Table for One: I’m Done Being Your Second Choice

"You're back sooner than I thought." Ethan was sitting on the couch. He was wearing his loungewear, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked perfectly relaxed, like nothing had happened. I stood in the entryway, holding my suitcase, without even taking off my shoes. "You brought your suitcase? Where are you going?" "I’m moving out." He stood up and stepped aside to make room for me. "Let’s sit down and talk." "There’s nothing to talk about." I walked past him into the bedroom, pulled open the closet, and started tossing my clothes into the suitcase. He followed me, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. "Is this because of Maya’s Instagram post?" I ignored him. "Chloe, you deleted our chat, ignored my calls, and now you’re packing your bags. Do you really think this is how mature adults handle things?" T-shirts, sweaters, and the gray cardigan I had worn for the past two winters. I folded them and packed them in one by one. He took a step closer. "You won't even give me a chance to explain before jumping to conclusions?" "What is there to explain?" "Then let me explain for you." His voice softened, sounding like he was soothing a throwing-a-tantrum child. "It was raining that day. I was in her city on business, and a few of us from the team grabbed dinner. She exaggerated it on her post. If you don't believe me, I can send you the group photo with the other coworkers." My hands paused for a second. "You can call our team lead to double-check," he added. I didn't answer. I opened his side of the closet to see if any of my things had gotten mixed up in there. The third hanger on the right was empty. I stared at the empty space. For his birthday last year, I bought him an indigo windbreaker. He tried it on, said it was a bit too oversized, and hung it right there. It had stayed there ever since. Every time I opened the closet, I saw it. Now, it was gone. "Where is that blue windbreaker?" His expression didn't change, but his eyes darted toward the closet for a fraction of a second. "Which one?" "The one I got you. The one you said was too big to wear." "I probably left it at the office." "You never wore it. Why would you take it to the office?" He let out a sigh, giving me a helpless smile. "Chloe, look at yourself. You’re spiraling. Just because a jacket isn’t where it usually is, you assume I gave it to someone else. You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep this up." I kept staring at the empty hanger. I remembered scrolling through Maya’s Instagram last month. She had posted a selfie at a coffee shop. The background was blurry, but draped over the back of her chair was an indigo windbreaker with dark contrast stitching along the collar. It was identical to the one I bought him. I didn't say a word. Even if I did, he would have a million excuses ready. He always did. I zipped my suitcase shut and glanced around the bedroom. There were two of my books on the nightstand. I reached over and grabbed them. "That's all you're taking?" He blocked the doorway slightly, but not completely. He stood at an angle, leaving just enough space for me to hesitate. "What about the stuff in the living room?" I chose the living room curtains. I bought the vase on the coffee table. Half the books on the shelves were mine. But those belonged to "this apartment," not to "me." In our two years together, I had filled this place with so many things. But what actually belonged to me only filled half a suitcase. "Keep it." He stepped closer. "Chloe, calm down for a couple of days. Once you cool off, you’ll realize how ridiculous you’re being." I walked right past him and opened the front door. "Don't regret this when you walk out," he called out behind me. I dragged my suitcase into the elevator. It wasn't heavy. Just half a suitcase of clothes and two books. My phone vibrated. It was Harper. "Are you out?" "Yeah." "Was he home?" "Yes." "What did he say?" I thought about it. "He said I’d regret it." There was a three-second silence on the other end. Then Harper said, "Get over to my place. The hot pot is bubbling. I’ve got the beef waiting for you."

