The small, beige dorm room felt stark, almost clinical. It was a temporary solution, arranged by a sympathetic HR contact after my abrupt departure from my "home." I carried the last of my meager belongings-a single box of books and a worn backpack-up the three flights of stairs. Each step felt heavy, burdened not just by the weight of my things, but by the crushing finality of everything.

As I rounded the corner on the third floor, I froze. Directly in front of the door to my assigned room, stood Alston. And beside him, Kiara, her arm linked casually through his, a bright, possessive smile on her face.

"Oh, Ellie!" Kiara chirped, her voice too sweet, too loud, echoing in the quiet corridor. "What a surprise! Just telling Alston about my new research proposal. He' s been so supportive." She squeezed his arm, beaming up at him.

My gaze flickered to Alston. His expression was, as usual, unreadable. A slight tilt of his head, a contemplative frown. He looked like he was analyzing a particularly intriguing data set.

"Need help with that, Ellie?" Kiara offered, gesturing vaguely at my box. "It looks heavy. I can grab a corner."

I clutched the box tighter, the cardboard digging into my fingers. "No, thank you, Kiara. I'm perfectly capable." My voice was flat, devoid of the usual courtesy I reserved for colleagues.

Kiara' s smile wavered for a fraction of a second, then snapped back into place. "Oh, of course. You're always so... self-sufficient."

Suddenly, Alston detached his arm from Kiara's, stepping forward. Without a word, he reached for the box. His touch, after so long, was a jolt.

Kiara' s eyes widened, a flash of genuine surprise. "Alston? What are you doing? I thought you were just about to check the Phase Two schematics with me." Her voice held a note of demand, but also confusion.

He ignored her, his grip firm on the box. He took it from me, effortlessly. "Which room is yours?" he asked, his voice low and neutral.

I pointed, my voice barely a whisper. "The one right here."

He nodded, already moving. Kiara, after a moment of stunned silence, hurried to catch up, her high heels clicking impatiently on the linoleum.

I watched them, the familiar ache in my chest tightening. He didn't hesitate to help me with a box. He didn't hesitate to follow Kiara, to listen to her, to let her touch him. He had always been so averse to physical contact, so emotionally walled off. Yet, with her, the barriers seemed to melt, at least partially. He indulged her. He was charmed by her.

He had never been charmed by me. I was efficient. I was indispensable. I was never... charming.

They reached my door. Alston pushed it open with his foot, then placed the box carefully inside. He turned, his gaze sweeping the sparse room. "You're staying in the dorms?" he asked, a hint of something-disapproval? concern?-in his tone. "I thought you had somewhere else lined up."

"I sold our house, Alston," I stated, my voice regaining its steel. "The one we were supposed to share. So, yes. I'm in the dorms."

His eyes blinked once, slowly. A faint, almost imperceptible shrug. "Oh. I see. Well, that's... practical, I suppose." He paused, then looked at Kiara. "We should get going. The schematics."

Kiara preened, taking his arm again. "Right this way, Dr. Scott. I made sure to highlight all the points we need to discuss." She shot me a triumphant glance, a subtle twist of her lips.

They walked away, their figures receding down the corridor. I watched them go, two figures etched against the bland institutional wall, walking away from me, towards their shared, brilliant future.

A cold, bitter laugh welled up in my throat. Practical. That was me. Always practical. Never loved. Never cherished. Just a functional component, easily replaced.

But that wasn't the real sting. The real sting was the memory of him, years ago, recoiling from my touch when I tried to comfort him after a failed experiment. The real sting was his indifference when I had poured my heart into decorating "our" future home. The real sting wasn't that he helped me with a box, but that he had done so without a single flicker of genuine care. He was performing a task, not an act of kindness.

I felt the burning behind my eyes, the familiar prickle of unshed tears. But I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not for them.

I closed the door to my small, temporary room. The silence was deafening. The emptiness stretched before me. And in that moment, I realized the deepest cut wasn't the loss of him, but the agonizing truth that he had never truly been mine to lose.

Chapter 4

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