Ethan knew me better than anyone. He knew the countless betrayals I had suffered, the heartbreak my parents had inflicted by favoring Lily over me. He had witnessed the destruction of my trust and the severance of our family bonds. When I cut ties with my parents, Ethan had been supportive.
It wasn’t that I lacked friends; he knew that, too. But most of them were now married with their own lives. And here I was, waiting year after year for him to achieve his goals, and now, on the brink of turning thirty, he was the one complaining.
The boy who once held me and promised, "As long as you have me, that's enough," had long since been swallowed by the tides of time.
Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my hand. I reflexively pulled it back, but Ethan wouldn’t let go. He gave me a reproachful look, gently tugged my hand back, and blew on the wound.
"At your age, you can’t handle this little pain? Just imagine how you’d cope without me," he said, his voice a mix of concern and exasperation.
I watched him, struggling to believe in the sincerity of his actions. Were all those years of tenderness and care merely a performance? Had I been the only one truly invested in this role?