The straw that broke the camel's back happened three months ago.

It was a story about "priority."

That day, Harper got a cut less than a centimeter long from a piece of marble in the Hamptons.

Meanwhile, I fell down a collapsing staircase during a site survey at an abandoned factory in the Bronx and damaged my lumbar spine.

Even in the same city, our fates were worlds apart.

Julian’s concern for me was limited to a cold text: "You okay?"

Turning around, he staged a "Knight in Shining Armor" act on Instagram.

He drove his Tesla to take Harper to Mount Sinai, the top hospital, and posted like an anxious father: "Urgent! What's the best scar removal treatment?"

In the photo, Harper sat in the passenger seat of the luxury car, looking pitiful and breathtakingly beautiful.

I lay in the ER hallway, smelling of disinfectant, watching him joke with mutual friends in the comments section.

He never opened my DM.

Being ignored hurt more than my back.

After a sleepless night, I wore a heavy back brace and went to find him.

In the office, he was staring at Harper’s Rhino model on the screen, frowning as if it were ten thousand times more important than my health.

"Hold on, Layla. There's a structural issue here."

He didn't even turn his head.

I stood outside the glass door, watching him wrestle with Harper’s drawings.

In those two hours, I finally understood. In his world, I wasn't even worth a sketch layer.

His "Young Architect Award" certificate was taped to the glass door.

Finally, his assistant Emma trotted over, lowering her voice.

"Layla, Julian is explaining the plan to Harper. It’ll take at least another two hours..." She looked at my pale face. "Maybe come back later?"

I shook my head stubbornly.

"I'll wait."

Emma looked troubled. "But you standing here... might distract them."

A wave of severe pain hit me, and I couldn't help sliding down. Emma quickly caught me.

The commotion finally alerted Julian on the other side of the glass wall.

He looked over, his expression like he was watching an inappropriate tantrum.

Unauthorized personnel, please leave.

I could read his lips clearly. He was cold, like he was shooing away a homeless person from a fine dining restaurant.

His gaze lingered on my twisted posture for a second. His lips moved slightly, as if he wanted to ask "What's wrong?"

"Julian, look at this lighting simulation..." Harper pointed at the screen, her voice light and cheery.

He turned back immediately.

That moment of concern was as thin as the reflection on the glass, shattering at a touch.

I understood his subtext: Don't play the victim here. Don't be unprofessional. Don't embarrass me.

When he was done, maybe he’d charitably send me the notes he took while tutoring Harper, as "compensation."

The central HVAC system hummed with a low drone.

Separated by a wall, he was the god controlling the temperature.

And I stood shivering between the lingering July heat of Manhattan and the frigid indoor air.

I pulled my coat tighter and turned toward the elevator.

Five years ago, we walked out of Columbia University side by side, swearing to conquer this city together.

Now, I finally admitted it.

The person walking beside me had gotten lost a long time ago.