Chapter 3: A Walk in the Autumn Night

The restaurant's door closed behind Isabella with a soft click, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. The cool breeze of early autumn wrapped around her like a comforting embrace, a stark contrast to the stifling tension she had just left behind. The streets were alive with the hum of city life, the laughter and chatter of passersby a gentle melody that seemed to welcome her back to the world.

Isabella walked slowly, her steps deliberate as she navigated the familiar streets. The hotel's grand facade disappeared from view, replaced by the warm glow of streetlights and the inviting windows of shops and cafes. She passed by couples holding hands, their heads bent close in shared secrets and whispered promises. Each tender scene was a reminder of what she had lost, a glimpse into an alternate reality where love was patient and kind, where it didn't hurt to love someone.

Her heart ached with a deep, throbbing pain. It was a physical thing, a weight that pressed down on her chest, making each breath a struggle. She had been so sure, so hopeful that Alex was the one. They had been happy, hadn't they? The memories of their shared moments flashed through her mind like a slideshow—laughter on a Ferris wheel, the warmth of his hand in hers, the sweet taste of their first shared dessert. But those memories were tainted now, overshadowed by the reality of his betrayal.

She rounded a corner, her gaze drawn to the bright lights of an ice cream truck. The cheerful jingle of its music box seemed out of place with the heaviness in her heart. On impulse, she approached the truck, the decision to treat herself to a simple pleasure a small act of rebellion against the pain.

"One ice cream, please," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The vendor, a kind-faced older man, handed her a cone with a smile. "There you go, dear. Enjoy it."

Isabella took a bite, the cold sweetness a shock to her senses. But as the flavor hit her tongue, she realized it was wrong. It was salty, not sweet. "Your ice cream tastes off," she said to the vendor, her voice trembling with the effort of holding back her tears.

The vendor glanced at her, his eyes kind and understanding. He handed her a tissue without a word. "Miss, maybe you need to wipe your tears first."

Isabella looked up, her vision blurred by unshed tears. She looked down at the ice cream, realizing with a start that her tears had fallen onto it, mixing with the sweetness to create the odd taste. No wonder it was salty.

With a sniff, she thanked the vendor and turned away, the ice cream forgotten in her hand. She walked, her steps taking her further from the restaurant, further from Alex and the life they had built together. The city seemed to envelop her, the buildings and streets a comforting backdrop to her solitude.

Her phone buzzed in her bag, the vibration a persistent reminder of the world she was trying to escape. She ignored it, focusing instead on the feel of the wind against her skin, the sound of her footsteps against the pavement. Each step was a step towards healing, towards reclaiming her life.

When she finally arrived at her apartment, the familiar space was a sanctuary. She dropped her bag by the door, the act of being home a relief she hadn't expected. Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with a message from Alex.

[Have you arrived home?]

She glanced at it, the words blurring as her tears returned. She didn't reply, the silence of her apartment a stark contrast to the noise of her emotions. Another message came through, this one an accusation.

[Everyone didn't have a good meal because of you today. Let's invite them to dinner another day.]

Isabella's heart clenched, the words a harsh reminder of Alex's inability to see her side of things. She didn't respond, her silence a shield against the pain of his indifference.

Her phone rang, Alex's name flashing on the screen. She let it ring, the sound echoing in the quiet of her apartment. She didn't answer, the call going to voicemail. The phone fell silent, the finality of the silence a weight in the room.

Before going to bed, she browsed through her social media, the familiar routine a comfort. And there, among the mundane updates and photos of friends, was a post from Vivian. The image was a photo of the backseat of a car, Alex's profile visible as he lounged against the seat, his eyes closed. Vivian was there too, her body language a silent claim on Alex's attention.

The caption of the photo was a knife to Isabella's heart. [It turns out I am still your first choice after so many years.]

Isabella's fingers hovered over the screen, her heart aching with a pain that was both familiar and new. With a self-mocking smile, she replied to Vivian's post.

[Congratulations.]

The word was a bitter acknowledgment of her loss, a final goodbye to the life she had thought she had with Alex. As she put her phone down, she felt a strange sense of peace. She was done, truly done with the charade, with the pretense of a love that was one-sided and unfulfilling.

She lay in bed, the city lights casting a soft glow through her window. The night was quiet, the hum of the city a lullaby that soothed her aching heart. She closed her eyes, the events of the day playing out behind her eyelids. But as she drifted off to sleep, she made a promise to herself—to wake up tomorrow and start anew, to build a life that was truly her own.