I ended up taking a taxi to the hospital alone. The doctor checked my wounds and said they were contaminated with seawater and had debris in them, making them prone to infection. He recommended debridement surgery, which meant I’d need a week to recover.
So, I had to cancel my flight, which I had just booked. I looked at the calendar and realized that in seven days, I had to report back regarding the foreign exchange. Not long ago, my tutor had praised my research and recommended me for a study abroad program in the UK. Mason’s friend had even hinted at a romantic proposal, which made me decide to stay and marry him.
Now, I was grateful for this unexpected turn of events. It gave me a decent reason to bow out gracefully.
I had planned to leave tonight. But rushing off while injured, barely able to drag my luggage, felt too humiliating. Seven days—that was perfect. Enough time to sever ties completely and leave with some dignity.
After the surgery, I returned to the apartment I shared with Mason. I mentally mapped out my seven-day breakup plan, starting by tossing out old junk. The dusty couple’s water cups went first, followed by the couple’s shirts, tags still attached. They, like my one-sided love, belonged in the trash.
It was 1 a.m. and I was sorting through thesis papers when Mason suddenly walked in. I was a bit startled—mostly because, just an hour ago, he posted his first-ever Instagram post. The caption read, [I’ll never let you get hurt again,] with a picture of him on one knee, applying medicine to Naomi. The note section had exploded.
Most people were speculating about the mystery girl. A few mutual friends, however, jumped to the wrong conclusion.
[Mason and Jessica finally went public! Wishing you two the best!]
[This pose looks like a major hint!]
But when I refreshed it again, all I saw was the spinning loading symbol. He had probably blocked me.
Mason stood there, staring at me as he walked into the room. The silence felt thick, so I broke it with a casual, “I didn’t think you’d come back tonight.”
He reflexively answered, “No, I’m just working overtime.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, we both froze. The smell of disinfectant clung to him—clearly, he’d just come back from the hospital. And besides, he had taken leave today for our date, so there was no “overtime.”