Chapter 1

I only glanced once at the special pinned contact in Ethan's phone.

Then I learned one thing: not to care.

He worked a thirty-hour night shift without replying to messages. I stopped waiting.

He forgot my birthday. I didn't mention it.

My ankle was badly sprained. I gritted my teeth and wrapped it myself, then went onstage in heels the next day.

Loving someone is hard, but letting go is simple.

Joanna's POV

Today was Swan Lake's quarterly performance.

In the third act, during the Black Swan's 32 fouetté turns, I heard a crack from my ankle on the 29th landing.

Backstage, a crowd swarmed around me.

"Joanna! Should we stop the show?"

My forehead was covered in cold sweat. I waved them off. "It's the last act."

Eight minutes of solo dance. I don't remember how I finished it. I only remember the applause was loud during curtain call, the spotlight was warm, and beneath my skirt, my ankle had swollen until it shone.

I smiled and took three curtain calls.

No one saw that when I stepped into the wings, my entire body was trembling from pain.

1 AM. Sacred Heart Hospital emergency room.

I sat alone in the observation room on a plastic chair, an ice pack pressed against my ankle bone.

The nurse on duty frowned after reviewing the X-rays. "Ligament strain. Good thing the bone's not damaged. Why didn't you come earlier? Delaying makes the recovery period even longer."

"Just finished a performance."

While recording my information, the nurse asked casually, "You're Ethan's girlfriend, right? He posted a photo of you two on social media, that five year anniversary one."

My eyelashes flickered.

He did post something on our fifth anniversary. The caption read: "Survived 3 trauma emergency courses."

I'd waited five hours at the restaurant we'd reserved, only to receive one message. "Something came up. We'll make it up another day."

That "another day" still hasn't come.

"He's on shift tonight. Want me to call him for you?" the nurse offered kindly.

"No need," I said. "Don't disturb his work."

The moment I finished speaking, footsteps echoed from the end of the emergency corridor.

Ethan came down from upstairs. He paused when he passed the observation room.

He turned and walked in, his gaze falling on my swollen ankle, his brow furrowing. "You're injured? Why didn't you tell me?"

He crouched down to examine it.

I pulled my foot back slightly, the movement gentle, as if afraid of making noise.

"It's just a minor injury."

Ethan's hand froze in midair. He looked at me with surprise.

In the past, if I got even a blister from dance practice, I'd photograph it and send it to him, acting spoiled. "The wound hurts so much, I miss you."

Before every performance, I'd curl up nervously in his arms, asking repeatedly, "You'll come watch, won't you?"

Now my foot was this swollen, yet there wasn't a trace of grievance on my face.

I wouldn't even let him touch it.

Before he could ask, the sound of high heels echoed from the end of the corridor.

"Ethan!" The voice was light and soft, carrying a smile.

Grace wore a sharply tailored dress under her white coat, carrying two cups of coffee. She walked over and naturally positioned herself beside Ethan.

"Your favorite mocha, less sugar." She handed him the cup, her gaze turning to me, pausing for a beat. "This is... your friend?"

Ethan took the coffee, his voice unconsciously softening by half a degree. "My girlfriend, Joanna. She hurt her foot."

"Oh my god, is it serious?" Grace immediately crouched down to look at my ankle. "Hi, I'm Grace. You really can't dance on this injury anymore-you need to let it heal properly."

Her tone was sincere.

The flash of condescension in her expression was equally sincere.

"Thanks," I said. "The nurse already treated it."

When Grace stood up, her shoulder brushed against Ethan's arm, seemingly by accident. "Ethan, we're paired for tonight's shift. I'm still not familiar with a lot of procedures-help me out more."

"Sure." Ethan seemed oblivious to her intimacy.

He looked at me. "Let me take you-"

"No need."

I braced myself against the armrest and stood up, taking the crutch. "You two are busy. I called a car."

Ethan frowned. "In your condition, how can you-"

But I'd already left.

The crutch tapped against the floor. One tap, then another. The rhythm was steady.

Behind me came Grace's voice, clear even across the entire corridor.

"Ethan, did Miss Joanna misunderstand something? Should I go explain to her?"

"She's not like that." There was a hint of helplessness in Ethan's voice.

I didn't look back.

Five years. I'd never made a fuss, never demanded answers.

I thought I was being understanding and accommodating, but in his eyes, I was simply "not like that."

Actually, on my way to the hospital, I'd thought about messaging him.

But when I opened my phone, I saw the message I'd sent three days ago.

"It's opening night today. Will you come?"

He hadn't replied.

I knew that he hadn't forgotten. He just didn't want to respond.

In his life's hierarchy, I ranked behind surgery, behind his shifts, behind that less-sugar, less-milk mocha.

And especially behind Grace.

Always had been.

Back home, I opened my laptop.

The email from the French Arts Dance Company sat quietly in my inbox. I'd read it many times.

"We cordially invite you to serve as principal dancer with our company, three-year term. We look forward to your reply."

My fingers hovered above the keyboard.

I thought of Grace handing him coffee in the ER and how naturally he'd accepted it. I thought of how his tone unconsciously softened when he spoke to her. I thought of my ankle swollen until it shone, and how he hadn't even asked once if it hurt.

Five years.

I'd waited through countless "another days," countless "something came ups."

I didn't want to wait anymore.

I typed my reply:

"Thank you for the invitation. I accept. I'll complete domestic handover within seven days and report on time. "