"Have you ever wondered why he’s so calm? It's because he’s 100% sure you’ll crawl back." Harper dropped a piece of sliced beef into the boiling pot. She swirled it around for exactly eight seconds and pulled it out like she was performing surgery. I stayed quiet. "You deleted his texts, packed your bags, and he didn't even chase you down the hall." She dipped the beef in sesame sauce and placed it on my plate. "Do you think someone who’s actually afraid of losing you would be this chill?" "Maybe he thought chasing me wouldn't change anything." "No. He just thinks he doesn't need to. When you guys fight, what's the longest you’ve gone without talking to him?" I thought back. "Three days. Three days max." "He’s just waiting out his three days," Harper said. The pot bubbled, fogging up my glasses. I took them off to wipe them, unable to see her expression. My phone screen lit up. It was a text from Ethan: *I’ve been thinking, and you’re right. I’ve really neglected you lately. Take a few days to rest. I’ll come pick you up this weekend, and we can have a real talk.* Harper leaned over, glanced at the screen, and let out a cold laugh. "A textbook Phase Four: Play the victim." "What do you mean?" "Just watch." She held up four fingers. "Phase One is anger—'Stop acting up,' which he already used. Phase Two is shifting blame—'It was just a team dinner, she posted that on her own.' Phase Three is the threat—'Don't regret this.' And Phase Four is showing vulnerability—'I’ve been thinking, and you’re right.'" She counted them down on her fingers and looked at me. "One, two, three, four. He hit every single mark in perfect order." "How do you know this so well?" "I’ve spent three years in the ER. I’ve seen plenty of toxic couples. When the abuser gets sober, they always go through these exact four phases. Some people forgive them at Phase Four, only to start right back at Phase One." I looked down at the text. I wanted to reply, but then I put my phone face down. The next day. A mutual friend messaged me. It was Tiffany, the girlfriend of one of Ethan’s college friends. We had grabbed dinner a few times, but we weren't super close. "Chloe, I heard you and Ethan had a fight? He seems really down today. He’s just sitting at his desk staring into space. What happened? Do you want me to set up a double date so you guys can talk it out?" I replied: "We broke up." She sent a string of question marks. "How could you break up? Didn't you guys have plans to travel for Memorial Day weekend?" "He bailed." "But didn't he say his project was super busy? Their team has been under crazy pressure lately. My boyfriend had to pull overtime too. Don't overthink it, Chloe. This kind of stuff is totally normal for couples." *Overthink it.* I flipped my phone over. At 3:00 PM, Maya messaged me. We didn't talk much on Snapchat, but we had each other added. "Hey Chloe, I heard there’s some misunderstanding between you and Ethan. What happened the other day was honestly just a team dinner. I wrote that caption without thinking, and I’m so sorry if it gave you the wrong idea. Ethan and I are strictly professional. You have nothing to worry about!" I read those sentences twice. Every word was polished. Every punctuation mark was precise. The apology was polite but firm, clearing her name without sounding defensive. It read like a corporate PR statement. I screenshotted it and sent it to Harper. Harper replied instantly: "If they’re just 'strictly professional' coworkers, why is the young assistant reaching out to explain things the second you break up with your boyfriend?" I stared at the message and suddenly noticed a detail. She called him "E" in her snap. Not "Ethan," not "your boyfriend," and not "him." Just "E." I had never called him "E." I always called him Ethan. How close do you have to be to someone to call them by a single letter? Harper sent another message: "And notice how she said 'if it gave you the wrong idea.' She’s not admitting she did anything wrong. She’s saying *your* perception is the problem. She’s apologizing while gaslighting you into thinking you’re just crazy." I put my phone down. Tiffany messaged me again: "Chloe, Ethan wanted me to tell you that he’s really, truly sorry this time. Can’t you just give him one more chance? It’s been two years. Don’t throw it all away over a silly little argument." *A silly little argument.* Bailing when I had a 102.5°F fever was one "little" thing. Ignoring my vacation itinerary was another. Canceling our trip was another. Each one, taken on its own, was a "little" thing. But nobody wanted to stack those little things up and see how high the pile had gotten. I replied to Tiffany: "Thanks, but no thanks." She wrote back: "You’re being way too stubborn. Ethan is such a catch. Do you really think you’re going to find someone better out there?" I stared at the screen for half a minute. Then, I closed the app. I didn't delete the message, and I didn't reply. Harper called me. "Chloe, listen to me." "Yeah." "No matter who contacts you these next few days, and no matter what they say, remember one thing. You had a 102.5°F fever, and he didn't show up. That wasn't a minor detail, it wasn't a misunderstanding, and you weren't overthinking. That is a fact." "Facts don't need explanations. Anything that needs an explanation is just an excuse."

