Those two words—"Miss Thorne"—froze the very air.

Caleb watched Lydia's carefree smile freeze momentarily before reassembling into a polished, cold mask. She said nothing, just quietly looked at him. Her gaze held neither anger nor hurt—only dead, hollow emptiness confirming some truth.


Then she stood, gracefully smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her expensive silk blouse. She picked up her handbag without another glance and walked straight to the door.

Her high heels clicked on the floor—crisp, lonely taps, each striking Caleb's heart.

The door opened, then gently closed.


She was gone.

Caleb remained sitting on the bed, motionless. Lydia's domineering lychee perfume lingered in the air, yet faded perceptibly, gradually thinning.


He had lost. Or rather, they had both lost. He had protected his pitiful self-esteem in the only way he knew—the clumsiest way—and pushed her further away with his own hands.

For days afterward, Lydia vanished as if evaporated from the world.

Caleb's life returned to routine. The apartment reverted to tidiness, everything she'd disturbed restored to order, floors clean enough to reflect light, dishes arranged neatly in cabinets.

But nothing felt right anymore.

This tidiness was deathly silent. He no longer heard expensive heels clicking across floors or saw bright fashion magazines tossed on the sofa. The familiar soap smell reclaimed dominance, yet suffocated him like never before.

He forced himself through classes, work, gym—trying to numb himself with sweat and exhaustion. But her shadow followed everywhere. During criminal psychology lectures, he recalled her mocking, all-seeing eyes; at the garage, every red sports car pierced his vision; at the gym, every exhausted gasp reminded him of her broken whimpers when their bodies entwined.

He hated this feeling. Hated this out-of-control version of himself that emerged because of her.

After another sleepless night, Caleb could endure no more. As if possessed, he searched his apartment frantically for traces she'd left behind.

He entered the bathroom and saw it. That cheap shampoo bottle he'd bought her—which she probably despised—still stood quietly on the shelf. She'd taken everything belonging to "Miss Thorne," yet left this behind. His awkward attempt at kindness.

He picked up the bottle, holding it in his palm, the plastic cold and hard.

Then he returned to the bedroom and, as if possessed, pulled out the pillow she'd slept on.

He buried his face deep into it.

That familiar, fading lychee fragrance, mixed with her hair's scent, instantly enveloped him.

In that moment, everything tense and pretentious—everything called "rationality" and "self-esteem"—completely collapsed.

He had to admit to himself.

He didn't hate her at all.

What he hated was the jealousy when he saw her with Damian. What he hated was his desperate need to protect her when she cried in nightmares. What he hated was the maddening emptiness after she left.

He thought he wanted his clean, orderly life back.

But now he understood—what he wanted was her. The one who turned his life to chaos yet burned so vibrantly he couldn't ignore her.

He admitted it.

That feeling wasn't hatred. It was love.

Even if this love was painful, humiliating, and completely transformed him.

He sprang up, frantically grabbed his phone, and dialed the number etched into his mind.

The call connected but rang endlessly.

"Hello, the number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable. Please try again later."


The cold automated voice drenched him like ice water.

He refused to give up, redialing repeatedly. Each attempt carried hope; each automated response deepened his despair.

Finally, he slid helplessly to the floor, back against the cold wall. The phone slipped from his powerless hand, screen still glowing.

In his hand, he still clutched the cheap shampoo bottle she'd left behind.