Chapter 4My Fiancée Always Criticizes Me

I went to our shared apartment to pack up my things.

I didn't expect Evelyn to already be back.

She sat on the couch, lazily lifting her eyelids. "Had you thrown your tantrum, and were you back?"

I tried my best to keep my voice from trembling. "I'm not throwing a tantrum, Evelyn. I was serious about breaking up. I'm here to pack my things."

Unexpectedly, Evelyn didn't say a word, just watched me with a smirk.

I swallowed down the discomfort churning in my gut and started packing.

I didn't have many things, really. Only a few items truly belonged to me.

Most of it, Evelyn bought for me after I moved in.

When we first started living together, she saw my mouthwash cup and towel with cartoon characters on them and frowned.

"Leo, your stuff is so childish and ugly."

The next day, she replaced everything.

I tried to reason with her, but she said dismissively, "Your things were tacky and not sophisticated enough, so I changed them."

That was the first time I wanted to break up.

But my mom convinced me, "If she likes you, just let her do what she wants. You've been together for so many years; you can't break up over something so small."

That time, I compromised.

It took a long time for me to realize that it wasn't a small thing at all.

Anything that makes you uncomfortable shouldn't be dismissed as "small."

The only part of that apartment I felt any attachment to was my writing nook.

Just a desk, a lamp, and a computer, yet it was where countless stories were born.

I'd loved writing since I was a kid, but Evelyn always called it "a waste of time," so I put that hobby on hold for a while.

It wasn't until college, when I had more time, that I started writing again. Evelyn was my first reader.

I was so excited, hoping she'd praise my work, but after reading it, she just coldly said, "What you write is total nonsense, utterly worthless. Leo, you have no talent for writing. Give up."

But I guess I truly loved writing. For the first time, I didn't listen to her.

I kept writing, and I actually made a name for myself.

When I got my first royalty check, I proudly showed off to Evelyn. "I actually got paid for my writing! A full three hundred bucks!"

I wanted to prove to her that people *did* read my stuff, that I wasn't as bad as she said.

But she scanned it quickly, then immediately declared, "Worthless garbage."

She looked down on me, her eyes barely hiding her scorn. "There are just a lot of kind people out there. They probably tipped you to encourage a newbie."

"You actually think you're a good writer?"

Her every word was a blade, bursting the bubble of hope in my heart, leaving behind a festering, oozing wound.

After that, no matter how much money I made from writing, I never told Evelyn again.

I took a deep breath, about to close my laptop, when I noticed it was already on.

I opened the screen, and my drafts on the desktop were all gone!

That was hundreds of pages of drafts. Every word had been carefully chosen; the effort and passion poured into them were undeniable.

I checked the trash bin, then looked through Word's revision history.

Nothing. Nothing. They were all gone!

Only one person would do something like that.

Evelyn's voice suddenly came from behind me. She leaned against the doorframe, her gaze dark and knowing:

"I deleted them for you. See, this useless stuff has just made you arrogant. You didn't actually think that with this worthless trash, you could just leave me and live on your own, did you?"