"Speak," he demanded, staring me down.

"There's nothing to say," I lowered my eyes. "If I didn't go, I didn't go."

His fingers tightened sharply around his coffee cup.

"Five years," he gritted his teeth. "Clara, I've thought about you for five damn years, and this is all you have to say?"

I looked up and met his eyes.

"You've thought about me for five years?" My voice was so light it sounded like I was talking to myself. "But you're getting married next month."

The air seemed to be sucked out of the room.

His Adam's apple bobbed once; he released the coffee cup and leaned back into his chair.

"Yes," he said, "I'm getting married."

"Then what are you doing now?" I looked at him. "Inviting an ex-girlfriend out for coffee, looking to rekindle old flames?"

He was silent for a long time—so long I thought he wouldn't answer.

"I wanted an answer," he finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse.

"Why you stood me up five years ago, why you disappeared without a trace, why everyone was saying you slept with that man—"

My eyes reddened instantly.

"I didn't," I said.

"Then tell me what happened!"

I looked into his eyes—the eyes that had once been filled with tenderness and smiles, now left with only a murky, turbid anger.

I wanted to tell him; I truly did.

But how could I bring myself to say it? All that filth.

He said he waited for me for ten hours, but when I needed him most, he didn't come to find me.

He heard that version of the story, but he never asked me about it.

He accepted the arranged marriage, yet he said he had thought about me for five years.

"Liam," I called his full name, my voice as light as a falling leaf. "You have Joanne now. Why do you still want to ask me these things?"

He froze.

I stood up, pulled a few bills from my pocket, and placed them on the table.

"This coffee is on me. Thank you for the waiting you did five years ago."

I lowered my eyes, my fingertips feeling slightly numb. "But I really have nothing else to say."

I turned and walked out of the coffee shop.

There were no footsteps following me behind, only a sentence drifting from afar.

"Clara, I won't ask again."

I didn't look back.

Walking to the trash can on the street corner, I wiped my tears onto my sleeve.

Then I took out my phone and opened the page to book a train ticket.

Leave this city.

Last time, I traveled a thousand kilometers. This time, I planned to travel two thousand.

Chapter 3

The light from my phone screen reflected on my face; the words "Confirm Booking" hung before my eyes like a nail.

But my finger hovered over the button, hesitating, unable to press it.

Two thousand kilometers.

Twelve hours of driving. A completely unfamiliar city.

I could leave. I could leave at any moment.

But why were my fingers trembling?

Because of my unwillingness to let go. Because for five years, I have owed myself an answer—what exactly am I afraid of?

Afraid that he hates me? He already does.

Afraid that he has forgotten me? He’s almost there.

Afraid that he will be in more pain after learning the truth?

The final thought poured over me like a bucket of ice water.

Yes. I am afraid of him knowing the truth.

I am afraid of him knowing what happened that night, afraid of him looking at me with that kind of gaze—not hatred, but pity.

And then what? He abandons his fiancée, abandons everything he has now, and stays by my side as a "redeemer."

I don’t want his redemption. I want him to live well, marry well, and live out this life in peace.

So, I must finish playing this role of acting like nothing ever happened.

I turned off my phone and shoved it into my pocket.

The next afternoon, Joanne came to pick up her final report.

When the door to the consultation room was pushed open, I was looking down, organizing medical records.

In my peripheral vision, I saw two people walk in, one after the other.

"Dr. Su, are the reports ready?" Joanne’s voice held a smile.

"They are." I looked up.

Joanne sat down at the consultation desk, and Liam stood behind her, one hand resting on the back of her chair.

It wasn't an intentional embrace, just a very natural gesture, as if they had grown accustomed to this level of intimacy.

I handed over the report. Joanne took it, flipped through it, and looked back at Liam. "Everything is normal."

He gave a hum of acknowledgment, looking down at his phone without glancing at me.

"Dr. Su," Joanne said, tucking the report into her bag, and suddenly added with a smile, "Our wedding is on the eighteenth of next month. Are you free? You are welcome to come and have a celebratory drink."

Before I could open my mouth, a voice cut in.

"Why invite a stranger?"

Liam put away his phone, his tone very flat, as if he were talking about something trivial.

Joanne was taken aback. "Dr. Su isn't a stranger; she’s from your hometown—"

"Just from the same hometown," he said. "We aren't close."

Those seven words felt like a dull knife; they didn't slash down, but rather sawed away bit by bit.

Not close. Of course, we aren't close.

What kind of relationship is there between a man who waited ten hours at the civil affairs bureau and a woman who said, "If I didn't go, I didn't go"?

"Oh, never mind then," Joanne looked at me and smiled, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Dr. Su, please don't mind me; I was being abrupt."

"It's alright," I said, my voice steady in a way that felt alien even to me. "The hospital is always busy."

They turned to leave, Liam’s hand naturally settling onto Joanne’s shoulder.

Joanne looked up and said something to him; he lowered his head and smiled.

The smile was faint, but I saw it.

It was the way he used to look at me.

Slightly lowering his head, the corners of his mouth curving in a small arc, light in his eyes.

The door closed.

I sat where I was, staring at the closed door, my chest feeling as though it were blocked by something.

It wasn't pain; it was emptiness.

As if someone had hollowed out my internal organs, leaving only a shell.

I picked up the cup of water on the table that had gone ice-cold and took a sip. Cold, bitter, with no taste at all.

I picked up my phone, wanting to find someone to talk to.

I flipped through my contact list—hundreds of contacts, either colleagues or patients—yet there wasn't a single person I could call.

No one knows Clara.

They only know Su Qing, a doctor from Linwood who has no past.

At that moment, the phone vibrated; it was a text message from an unknown number.

I tapped it, and my pupils constricted sharply.

"Clara, sister is out. I want to see you."

Sister. Su Wanqing. The person who handed me that cup of water five years ago.

My fingers froze on the screen, the phone slipping from my palm and hitting the table with a dull thud.

Chapter 4

Su Wanqing, my own sister.

When we were children, she would save candy for me and cover my eyes when I was scared, telling me, "Big sister is here."

But later, she married, couldn't conceive a child, and her mother-in-law insulted her daily while her husband fooled around outside.

The way she looked at me changed—because I had Liam, because I was going to marry a man who loved me.

Five years ago, when she handed me that cup of water, her hand hadn't trembled.

Later, I called the police and sent both her and her husband, Zhou Cheng, to prison.

The phone vibrated again.

I picked it up and saw it was a photo.

It was the doctor's profile on the hospital's official website—Su Qing, attending physician in OB/GYN, followed by my photo and contact number.

"Clara, sister has found you."

She hates me.

So she scoured the internet, looking one by one, until she saw my face.

I flipped the phone face down on the table as if afraid it might explode.

After sitting alone for a long time, I went to the department director’s office to request a week of leave.

I didn't know when she might suddenly appear.

For the next few days, I didn't dare leave the house; the curtains were drawn, and I couldn't distinguish day from night.

As soon as I closed my eyes, I would fall into nightmares.

On the fifth day of my leave, I decided to go out for some air.

Without a destination, I walked along the sidewalk.