On the day of our fourth anniversary—during Independence Day holiday—I cut my business trip short to surprise Micah Thompson.

But the moment I entered his apartment, a woman beat me up and dragged me to the police station.

"You're saying you're the lady of this house? Impossible. Mike is a neat freak. He's always lived alone.

"At your age, you've got a bright future. Why stoop to burglary? Officer, you gotta talk some sense into her!"

I ended up spending three days in detention before Micah finally showed up to bail me out.

The first thing he said wasn't an apology but a defense of her. "She's Irene Conway. A friend of mine. She's been crashing at my place for a while. She didn't know about you, so don't hold it against her."

Irene was wearing Micah's oversized jacket and the scarf I had knitted for him.

She looped her arm through his and flashed a bright smile. "Sorry about that, Bella!"

I didn't make a scene, just looking at the man I had loved for seven years and saying calmly, "Micah, let's break up."

He knitted his brows. "Don't be dramatic."

I knew he wouldn't comfort me, but my chest still tightened with sharp, needling pain.

Irene suddenly jumped in between us, her expression full of distress.

She grabbed my hand earnestly and said, "Bella, I swear I didn't mean it!

"Micah never told me he had a girlfriend, so I thought you were a thief!

"What will it take for you to forgive me? Whatever it is, I'll do it if it's within my power."

Then she patted Micah's shoulder with exaggerated camaraderie. "See? I'm helping you out here, or your girlfriend would've ditched you! You're lucky to have me as your friend."

Micah, who always seemed obsessive about cleanliness around me, showed no trace of disgust at her touch. He even eyed her with a smile.

The anger surging in me was replaced by disappointment, like a bucket of ice water had drenched me from head to toe.

As I looked at them laughing and joking, I couldn't help feeling ironic.

I had chased Micah for three years before we got together, and we had been dating for four.

His obsession with cleanliness bordered on pathological. I couldn't even hold his hand without wiping mine with sanitizer three times.

Once, I accidentally brushed against him, and he gave me the cold shoulder for an entire week.

But now? He didn't even flinch at Irene's touch.

So it turned out his cleanliness obsession tendencies only applied to me.

I turned to Irene, a faint smile curving my lips. "Alright then. I'll forgive you if you move out."

She froze mid-laugh, while Micah's smile faded too.

"Anabella, can you stop making a scene already?"

My whole chest ached like it was soaked in acid.

The scab on my head from the fight started throbbing.

Before I could say another word, he grabbed Irene's hand and walked out.

Moments later, I heard the car engine start. The tires rolled over the thick snow outside.

My vision blurred as I watched the car disappear into the distance.

I reached up and felt the wetness on my cheeks.

In the end, I had no choice but to hail a cab home.

As I unlocked the door to the apartment next to Micah's, I let out a bitter laugh.

We had been together for four years, yet he said he couldn't stand living with any living creature.

So, I rented the apartment next door just to spend a little more time with him each day and catch a few extra glimpses of him.

Now, that thought felt pathetic. My "understanding" and "consideration" had been nothing but a joke.

I started packing up my things, tossing everything connected to him into the trash.

Just then, Irene suddenly barged in. She grabbed my wrist and practically dragged me into Micah's apartment.

Her grip hurt, and as I crossed the threshold, instinct made me reach for the disposable shoe covers on the rack.

But Irene waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. Just act like you're at your own house. Look at me. I never bother with those, and Mike doesn't care. If he says anything, I'll kick his ass for you."

My hand froze midair. I looked down at the messy trail of footprints she had left across the spotless floor.

Then my eyes flicked to Micah. But he didn't seem to mind at all.

And I remembered vividly the time I had rushed to grab a file from the shoe cabinet without putting on covers.

He had blown up at me, yelling until he finally threw out the entire doormat in disgust.

After that, slipping on shoe covers before stepping in became instinct, as natural as breathing.

I used to think he was like that with everyone. Even his mother had complained to me once about how extreme his obsession with cleanliness was.

But now I knew—Irene was the one exception.

Before I could react, Irene had already dragged me to the doorway of Micah's bedroom.

The massive king-sized bed was split down the middle by a stack of books—two completely different halves, each in its own style.

Irene, still oblivious, kept babbling beside me. "Bella, you've got to believe me!

"I'm only staying here for convenience. I've known Mike since we were kids. We grew up together! I've literally seen him running around naked when we were little!"

She laughed a little too loudly. "And come on, you know he has a cleanliness obsession. I just help clean up around here, tidy the place, and consider it paying rent. I swear, even though we sleep in the same bed, I've never crossed the line!"

Her voice kept droning in my ear, but I couldn't hear anything anymore.

All I could think about was that one sentence—"even though we sleep in the same bed."

My vision spun. My hands and feet went cold.

It felt like an invisible hand was crushing my heart, squeezing the air right out of me.

So that was what he meant by "she's just crashing here." They were not just sharing a room, but a bed.

For years, I had followed every one of his obsessive, inhuman rules like a fool, terrified of making him uncomfortable.

I had confined myself to the tiny, suffocating corner of his world, all to keep the peace.

And yet, for her, he could bend every single rule without hesitation.

I had already said we were over, but standing there and seeing it with my own eyes still tore something deep inside me.

When I didn't respond, Irene grabbed my hand. Her sharp manicure sliced into my palm, but she didn't even notice. She just squeezed harder.

"Bella? What's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?"

Instinctively, I yanked my hand back. Micah immediately stepped between us, pulling her behind him.

"Are you out of your mind? If you've got a problem, take it out on me. Don't you dare touch her."

