Amy hesitated. "I need to pack my things..."
He waved dismissively. "Leave it. I'll buy you everything new. Whatever you want."
I watched them walk away, hand in hand. My feet moved on their own, dragged by some invisible tether of masochism.
They entered a hair salon.
From the shade of a nearby tree, I watched Elijah help Amy choose a color. They settled on matching light brown.
The memory stung. Years ago, I'd dyed my hair chestnut on a whim. I'd asked him, smiling, if he liked it. He'd barely glanced up.
"At your age? Stop wasting time on useless vanity and focus on the house."
Yet here he was—sitting through Amy's entire appointment, then taking her to the mall afterward.
From wool coats to down jackets, he selected items one by one. He waited patiently outside the fitting room, offering eager, genuine compliments on every outfit.
After that, Elijah dragged Amy along to do all the things young couples love. When they passed a milk tea shop, he eagerly asked what flavor she wanted, his attention fixed entirely on her.
They sat on a roadside bench, sharing a single cup—one sip for him, one for her—giggling like teenagers drunk on first love.