Chapter 3

"You're being unreasonable."

After saying this, Robertson put on his headset and started the game without looking back.

"Women are such a hassle."

"Thiago, when you get married, definitely don't be this much trouble."

A casual complaint that drew bell-like laughter from the other end of the headset.

Robertson and I started dating freshman year of college.

At first, Robertson was attentive to me. He'd walk with me, take me to movies.

He just really didn't like chatting. But when we met in person, he was always considerate.

"I don't like chatting. Typing is a hassle. Listening to voice messages is a hassle too."

"I'm like that with everyone."

I accepted Robertson's personality.

Back then I told myself, that's just how he is.

Later, when we were together, he introduced me to Thiago and often brought me to play games with them.

But I didn't have the talent for it. After playing for a while, I dropped out.

I shouldn't have seen the dense chat history between Robertson and Thiago.

Or Robertson's comments on every single one of Thiago's Twitter posts.

He'd even message Thiago when he couldn't sleep late at night, but he never reached out to me.

That feeling was like swallowing a needle.

That night, Robertson didn't come back to the bedroom. He pulled an all-nighter gaming.

The next morning I left Robertson a note: "Meet me at the bridal shop."

"I have something to discuss with you."

He could ignore WhatsApp. He could leave voice messages unread.

But a note—surely he wouldn't miss that.

But I'd forgotten that some people aren't blind in their eyes, but in their hearts.

I sat on the sofa watching couple after couple come and go while my cup of hot water was refilled again and again.

Until the staff came over apologetically.

"Miss Dixon, we're getting ready to close..."

Their hesitant discomfort was a kind of sympathy for me.

I walked home in stops and starts.

On the way, I checked Thiago's Twitter countless times.

"Yay, mission accomplished!"

The photo showed a movie theater screen. The hand making a peace sign in the lower left corner was Robertson's.

If moving out was my test for Robertson, then this time I truly needed to give up.

At the corner downstairs, I saw familiar figures at the BBQ restaurant Robertson and I frequented.

His back was to me. Thiago sat across from him, gesticulating animatedly.

Until Thiago saw me. Robertson turned around.

In the noisy restaurant, an indescribable atmosphere spread among the three of us.

"Dixon," Thiago pulled out a chair, letting me sit beside her.

"How did the dress fitting go today?"

Thiago was making conversation, trying to ease the awkwardness.

Robertson's hand holding the fork trembled slightly.

Before I could speak, Robertson did. "Waiter, a mango ice cream."

I knew Robertson felt guilty. He was trying to apologize to me this way.

It was hot. The ice cream was starting to melt when it arrived.

"Eat it quick before it melts."

I glanced at it but didn't move.

Robertson frowned. "Don't you love mango ice cream?"

Thiago laughed. "Silly, I'm the one who loves mango ice cream!"

Robertson scratched the back of his head sheepishly, looking at me apologetically. "Sorry, I got confused..."

I knew he hadn't gotten confused. He'd never remembered my preferences in the first place.

Because when we were together, I always ordered. He never had to think about it.

Robertson not only didn't remember my preferences—he'd forgotten.

I'm allergic to mangoes.

I lowered my head and scooped up a spoonful of the ice cream.