Chapter 3

The Columbia alumni gala was buzzing. Chandeliers glittered.

I stood by the bar, nursing a drink.

Ava joined me a few minutes later, a glass of champagne in her hand.

"Ethan, darling, you look a bit lost."

Her smile was dazzling, meant for the crowd.

Her presence beside me still caused a few raised eyebrows, a few whispered comments.

The architect from a modest background and the investment banker heiress.

I was indifferent to their judgment now. Her nearness, however, still created a familiar tension within me.

Someone from the alumni association stepped onto the small stage.

"Alright everyone, settle down! It's time for a little trip down memory lane!"

A murmur of anticipation went through the room.

"We' ve unearthed the time capsule we all contributed to senior year! We'll be reading a few anonymous entries."

Lighthearted groans and laughter.

I' d forgotten all about that. A box of old letters, dreams, and predictions.

It set up a significant reveal, though I didn't know it then.

The host picked a letter at random.

"This one's anonymous, but quite poetic."

He started reading.

"To the girl who shines brighter than any star, the one who argues with such passion on the debate stage, the one whose laughter I hear across the campus green..."

My blood ran cold. I knew those words.

My words.

"...She probably doesn' t know I exist, or if she does, only as a quiet classmate. She' s focused on him, the one with the easy charm, and I see the way her eyes follow him. But I also see her kindness, the way she helps a struggling freshman with notes, the way she defends the underdog in class discussions, even when it' s not popular. I love her for all of it, silently, from afar. Maybe one day..."

The voice trailed off.

The room was quiet.

I didn't dare look at Ava. I could feel her gaze on me.

The host cleared his throat. "Wow. Quite the confession. Wonder who that was about?"

A few people chuckled nervously.

Ava was visibly moved, her eyes wide, fixed on me. A profound, belated realization dawned on her face. This was an emotional climax for her, I could see it.

Her phone vibrated on the small table beside her.

She glanced at it. Julian.

Her expression shifted. The shock from the letter was instantly replaced by concern.

"Excuse me," she murmured, already turning away. "I have to take this."

She rushed off, leaving me standing there, the echo of my younger self' s unacknowledged love hanging in the air.

The interruption was classic Julian, classic Ava. Her prioritization of him, a pattern etched in stone.

Later that week, I saw her fierce loyalty in action again.

Julian, it turned out, owed some unsavory characters a lot of money from gambling debts.

They cornered him outside a restaurant.

I saw it from across the street.

Ava arrived like a storm.

She didn't scream, she didn't plead.

She walked straight up to the biggest guy, her voice low and dangerous.

"Touch him, and you'll deal with me. And trust me, you don't want to deal with me."

One of them laughed. She kicked him, hard, in the shin. He yelped.

She then systematically, brutally, took them apart. Not with weapons, but with a cold, terrifying efficiency.

It was shocking. The observers were stunned. This was a side of Ava I' d never seen, a fierce, dark loyalty.

My disillusionment deepened. She could be this for him.

I watched her help a shaken Julian into her car.

She was tender with him, checking his face, murmuring reassurances.

I quietly retreated home, a bitter laugh escaping me.

Self-mockery. Irrelevant. That' s what I was in her emotional world.

Her unwavering, if misguided, loyalty to Julian was clear.

And after Julian, later that night, sent me a smug text – "She still belongs to me, Miller. Always will." – I made a call.

Professor Ainsworth, my old architecture mentor from Columbia, ran a successful firm in San Francisco. She' d offered me a position months ago.

"Eleanor," I said. "Is that offer still open?"

"Ethan! Of course. When can you start?"

"Soon," I said. "I just booked a one-way ticket."

Ava came home late, smelling of antiseptic and Julian' s expensive cologne.

"Sorry about tonight," she said, offering a weak explanation about Julian' s "misunderstanding" with some "business associates."

I just nodded, too tired to argue, too indifferent to care.

Her guilt was palpable, her attempt at justification falling flat against my growing indifference.

She glanced at my phone, which I' d left on the coffee table, open to an airline confirmation page.

Her eyes narrowed. "San Francisco? Are you going somewhere?"

Suspicion. Foreshadowing my impending departure.

A small, almost imperceptible cliffhanger in our dying story.