head, wearing an bashful, practiced smile as his shoulder subtly leaned into hers. "Stop it, guys.

Jessie just hates seeing people get unfairly accused." Hannah, the class representative sitting across from us, turned her attention toward me. "By the way, Eden, what happened to your finals this time?

You dropped out of the top ten entirely. You’ve had the departmental scholarship locked down since freshman year." Several pairs of eyes swung my way.

I parted my lips, but the dull, lingering ache in my stomach flared up again.

Last Wednesday, an hour before the fourhour comprehensive exam, Jessie had handed me an unsealed iced latte from the fridge. "Drink it," she’d said. "Don't go around telling people I don't look after you." Within forty minutes of sitting down, cold sweat was drenching my collar from acute gastroenteritis.

I tightened my grip around my water glass. "I had a sudden stomach bug right before the exam." Seth looked over, his eyes practically dripping with concern. "Eden, your stomach is still so fragile?

You really need to take better care of yourself." Jessie’s tone was razorsharp. "A mild stomach ache was enough to knock you out of the top ten?

If your foundation were solid, external factors wouldn't derail you so easily." I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. "Right.

My fault." She seemed caught off guard by my quiet compliance; her gaze lingered on my face for a second before flicking away.

Seth picked up Jessie’s phone from the table. "Jessie, can you help me check this case study real quick?" The screen lit up.

A push notification from her banking app flashed at the top of the display: [Recurring Payment Confirmed: Elite 1on1 Academic Tutoring Plan — $3,200 charged to your card.] My eyes froze on that number.

During my sophomore year, my mother suffered a massive heart attack. We were short three thousand dollars for the emergency stent procedure.

I had sat on the floor of Jessie’s apartment, weeping, begging her to lend me the cash.

She had sat on the sofa, looking down at me as if I were a bottomless pit. "Eden, the moment money enters a relationship, the dynamic is ruined," she had said, her voice clinical and detached. "I won't let our connection turn into a financial transaction.

You need to learn how to solve your own crises." I ended up singing in smoky dive bars six nights a week for half a year just to clear that medical debt.

Taking a slow, deep breath, I stood up and walked toward the restroom. Familiar footsteps echoed behind me.

Seth followed me in, stopping by the marble sink. "Eden, you look terrible.

Are you still upset about the exam results?" His eyes were wide with innocent pity. "No." He sighed, pulling a bottle of cologne from his designer bag and spritzing his wrists.

It was the exact scent I had found in Jessie’s coat pocket. "Don't take what Jessie said to heart.

She’s always blunt like that," Seth murmured softly. "I know for a fact she cares about you deep down." He reached back into his bag for a handkerchief. "Clink." A sleek set of metal keys dropped onto the counter.

It was the spare key fob to Jessie’s Audi.

A month ago, when my mother was discharged from the hospital, I had asked to borrow Jessie's car so my mom wouldn't have to take the crowded subway in the winter chill.

Jessie had refused, telling me her insurance policy strictly covered only herself. Seth paused, quickly scooping the key into his pocket with an apologetic grin. "Oh, clumsy me.

Jessie said she’s been exhausted lately and was worried about nodding off behind the wheel, so she gave me her spare to hold onto just in case.

You don't mind, do you, Eden?" "Not at all." I tossed my paper towel into the bin and walked out without looking back. The party wrapped up close to midnight.

A cold, relentless drizzle had begun to coat the city streets.

Outside the entrance, Jessie opened a large black umbrella, sheltering Seth beneath it. "I’m driving Seth home," she told me, pulling her collar up against the wind. "He lives on the far side of town, and the neighborhood gets sketchy after dark." She glanced in my direction. "Call an Uber for yourself.

Text me when you’re back." Three years ago, after a latenight shift when I was nearly mugged in an alleyway, she had taken a cab across the entire city just to sit by my side until dawn.

Now, she couldn't even spare half an umbrella. "Okay," I said quietly, tapping open a rideshare app on my phone. The car arrived five minutes later.

The driver was a burly man who kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror with an unsettling, lingering intensity. "Heading home alone this late, kid?" His voice was thick and raspy.

I shifted closer to the door, instincts flaring. "My girlfriend’s waiting for me at home." He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. My phone vibrated in my palm.

A breaking news notification popped onto the screen: [Alert: Active manhunt underway for suspect in violent latenight robberykidnapping in the metropolitan area.] A cold knot formed in my stomach.

I looked out the window. This wasn't my usual route.

The streetlamps were sparse, giving way to abandoned warehouses and unlit industrial lots. "Sir, this isn't the route on the navigation," I said, my voice wavering despite my efforts to sound firm.

The driver didn't answer. He just pressed harder on the gas. With trembling fingers, I opened Jessie’s chat. [The driver took an isolated detour.] [I’m really unnerved.

Can you please call me? Just stay on the line.] The messages went through, but silence swallowed them whole.