"Hey Chloe! Long time no see. Did you come alone?" I turned around, holding my glass of wine. Maya was standing in front of me with a sweet smile, her makeup flawless. She was flanked by two girls from her office whom I had met at a company retreat last year. This was an industry networking gala. I hadn't wanted to come, but my hospital needed representation. "Yes, just me." "What a coincidence, Ethan is here too. I think he’s over there." She pointed with her chin toward the right side of the room, her voice just loud enough for the people around us to hear. She called him Ethan, right to my face. The short-haired girl next to her eyed me up and down, asking with casual curiosity, "Chloe, aren't you and Ethan together anymore? How come we haven't seen you guys out lately?" "We broke up." "Oh?" The short-haired girl’s shocked expression lasted for about two seconds before shifting into a knowing smile. "Well, that’s a shame." She glanced at Maya, her lips curving upward. Maya lowered her eyes, playing the innocent bystander who had accidentally been caught in the middle. The other girl chimed in. "To be honest, I always felt like your personalities didn't really match. You’re so quiet, and Ethan is so outgoing. Sometimes, when the gap is that big, it’s not 'opposites attract.' It’s just draining." *Draining.* She used the word "draining" to describe me. I forced a smile. "Maybe you’re right." Maya stepped in smoothly, her voice soft. "Don't take it to heart, Chloe. They’re just talking. They don't mean anything by it. Honestly, being single is great. Sometimes it’s a relief to just be on your own." She was wearing a jacket tonight. An indigo windbreaker. With dark contrast stitching along the collar. I recognized that jacket. I had spent two hours in the mall picking it out for his birthday last year. I remembered the origami exhibit next to the fitting rooms, the three people in line ahead of me at the register, and the forest-green ribbon tied around the shopping bag. He had said it was too big and that he wouldn't wear it. It had hung on the third hanger on the right side of his closet. Now, it was on Maya. It fit her perfectly. The oversized cut draped over her petite shoulders, giving her a chic, effortless look. She noticed me looking. "Do you like this jacket?" She looked down, brushing her sleeve with a casual air. "I bought it a while ago. I’m obsessed with this color." "It’s indigo," I said. "Yeah! Do you like this color too?" "I used to see one exactly like it in Ethan’s closet. The collar, the stitching, the color—identical." Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Really? I guess it’s a popular style then." The two girls next to her exchanged a look. I said nothing more. Just then, Ethan walked over, holding a drink. When he saw me, his steps slowed down for a beat before he adjusted his pace and walked up to Maya's side. "Chloe," he said, giving me a polite nod, treating me like a distant acquaintance from the industry. I nodded back just as politely. Maya naturally slid her hand through his arm. A few people nearby were watching. I turned to leave. Behind me, the short-haired girl whispered loud enough for me to hear: "Honestly, some people only realize what they had after they lose it. But once you’re gone, you’re gone." They giggled. I walked to a quiet corner of the hall and set my wine glass down. My hands felt icy. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan. *Don't go around talking about our private business.* I replied: *What did I say?* *Why did you bring up the jacket in my closet to Maya? What are you trying to do?* *Did you give her that jacket?* He didn't reply. A minute later, he texted: *Can you please stop? Acting like this just makes you look like a bitter, desperate ex.* *A bitter, desperate ex.* Just four days ago, he was begging me to give him a chance. Today, I was a desperate ex. I pocketed my phone and headed for the exit. As I passed the corner of the hallway, I heard Maya and the other two girls talking. They weren't even trying to lower their voices; they were laughing. "The way she looked at my jacket was so creepy." "Who cares about her? They’re broken up, and she’s still crying over a piece of clothing." "I think she just can't let go. What can you do when someone is that obsessed?" Maya’s voice was soft. "I didn't want things to be like this, but Ethan told me she’s been really emotionally unstable lately. He told me to avoid triggering her." *Emotionally unstable.* He told Maya that I was emotionally unstable. I stood around the corner, keeping silent. I pressed my back against the wall, my knuckles white as I gripped my phone, then slowly let go. I walked out of the building and called an Uber. Once I got in and closed the door, the driver asked where I was going. I gave him Harper’s address. Two blocks later, my phone rang. It was Harper. "Hey, what's wrong? Your voice sounds off." "I just ran into them." "Ethan and Maya?" "Yeah." "She was wearing the jacket I bought him." Silence stretched over the line for five seconds. "Chloe, get over here right now. Don't think about anything else." "Okay," I said. As the city lights blurred past the window, Harper added one more thing: "You’ve played nice for long enough. Stop letting them walk all over you."