He towered over us, shielding her completely, his expression dark and cold.

He didn't notice the blood on my hand. All he saw was her.

I couldn't hold back anymore. "You have a guest room. Why is she sleeping in your bed?"

A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but his tone stayed firm. "Didn't you say we were over? What right do you have to question me?"

In the past, that would have been enough to make me back down—swallow my pride and soothe his anger.

But today, I was exhausted. Why was it always me who had to give in and compromise?

If that was the case, maybe there was really no reason to keep this relationship going.

It was just me holding on alone, and I was so tired.

I tried to walk past them, but Irene clearly had no intention of letting me go.

She grabbed my wrist, still trying to sound sincere. "Bella, don't be mad. In Mike's eyes, I'm basically a guy!"

I was too tired to listen to her fake explanations disguised as humility and couldn't care less about her little performance.

"I've already broken up with Micah. You don't have to explain anything. Even if you two are sleeping together, it has nothing to do with me."

"Anabella! Have you lost your mind?" Micah suddenly barked, his tone sharp, his eyes filled with something I couldn't read.

Maybe I had hit a nerve, or maybe he was just angry that I dared to expose it.

I couldn't stand being there another second. I just wanted to get out of that suffocating place.

But Irene wouldn't let go. Her grip tightened painfully around my wrist. Then, before I could pull away, Micah shoved me hard.

The force of the shove knocked me off balance, and I crashed hard against the corner of the solid wood table.

A sharp pain shot through my forehead as the scab from an old wound tore open again.

Blood blurred my vision, but even through the haze, I saw it clearly.

After pushing me away, Micah pulled a packet of disinfectant wipes from his pocket and carefully wiped his hands three times.

It was as if I were some garbage he had accidentally touched and needed to disinfect right away.

At that moment, the ache in my chest was a thousand times worse than the pain in my body.

Irene gasped when she saw the blood running down my face. She rushed into the kitchen, grabbed something, and before I could react, she threw it directly at my wound.

"Ah!" The agony was instant and blinding, like a thousand searing needles piercing my skin at once.

It took me a second to realize what she had done. She was holding a salt shaker.

Irene, completely oblivious, kept mumbling, "Salt disinfects wounds! Don't worry, Bella. I'm just trying to help."

That was when Micah finally moved. He pulled Irene to her feet.

"It's iodine that disinfects, not salt, Iri," he said, his tone scolding but filled with concern.

"Is this how you've been living overseas all these years?"

Irene punched him lightly in the chest. "I told you to call me Irene, not Iri. Don't make it sound so mushy!

"And how was I supposed to know salt doesn't disinfect? I'm practically a guy."

He crouched down, about to clean the salt off my forehead, when Irene suddenly let out a small gasp.

That was when he noticed a shallow cut on her hand.

She brushed it off immediately. "It's just a scratch. I'm not some fragile little girl."

But to him, it was apparently a national emergency. "It doesn't matter how small it is. If it gets infected, it'll be bad. Come on. I'll take you to the hospital right now."

When he passed by me, I was still lying there, paralyzed by pain. His footsteps faltered for a brief moment.

"Anabella, look at the mess you've caused. Clean up the house. Maybe I'll forgive you for the tantrum you threw earlier and that nonsense about breaking up."

After saying that, he carefully shielded Irene in his arms as if she were something fragile and precious.

Without so much as a glance back, he hurried away and headed straight for the hospital.

What a joke. That was the first time Micah had ever tried to "make peace" with me.

Once upon a time, I would have been thrilled.

I would have combed through his words, searching for proof that he cared.

But now, I was just tired.

Staring at his retreating figure, I whispered, "Micah, I'm really done with you."

Then I picked up my phone, called for an ambulance, and took myself to the hospital.

When I came out after getting my wound treated, I ran straight into Micah again. He was carefully helping Irene out of another exam room.

I was about to turn and leave, but he looked up and spotted me.

"Oh, you're here," he said casually, as if doing me a favor.

"Good timing. The doctor says Iri is malnourished and needs to eat better. Go buy a chicken and make her some soup. And don't put in any scallions. She doesn't like the smell."

A sharp pain shot through my chest.

He could remember every tiny detail about Irene's preferences, yet somehow forgot that I was allergic to chicken.

I stared at him, my voice steady but cold. "I can't. I'm allergic to chicken. And besides, we already broke up. If Irene wants soup, you can order delivery for her."

Micah's expression darkened with irritation. He walked up to me, half-heartedly reached out, and patted me twice on the head.

"Come on. It's not that serious. Just take some allergy meds," he said, resisting the urge to wipe his hands immediately. "Why are you being so dramatic lately? Can you make the soup now? Iri's waiting."

Tapping my head had once been our secret truce—a gesture we agreed on for times when words wouldn't come. It was a way to say "I'm sorry" without speaking.

And no matter how bad the fight was, the moment he did that, I would always forgive him.

But now, the touch made my skin crawl.

Irene burst out laughing beside him.

"Sorry, Bella, but you look exactly like the scruffy little mutt I used to have back home," she said between giggles.

"Whenever it got mad and refused to eat, all I had to do was pat its head, and it'd go chew on a bone like nothing happened."

The anger made me tremble uncontrollably, yet he just stood there beside her, smiling helplessly, indulgent.

Seeing my expression, Irene covered her mouth and explained, "I'm sorry, Bella, I didn't mean it. I just say things without thinking. You don't mind, right?"

I didn't make a fuss or even look back when he called my name.

I simply turned around and walked toward the door.

He wasn't the man I once loved anymore.

Maybe he never really was.