The car plunged into a completely dark stretch of backroad where the pavement was cracked and wild grass grew tall. Panic clawed at my chest. I dialed Jessie's number directly.

It rang three times. She declined the call.

A second later, the car slammed on its brakes, pitching me forward. "Here’s your block, kid," the driver’s gravelly voice cut through the suffocating quiet. "Main boulevard was closed off for utility work.

Had to loop around through the old industrial park." I pushed the door open, my knees shaking so badly I could barely find my footing on the wet curb. "Thank you," I managed to whisper.

By the time I unlocked the apartment door, I was drenched to the bone. Jessie was sitting on the living room sofa.

Her eyes fell on me, her brow immediately furrowing in irritation. "You’re tracking water all over the hardwood." I raised my head, my neck stiff and burning. "I sent you an SOS message.

Did you see it?" "My phone was on Do Not Disturb. I didn't notice." My voice shook uncontrollably. "And when I called you right after?

Why did you hang up?" An edge of impatient annoyance crept into her tone. "Seth fell asleep in the passenger seat.

Your ringtone would have woken him." She stood up, crossing her arms. "Besides, you’re standing right here in one piece, aren't you?

There’s a limit to how much paranoia I can tolerate from a grown man." A sharp sting hit the back of my eyes.

Freshman year, when I had a sudden fever and missed a single text, she had waited outside my dorm in the freezing cold all night, her eyes rimmed red with sheer panic.

Now, her first instinct in an emergency was protecting another man’s sleep. My gaze drifted down to her unbuttoned collar.

There, just above her clavicle, was a dark, unmistakable mark. A fresh bruise. "What is that?" I pointed at her neck, my fingertips trembling.

Jessie touched her collarbone instinctively. Her eyes didn't flinch. "A bug bite.

Or a contact allergy." "A bug bite?" "Truth needs no defense," she said coldly, turning away. "Think whatever you want.

I don't have the bandwidth to entertain your hysterics tonight." Tears spilled over my lashes, shattering the dam that had held five years of swallowed pride and quiet compromises.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached, refusing to let out a sob. "Truth needs no defense?" My voice rose, raw and cracking. "When people doubted Seth’s test scores, you had every single tutor's résumé memorized to defend him!

But with me, it’s always "no explanations", it’s always "stop being crazy"!" "Jessie, why? Just tell me why!" Jessie stepped back, folding her arms tighter across her chest.

She watched me break apart with the detached curiosity of a stranger watching an animal in a cage.

When my voice finally gave out and I collapsed onto the cold tiles, she pulled two tissues from the box and dropped them at my feet. "Finished venting?" she asked smoothly. "You always do this.

You unravel over the slightest inconvenience. Eden, you need to learn emotional regulation.

It’s exhausting to communicate with someone so unstable." She turned, walked into the guest bedroom, and locked the door from the inside.

As the latch clicked shut, I heard something delicate and irreplaceable inside me shatter into dust.

The next morning, the gentle rhythm of a knife hitting a cutting board drifted from the kitchen.

Seth was standing at the island, wearing my favorite linen apron, with bags of fresh groceries spread across the counter.

Hearing my footsteps, he turned around, his face full of performative warmth. "Morning, Eden!

I bought those prime short ribs you like," he said cheerfully. "Jessie told me she upset you last night, so I thought I’d cook us a nice lunch to make it up to you." I walked past him toward the bathroom without a word.

When I finished washing up and stepped back into the hallway, a sharp gasp came from the home office. I pushed the door open.

Seth was standing by my desk holding an empty water tumbler. My laptop was sitting in a pool of water, its screen dead and black.

Inside that drive was the final portfolio for the National Architectural Design Competition—three months of roundtheclock renderings.

The submission portal closed at five this afternoon. Tears welled in Seth’s eyes instantly. "I’m so sorry, Eden!

I was just trying to wipe down your desk, I swear I didn't do it on purpose—" I lunged forward, slamming the power button over and over. Nothing. Not a flicker. "It’s just a laptop.

We can buy another one," Jessie’s voice came from the doorway, cold and defensive. "Why are you taking it out on Seth?" "My competition submission was on this drive!" I roared, my hands shaking.

Jessie pulled Seth behind her, shielding him with her body. "It’s one competition, Eden. He already apologized.

Do you really have to be so petty and play the martyr every single time?" I had no time to scream back.

I yanked the fried laptop from the dock, grabbed my keys, and sprinted out the door, desperate to find an emergency data recovery lab before the deadline.

Two blocks from the intersection, a deafening crunch tore through the rear of my sedan. The violent impact whipped my body forward.

My forehead struck the steering wheel with sickening force, and hot blood immediately began to track down my eyebrow, blurring my vision.

I kicked the door open, leaning against the frame to keep from blacking out. Seth scrambled out of a white coupe behind me, his hands fluttering in theatrical terror. "Eden!

Oh God, you’re bleeding!" He rushed over, trying to press his palm against my forehead. "I just got my license last week.

