Someone once said short-term pain is better than long-term pain.
But that only works if your willpower is strong.
For people like me—people who can be bent and broken too easily—the best approach is gradual detachment.
Keep them close enough to feel safe, but slowly, carefully, stop expecting anything from them. Let your heart simmer like a frog in warm water. The process won't sting too much and the ending won't burn too badly.
At first, pretending to be okay still made my chest tighten, a faint ache that never quite left me.
Orion, of course, seemed perfectly satisfied. He even smiled a little, patting my head like I was some kind of pet. "Rora, you've grown up," he said, the pride in his tone almost sickening.
Six months after we got back together, I realized my self-rescue plan was working. I really was becoming the version of myself Orion wanted.
When he didn't come home all night, I stopped checking up on him.
When he spent hours with Rhea, I stopped asking.
I let go of the questions, the doubts, the little gnawing fears that used to consume me.
By the time I realized it, that rotted piece of my heart—the part that had once held Orion completely—had fallen off on its own. Like overripe fruit dropping quietly from a branch.
I froze for a second. Then I laughed.
I sent my résumé to a company in Belgium. They had offered me a position before, back when I was too tangled up in Orion to accept. This time, I said yes.
I booked a flight two weeks out. And I didn't plan on telling Orion.
Why would I?
Our relationship had always been disposable to him anyway.
I kept growing more easygoing, more understanding.
Less reactive.
Less tethered to him.
I didn't crave his approval.
I didn't wait by the phone.
I didn't check his schedule or wonder about Rhea.
I let myself live.
And yet… Orion started to seem… unhappy.
At first, I thought I was imagining it. I worked late as usual, buried myself in projects, deadlines, and plans. But the tension in the office grew, the subtle glances, the little sighs he couldn't hide. Even as I moved on, even as I let go, his composure was starting to crack—and for once, I didn't feel the need to fix it.
When I got home one night, I'd barely set my bag down before heading for the bathroom. I was halfway through unbuttoning my blouse when he stopped me.
Orion's eyes lifted slowly from his laptop. "Don't you have something to tell me?"
I yawned, genuinely confused. "Tell you… what?"
"Nothing." His tone flattened instantly. "Go ahead."
I thought I'd imagined it.
He turned away, expression unreadable, and I stepped into the bathroom. But later—much later—I realized he really had been upset.
It showed in the way the air between us grew heavy. In the way his movements lost their familiarity and turned sharp, impatient. My toes curled against the sheets as I endured it, my body reacting on instinct.
Orion held me from behind, his breath hot against my neck.
He held me from behind, his breath hot against my neck. His voice was low, almost gentle, but there was something probing beneath it—like he was digging for a confession I didn't know existed.
"Rhea's been making things difficult for you at work," he murmured. "Forcing you to stay late. Why didn't you tell me?"
My stomach cramped painfully. I didn't understand what he was accusing me of, but I knew better than to argue. I had learned that lesson long ago.
"W‑work is work," I said softly. "Personal is personal. I… I've been good."
The words tasted bitter in my mouth.
It reminded me of the past—of my old department head, the one who'd assaulted me, who'd made my life hell afterward. The worst moment had been when he pinned a massive mistake on me, one that could've ended my career.
At the company-wide meeting, Orion hadn't hesitated.
"Even a pig wouldn't make a mistake this stupid," he'd said coldly, his voice echoing through the room. Hundreds of eyes on me. Hundreds.
When we got home that night, I'd locked myself in the bathroom until my eyes were swollen from crying.
Later, I asked him, voice shaking, "The email trail proves it wasn't me. Why wouldn't you let me explain?"
His expression hadn't changed then, either.
"Work is work. Personal is personal," he'd said calmly. "At the company, I'm your boss, not your boyfriend. I only care about results. I can't back you up."
Two days later, my supervisor was fired.
The reason?
He'd been rude to Rhea.
I'd worked myself to the bone. I had the best performance on the team. Everyone assumed I'd be promoted when my supervisor left.
Instead, Rhea—who hadn't even finished her internship—was promoted by Orion.
She took his position.
She became my boss.
So now, I stayed quiet.
I stayed calm.
I followed the rules he himself had laid down.
Work was work. Personal was personal.
I never complained.
Never asked.
Never crossed the line.
That was why I didn't understand it when Orion suddenly froze.
The shift was abrupt. He turned me over, the overhead light blazing too brightly. I raised my hand instinctively, shielding my eyes as tears slipped out without permission.
He pulled my hand away.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice thin.
"You used to look at me," he said stubbornly. "You used to look me in the eyes."
I stared at him, irritation flickering through the numbness. I didn't know what he was unraveling over. I didn't know when this had become my fault.
When our eyes met, something in his expression fractured.
For a split second, panic flashed through his gaze—raw and unguarded. He covered my eyes again, almost desperately, like he couldn't stand what he'd seen reflected back at him.
Then he kissed me, urgently, as if trying to erase something.
"Rora," he whispered. Again and again. "Rora… Rora…"
But for the first time, hearing my name like that didn't make me feel wanted.
It made me feel like I was disappearing.