Chapter 4Born a Tree Not a Flower

"I'm treating Henry to thank him for his help," I said, trying to diffuse the sudden chill in the air. "Since you're here, why don't you join us? Henry, do you mind?"

Henry smiled warmly at me. "Not at all."

The four of us sat down.

Zora immediately took over the conversation, chatting animatedly about her sightseeing over the last few days.

She was like a hyperactive puppy.

That description wasn't mine, of course. It was Oliver’s.

It's funny how, once your eyes finally open, all the ignored details of the past start rushing back to hit you.

How had Oliver ever described me?

"Lydia, you're always so sensible."

That was it.

Nothing more.

They ordered more dishes, none of which were things I liked.

Actually, I used to like them, but once Zora claimed them as her favorites, I stopped.

Maybe it was just a pathetic, unspoken rebellion of mine—declaring I didn't care for them until I actually believed my own lie.

Take the sweet and sour ribs, for instance. I always claimed they were too greasy.

But suddenly, a golden-brown rib was placed gently in my bowl.

I looked up. It was Henry.

As Henry served me, I saw Oliver's jaw tighten.

But why should he care? He had been busy putting food on Zora’s plate the entire time.

The lunch ended on an awkward, strained note. I was the one to cut it short.

"Thank you for coming, Henry," I said. My words were polite, but my eyes carried a deep apology.

Henry smiled, his gaze soft. "My pleasure. See you around, Lydia."

He didn't bother saying goodbye to the other two.

"Lydia, is he..."

As soon as Henry walked out, Zora leaned in with a sly grin, nudging my shoulder.

She knew Oliver was standing right there.

Oliver, who was supposed to be my boyfriend.

But Oliver wouldn't care. I could see it in his eyes.

He had never once lost his composure because of me.

That evening, I dragged myself through dinner with them, followed by a walk and a movie.

By the end of the night, Zora insisted she wanted a drink.

I frowned. Even Oliver said, "Zora, don't be reckless. Your heart."

"Oh, come on, Oliver! Just a little bit. I'm so happy today!"

Oliver glanced at me, then sighed. "Fine. Just a sip."

I turned and walked away without a word.

I didn't touch a drop of alcohol.

Zora didn't have to face the consequences of a hangover, but our master's defense was tomorrow. I couldn't afford to mess up, and I assumed Oliver couldn't either.

But he drank with her anyway.

And he drank a lot.

By the end of the night, my job of "looking after Zora" morphed into dragging both of them back to the hotel.

I was angry. I threw Oliver onto his bed, ready to leave.

But as I turned toward the door, I heard him mumble.

"Zora..."

I froze, cold dread seeping into my bones.

I didn't play the part of the tragic heroine who runs away crying. Instead, I marched back to the bed and grabbed Oliver by his collar.

"Oliver. Who did you just call?"

Oliver was too drunk to answer.

I had never checked his phone before. I had always thought it was beneath me.

But tonight, I chose to be cheap.

His text logs were clean. Everything looked normal. Until—

I found a hidden album in his gallery.

There were only two photos in it.

I recognized the first one instantly. It was from when we were ten, playing in the snow.

Zora was wearing a bright orange puffer jacket, looking like a little burst of sunshine against the white winter.

The camera was centered entirely on her.

I was barely visible, a blurry shoulder in the far corner of the frame.

The second photo was a digital note.

The top line was written in Zora's messy, childish handwriting.

The line beneath it was in a young Oliver's sharp, elegant script.

The background was decorated with cute, childish doodles.

But to me, it looked like a knife.

"Zora Loves Oliver."

"Oliver & Zora."

I let out a quiet laugh.

It was so incredibly pathetic.

But as I laughed, tears began to stream down my face.

I didn't close the album. I dropped his phone onto the mattress beside him.

Then, I pulled out my own phone and sent him one last text.

"Oliver, let's break up."