Chapter 3

The walls in this house were too thin.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling as soft laughter drifted through the wall separating my room from Nathaniel's. Sabrina's voice, breathy and intimate, followed by his deeper murmur of response.

The bedframe creaked.

I pressed my pillow over my ears, but it didn't help. Nothing could block out the sounds of him loving someone else in the room where I'd once brought him soup when he was sick, where we'd argued about homework, where he'd taught me to play chess on rainy afternoons.

Where I'd first realized I loved him.

The creaking intensified.

I got up and walked to my window, pushing it open to let the cold night air shock my system back to numbness. The garden below was silver with frost, beautiful and dead.

Like me.

Morning came eventually, as it always did.

I found them in the kitchen, Sabrina perched on the counter in one of Nathaniel's shirts, her legs swinging as she fed him pieces of strawberry. The domestic scene was so perfectly orchestrated it looked like a magazine spread.

"Elena!" Sabrina's face lit up with false warmth. "Perfect timing! We were just discussing Nathaniel's birthday party next week."

Birthday. Right. November fifteenth. I'd been planning his birthday celebrations since I was twelve years old.

"What do you think?" Sabrina continued, sliding off the counter to loop her arms around his waist. "I was thinking of booking that new rooftop restaurant downtown. Very exclusive, very romantic."

"Sounds perfect," I said, pouring coffee with steady hands.

Nathaniel was watching me over Sabrina's head, his expression unreadable. "What would you like to do for my birthday, Elena?"

The question hung in the air like a trap.

I almost laughed. What did I want to do? I wanted to take him to the beach house in Maine, like he'd promised when I was sixteen. I wanted to watch the sunrise over the water while he told me stories about the places he'd travel someday. I wanted to give him the watch I'd been saving up to buy for three years.

I wanted a lot of things that would never happen.

"Whatever makes you happy," I said instead.

Something flickered across his face. Disappointment? Relief? I couldn't tell anymore.

"Actually," I continued, setting down my coffee cup, "I might not be around for your birthday. I have some... appointments to attend to."

"Appointments?" Sabrina's eyebrows rose. "What kind of appointments?"

"Visa stuff," I said vaguely. "For my student exchange program."

It wasn't entirely a lie. I did have a visa—for permanent residency in the UK.

"Student exchange?" Nathaniel's voice sharpened. "Since when?"

"Since I applied six months ago." Another lie, smooth as silk. "I thought I mentioned it."

"You didn't."

"Oh." I shrugged. "Well, you've been busy."

Busy with her. Busy planning a wedding. Busy forgetting I existed.

"Where are you going?" Sabrina asked, but her tone suggested she didn't really care.

"England. Maybe Scotland. I haven't decided yet."

"How long?" Nathaniel's jaw was tight.

"A semester. Maybe longer if I like it."

"Elena," he started, and there was something in his voice I couldn't quite place. "Don't you think you're being a bit... impulsive?"

Impulsive. After ten years of loving him, three years of waiting, eighteen days of planning my escape—he thought I was being impulsive.

"Maybe," I said. "But sometimes impulsive is exactly what you need."

That afternoon, London was drowning in rain.

I sat in a coffee shop near the visa office, scrolling through social media while trying to ignore the weather that seemed determined to match my mood. The cafe was warm and crowded, full of people living their ordinary, uncomplicated lives.

My phone buzzed. A notification from Instagram.

Nathaniel had posted a photo.

Against my better judgment, I clicked on it.

The image filled my screen—him and Sabrina in what looked like a hotel room, her in a white bathrobe, him shirtless, both of them laughing at something off-camera. The caption read: "Perfect afternoon with my perfect woman. #blessed #love #forever"

The comments were already pouring in. Heart emojis and congratulations and friends gushing about what a beautiful couple they made.

I scrolled down and found myself typing before I could stop myself: "Wishing you both all the happiness in the world."

I hit send and immediately regretted it.

Within seconds, hearts started appearing on my comment. Sabrina had liked it. Some of Nathaniel's friends had liked it. Even my mother had liked it.

My phone buzzed with a direct message from Sabrina: "Aww, thanks babe! You're the sweetest sister-in-law ever! ?"

Sister-in-law. Not even sister anymore—sister-in-law. Like I was already being moved to the periphery of their story.

I deleted Instagram from my phone.

Then I deleted Facebook.

Then Twitter.

One by one, I removed every app that connected me to them, to their happiness, to the life they were building without me.

By the time I walked back into the house that evening, I felt lighter somehow. Disconnected. Free.

"How did your appointment go?" Nathaniel asked when I found him in the study, working on his laptop.

"Fine," I said. "Everything's moving along nicely."

He nodded absently, already turning back to his screen. "Good. That's... good."

I stood in the doorway for a moment, memorizing the sight of him. The way his dark hair fell across his forehead when he concentrated. The slight furrow between his brows. The strong line of his shoulders.

This was how I wanted to remember him. Not as the man who'd torn up my love letters or chosen someone else. Just as Nathaniel, beautiful and distant and completely absorbed in his own world.

"Goodnight," I said softly.

"Night, Elena."

He didn't look up.

Upstairs, Sabrina was singing in the shower, her voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. Something about being happy, being free, being in love.

I closed my bedroom door and turned the lock.

Twenty-four hours.

In twenty-four hours, I would be gone, and they would have their perfect life without the ghost of an unwanted stepsister haunting the edges of their happiness.

I sat at my desk and pulled out a single sheet of paper, my father's London address already written at the top.

It was time to write my final goodbye.