I hadn’t listened. I believed that love alone would be enough.
But now?
Now I understood. She hadn’t wanted to be my sister. She wanted to replace me.
I finished packing the rest of my belongings. Then I carried the memory box to the backyard. I struck a match.
The flames caught almost immediately. Letters curled and blackened. Bracelets twisted in the heat, their golden shine turning lifeless. Photographs disintegrated into ash.
“Elena!”
I looked up to see Nathan running from inside, panic etched across his face.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted. “Those… those are our albums! The bracelets?!”
“Yes,” I replied, simply. “I’m destroying all our memories.”
He stepped closer, but I planted myself in front of the fire, blocking him. “It’s over. All of it.”
Gabriel appeared moments later, looking equally shocked.
“Is this some kind of tantrum?” he asked, arms folded. “We get it, you’re upset. But this… this is extreme, even for you.”
“This isn’t a tantrum,” I said, voice steady and calm. “This is the end.”
“You’re really going to let one terrible night erase years of friendship?” Nathan asked. “Elena, please… we can talk—”
I met both of their eyes before turning to Nathan. “I don’t ever want to have anything to do with either of you again.”
I turned my back and walked inside the apartment, leaving the smoke curling behind me like the last trace of a life I would never return to.
I had hoped that after I burned everything, they would finally leave me alone. But they didn’t.
Days slipped by, and gradually, Nathan started acting as if nothing had happened. Flowers arrived at my door again. His texts were sweet, casual—asking about my day, sending little jokes, even attempting a quick kiss when our paths crossed outside the building. It was like the past weeks had vanished into thin air.
Gabriel followed suit, stepping back into his “big brother” role. Coffee deliveries, reminiscing about old times, easy jokes. Every time they said, “We’re sorry. Let’s make this right,” it sounded less like an apology for betrayal and neglect and more like an excuse for a stubbed toe.
Then came the surprise dinner.
“Our treat,” Nathan texted. “The old spot. You remember.”
Part of me wanted to delete the message and forget it ever existed. But another, quieter part—the exhausted, broken part—wondered if maybe, just maybe, we could close this chapter without bitterness. Without hatred.