"Take a look at this." Harper handed me her phone. On the screen was an Instagram post her coworker had shared. I clicked on the profile—it was Maya’s. It was a beautifully composed photo of the Northern Lights in Iceland, the sky glowing with vibrant green and deep blue. The caption read: *E promised he’d show me the real Aurora Borealis at least once in this lifetime. He kept his promise.* The post was dated two months ago. I stared at the date. Two months ago. Two months ago, I had asked Ethan if he had any vacation time this winter so we could go see the Northern Lights. He had said, "We’ll see. Work is too crazy right now." The Northern Lights. When we first started dating two years ago, we lay on the grass in a park, looking up at the stars. He told me that when he made enough money, he would take me to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. I had saved a photo of the Aurora as my lock screen and kept it there for two years. I brought it up six months ago, and he told me to wait. I brought it up again two months ago, and he told me we'd talk about it later. But he took her instead. And he told her it was a promise for "this lifetime." "There's more," Harper said, sliding to the next screenshot. It was from Thanksgiving. A photo of a dinner table with a rustic wooden cabinet and holiday decorations in the background. The caption read: *Thanksgiving dinner at E’s place. His grandmother's pecan pie is absolutely divine.* I recognized the room. Ethan had shown me photos of his grandmother’s house. The wooden cabinet, the pothos plant on the windowsill, the vintage painting on the wall. It was identical. On the day before Thanksgiving, he had told me his grandmother wasn't feeling well and that having too many people over would overwhelm her, so I shouldn't go. I had spent two weeks preparing. I bought premium tea and gift baskets, practiced baking a pecan pie his grandmother might like, and tried on four different outfits for him to help me choose. He told me not to go. But Maya went. She was the one who ate his grandmother's pie. Harper didn't say a word. She sat across from me, waiting for me to process it on my own. I handed the phone back to her. "When did these happen?" "The Iceland trip was two months ago. Thanksgiving dinner was last November. You guys were still very much together," Harper’s voice was dangerously low. "Chloe, this didn't happen after the breakup. While you guys were still dating, every single thing he promised you but failed to do, he did with her." I sat on her couch, staring at the fruit bowl on the coffee table. Harper said, "Remember when you told me that the first time he brought up Maya, he complained about how 'clingy' she was? Do you remember if he was smiling or looked annoyed when he said it?" I remembered. He had been smiling. "He was smiling," she repeated. "When a guy introduces another girl to you and the first word he uses is 'clingy'—and he’s smiling while saying it—that’s not a complaint, Chloe. That's a boast." The doorbell rang. Harper got up to answer it. Ethan was standing in the doorway. He must have gotten Harper’s address from Tiffany. "Is Chloe in there?" Harper blocked the door, refusing to let him in. "Just let me talk to her," he said, looking exhausted. "Five minutes. That’s all I need." Harper glanced back at me. I stood up and walked to the door. When Ethan saw me, his lips parted. The calm, composed face I had known for two years was gone. His eyes were bloodshot. "Chloe," his voice was hoarse. "I know you saw those posts. I know you hate me." He had never spoken to me in this tone before. "I planned the Iceland trip. And Thanksgiving too," he said. "But it’s not what you think. Maya helped me out a ton with work back then. My parents were the ones who suggested inviting her to Thanksgiving, and the Iceland trip was actually a company retreat with some extra days tacked on." He paused, as if waiting for me to argue. I said nothing. "I know you're angry." He took a half-step forward, reaching out to take my hand. I stepped back, leaving his hand hanging in mid-air. "I can change. I swear. Starting right now, I’ll do whatever you want. If you want me to block Maya, I’ll block her. If you want me to get a new job, I’ll hand in my resignation." Standing beside him, Harper said coldly, "You can block her right now. Pull out your phone and block her in front of us." He froze. "I’m not talking about these superficial gestures," he said, bypassing Harper to look directly at me. "Chloe, we’ve been together for two years. Are you really going to throw all of that away over this?" *Two years.* He always used those two years to guilt-trip me. "I’ll change," his voice dropped even lower. "I promise, from this day on, you are my number one priority. If you want to see the ocean, we’ll go tomorrow. If you want to see the Aurora, I’ll book the flights tonight." It sounded incredibly sincere. If I had heard this three months ago, a month ago, or even last week, I probably would have believed him. I had spent the last two years being exceptionally good at believing him. But not today. Because right as he was saying "I promise," the phone in his pocket lit up. I couldn't see the full caller ID, but I saw the first letter. *M.* He didn't answer it. He probably didn't even notice. But that letter glowed in his pocket for two seconds before going dark again. Even as he was begging me and promising change, she was calling him. I suddenly wanted to laugh. Not a sad laugh, but a genuine, hysterical laugh at how absurd this whole situation was. "Ethan." "I'm listening." "Shouldn't you answer that call in your pocket first?" He went stiff. He looked down at his pocket, his face turning pale. Harper leaned against the doorframe, saying nothing, but her smile was cold enough to freeze water. He pressed the power button to silence the phone. "It’s not important. Chloe, listen to me—" "No need." I pulled the door, signaling him to step back. "Go home, Ethan." "What do you want from me?" "Nothing anymore." I shut the door in his face. Harper looked at me, keeping silent. I walked back to the couch and sat down. My phone sat on the coffee table, its screen dark and clean. I picked it up, opened my Notes app, and started typing. My very first sentence was: *On the night I had a 102.5°F fever and asked if he could come over, I could hear his video game music in the background of the call.* Harper glanced over my shoulder. "What are you writing?" "I don't know," I said, my fingers flying across the screen. "I just felt like writing."