Only then did I realize five years had passed—the fifth year since William and I broke up, and the third year since I finally let go.
The pain and resentment had long faded as the scars on my hands healed, blown away by time.
Once home, I sorted the scattered sketches on my desk.
Just as Felicity had said, I never entered university, and I never had another chance to rise in life.
As I returned the sketches to the cabinet, I suddenly found an old letter.
The handwriting was bold and steady: "To Emily Carter."
At the end, he wrote that he would give me everything he had, yet in the end, I lost everything because of him.
My thoughts were pulled back to the past.
William and I were childhood sweethearts, growing up side by side.
We lived in the same neighborhood, and back then, he had a warm family.
Later, his father’s business expanded, and he came home less and less. He would always run to my house, saying it felt like home, unlike his own.
When he was six, William’s father cheated, and his mother smashed everything overnight, then stopped caring about him altogether.
During the divorce, his parents tossed him around like a burden, without wanting him.