Chapter 3

Winona's POV

By the time the IV finished, the sky was already showing its first light.

River never returned.

I called the nurse myself, had the needle removed, declined the suggestion to stay for observation, and walked alone through the empty hallways.

The smell of disinfectant filled my nostrils, and I suddenly remembered many years ago, also at a hospital, also on a cold morning like this.

Back then, I was accompanying my mother for chemotherapy.

After my mother fell asleep, I crouched in the stairwell, completely breaking down, not daring to make a sound, burying my face in my knees, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Suddenly, a pair of clean, slender fingers handed me a pack of tissues.

I looked up and saw River in his white coat. His features were refined and handsome, his expression gentle as he comforted me. "Don't cry. Your mother will get better."

The first time I met him, I remembered that voice and those beautiful eyes.

Later, when my mother passed away, I found a note under her pillow while sorting through her belongings. It had a phone number written on it, with a small line of text beside it: "If you need help, you can call this number. River."

I never called that number, but I carefully kept the note in the pocket of my wallet.

The second time I met him was at a gathering a friend organized.

River sat in the darkest corner of the booth, his white shirt unbuttoned at the top two buttons, gold-rimmed glasses resting on the table.

He drank alone, the surrounding commotion seemingly unrelated to him.

My friend pushed me over. "That's Dr. River. Like you, he's single. You two should have a good chat."

As I approached, River looked up.

The moment our eyes met, his gaze clearly wavered. "Have we met before?" he asked.

I took out that yellowed note from my wallet.

River stared at it for a long time, so long I thought he'd forgotten that first meeting, before I heard him say, "So it was you... You actually kept this note?"

"Yes." I replied softly. "Thank you for that."

That night he drove me home. In the car, he suddenly spoke. "Winona, want to be with me?"

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would leap out of my chest.

But I held back the impulse and asked him, "Why... so sudden?"

"I just think you're a really good person." He paused. "And you like me, don't you?"

I did have different feelings for him because of that first meeting.

The note he left me had been a sliver of warm light in my darkest, saddest moments.

Only later did I learn that the reason he was drinking alone that night was because he'd just broken up not long before.

Clara had been the one to end it.

Simply because Clara was going abroad to further her studies and felt long-distance was too difficult, she broke up with him directly.

Clara left decisively, completely uncaring about River's humble attempts to salvage the relationship.

I wasn't unaware that when he started a new relationship at that time, it wasn't because he liked me that much, but because he wanted someone to help him move on from his dead-end romance with Clara.

But even so, I still agreed to be with him.

I always believed sincerity could be met with sincerity.

As long as I was good enough to him, loved him enough, eventually he would completely let go of Clara, with only me in his heart and eyes.

In reality, during the four years we'd been together, River was a competent boyfriend.

He remembered all my food aversions, remembered my monthly cycle, remembered my birthday and all our anniversaries. His gifts and restaurant reservations were always thoughtfully arranged.

My friends always envied me, saying thoughtful men like River were nearly impossible to find even with a lantern to light the way.

I also thought I'd truly entered his heart.

But a month ago, Clara suddenly returned to the country. A phone call came through, her voice tearful, saying her father was critically ill and she was alone at the hospital.

After that, everything changed.

Not only did he come home later and later after work, but his clothes always carried traces of unfamiliar perfume. Even in the middle of the night, when Clara dreamed of her deceased father and became sad, he'd grab a jacket and rush out.

Because of Clara, we started arguing frequently.

I felt like a paranoid, resentful woman. While despising myself, I couldn't help asking him again and again with red eyes, "After all these years, have you still not forgotten her?"

He grew increasingly impatient, blaming me for being sensitive and suspicious, saying he only took care of Clara to fulfill his professor's dying wish.

For a time, I thought maybe I really was being too sensitive and suspicious.

Until I accidentally saw that unsent draft post on his phone.

At that moment, my world completely shattered.

My heart felt like it was being cut with knives, unbearably painful, yet instead of fighting or making a scene, I completely gave up hope.