I saw you run out so frantically, I only wanted to catch up and help you get to the shop...

I panicked and hit the gas instead of the brake!" A patrol cruiser arrived within minutes, followed shortly by Jessie, who had taken a cab over.

Seth ducked behind her immediately, his shoulders trembling. "Jessie, I messed up. I hit Eden’s car...

I didn't mean to." Jessie rubbed his back gently, her eyes finally lifting to the blood dripping down my cheek.

A flicker of distress crossed her features, and she reached out toward my arm. "Eden, are you okay?" The traffic officer walked over with a clipboard, asking for both drivers' licenses.

Jessie stepped between them, her voice brisk. "Officer, this is a family matter. We’d like to settle it privately." The officer frowned. "Rearend collision, full liability.

Standard procedure applies. What’s the relationship here?" "The victim is my partner," Jessie said smoothly.

The officer closed his notebook. "Even between partners, physical injuries require documentation.

Get him to the ER first." The city hospital’s emergency room smelled overwhelmingly of sterile iodine.

The doctor cleaned the jagged laceration along my brow and put in three stitches.

Before the local anesthetic had even worn off, Jessie walked up to my gurney holding a single sheet of paper.

A liability waiver and nonprosecution agreement. "Sign it," she said flatly. "Let’s put an end to this." My throat felt like sandpaper. "He ruined my laptop.

He ruined my competition.

And now he nearly put me in the morgue." I looked up at her through the haze of pain. "And you want me to absolve him?" Jessie pulled up a metal stool and sat down, crossing her long legs. "Seth has an executive interview at an investment firm next week.

If there’s a police record for reckless driving, his entire career track is dead on arrival. It was an accident.

Do you really need to destroy his future to feel satisfied?" I stared straight into her eyes. "And if I refuse?" Jessie fell silent for a few seconds.

She let out a soft, tired sigh, reached into her leather bag, and pulled out a small red booklet. She tossed it onto the thin hospital blanket over my lap.

The sharp snap of the paper unfolding drowned out the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor beside me.

On the official certificate, Jessie and Seth stood side by side in crisp white shirts, their smiles bright and coordinated.

The registration date: "Last month." I stared at the embossed state seal, my vision fracturing into jagged pieces.

Last month, when we drove past city hall, she had casually remarked that she was focused on her career and had no interest in marriage or domestic ties.

And yet, behind my back, she had walked into that office and bound herself legally to the man who called me his brother.

For three years, I had been an unacknowledged ghost in her life. Now, I was nothing more than a grotesque, punchlineworthy fool.

Seeing the blood drain from my face, Jessie’s eyes shuttered for an instant, though her voice remained steady, clinical, and completely devoid of warmth. "If you don't sign this waiver, I’ll take this marriage certificate straight to your mother’s bedside," she murmured. "I’ll tell her that her precious son has been sleeping with a married woman, trying to extort money from someone else's husband.

Do you think her heart can survive that kind of shock so soon after surgery?" My fingers went numb.

My heart felt as though it had been ripped out and crushed under the heel of her boot. My mother had barely made it through the cardiac ward.

The slightest emotional trauma could trigger fatal heart failure.

During my sophomore year, when my mother lay in the ICU, Jessie had held her frail hand and sworn: "Don't worry, ma'am.

I’ll take care of Eden for the rest of his life." And now, she was holding my mother’s life hostage to protect Seth’s sparkling résumé. "Jessie... do you even have a soul?" I whispered, every word tearing through my vocal cords like glass.

She averted her eyes. "Sign the paper, and your mother lives in peace. It’s the smartest choice for you." I took the pen from her hand.

Stroke by stroke, with absolute precision, I wrote my name across the waiver. On the final flourish, the nib tore clean through the parchment.

Jessie took the document, sliding it into her folder. We spoke at the exact same moment. "I’ll make it up to you," she said. "We’re done," I said. Her hand froze over the zipper.

A flash of genuine bewilderment crossed her eyes. "What kind of tantrum is this now?" She softened her tone, offering a rare, condescending explanation: "There is nothing between Seth and me.

We only registered the marriage so he could qualify for the municipal firsttime homebuyer tax credit and residency quota. We’re completely clean. We haven't even crossed that line.

Don't throw around breakups like a child. It’s immature." She reached out, attempting to stroke my hair. I pulled my head back, dodging her touch entirely.

Her hand hung awkwardly in the air, and her expression darkened instantly. "Fine. Suit yourself.

We’ll talk when you’ve cooled down." She spun on her heels and strode out of the trauma bay. I picked up my phone from the metal tray.

On the screen, a message from my department chair had arrived thirty minutes earlier: [Eden, the fullyfunded fellowship transfer to Oxford University—have you made up your mind?] I typed my reply with a steady hand: [Yes, Professor.

I accept the transfer.] An hour after being discharged, I packed two suitcases, called a cab, and headed straight to the international terminal.