Leave You, Find Myself

The following day, I headed to the Foreign Media Department, where I spent the entire morning discussing my plans with Director Vrienne.

"Naia, you must understand that going to Ethiopia as a war photographer is extremely dangerous. Are you fully prepared for that?" Director Vrienne asked, his tone serious.

"I understand the risks," I replied, my voice steady. "I'm not afraid of sacrifice. My goal is to use my camera to capture the horrors of war and, in doing so, wake up the world to the reality of what's happening."

"Good. I knew you dared to do this. You'll undergo two months of intensive training and be deployed to the battlefield."

The reality of becoming a war photographer is undeniably dangerous. It demands a deep understanding of Ethiopia's complex political and social landscape and sharp crisis management skills to navigate life-threatening situations. The work goes beyond capturing images images—surviving the chaos and telling stories that need to be heard. Top of FormBottom of Form

That day, I was quietly transferred from the News Department to the foreign media department. The role of a war photographer is sensitive, and all details surrounding my new assignment were strictly confidential.

The Foreign Media Department wasn't located in the TV station's main building but in a discreet office on the city's edge. My former colleagues at the News Department had no idea. I let them believe that I had resigned. It was easier that way, keeping my new position under wraps.

The days passed quickly—more than twenty, in fact, and I immersed myself in mastering the skills and knowledge required for my new role. Every day, I stayed late, absorbed in my work. At first, my boyfriend Carson didn't seem too concerned, assuming it was just part of my job. But as the late nights became routine, his patience wore thin, and he started questioning my reasons for coming home so late.

I told him it was overtime, but he wasn't convinced. He thought I was purposely staying late at work, a lingering punishment for the fire incident that had caused friction between us. I didn't bother to explain. I had more important things on my mind.

After rediscovering a sense of purpose in my life, Carson became nothing more than a distraction. Like a scenery along a road, I was no longer interested in. I set my eyes firmly ahead on something much bigger. I couldn't afford to pause for something as trivial as this.

That night, I arrived home around 9 p.m., exhausted but focused. As I dropped my bag, my phone rang suddenly, and it was my father. That's when I realized something important: today was my birthday.

Several friends had sent me birthday gifts through mobile payments, which I appreciated. Among them was Kazely, who shared something unexpected. Out of curiosity, I clicked to see what she was up to this time.

The photo that loaded took me by surprise. It was taken at a high-end restaurant. Kazely and Carson were sitting together, clinking glasses of red wine. In front of them was a three-tiered fruit cake adorned with 20 candles.

The caption read: "Celebrating 20 years of being childhood sweethearts."

I stared at the screen, feeling the sting of the words. Kazely had moved across the street from Carson when she was seven, and he was eight. Their families were close.

Later, her family became wealthy and moved away, but fate brought them together again years later at Berklee Music University. Carson was a sophomore then, and Kazely was a freshman, both studying under the same music teacher.

Carson confessed his feelings to Kazely in his junior year, but she turned him down, choosing to focus on her studies. Shortly after, she went abroad to continue her education.

Carson and I met after that, during his first year out of university. He competed in a violin competition, and I was just an intern photographer for the TV station. We clicked, and things between us developed quickly. For a while, I thought we were solid.

Then, three years into our relationship, Kazely returned to the country. I remember that day all too well. I was burning with a high fever of 39.5°C, so sick I could hardly lift my head. Desperate for help, I called Carson, asking him to take me to the hospital. He apologized, saying he couldn't because he had a significant performance.

But later, I learned the truth. There was no performance. Carson had gone to the airport to pick up Kazely.

He returned two hours later, carrying a small cake and a gift.

Compared to his childhood friend's grand, three-tiered cake, my cake seemed almost sad—an 8-inch animal oil cake, far from any real celebration. For him not to notice that I'd been thinking, I went to the kitchen to get a fork and a saucer; after that, I started eating.

"Why aren't you eating?" I asked deliberately, watching his reaction.

"I'm happy just watching you eat," he replied, the insincerity in his voice unmistakable.

"Oh, I see," I murmured, knowing more than he realized. He didn't know that Kazely often shared their daily lives with me—whether intentionally or not, her photos and updates ensured I understood.

He handed me the gift with an eager smile. "I carefully picked out a silk nightgown for you. Try it on and let me see," he said, excitement barely concealed in his voice.

I took the nightgown to the mirror, slipping it on with reluctance and curiosity. As soon as I saw the low-cut neckline, I knew. This wasn't Carson's choice. It had Kazely written all over it; it was her choice. Low-cut nightgowns were good only on women with a figure. Kazely has a good body, and she wore that with confidence, whereas I didn't share that advantage.

In the mirror, the nightgown draped awkwardly on me, emphasizing what I didn't have.

"You look great," he said softly, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His voice was gentle, but the insincerity in his words was impossible to ignore. The gap between what he said and how things were only grew wider.

We hadn't been intimate since the fire. The tension between us was thick, and his frustration was evident, though unspoken.

"I still have work to finish tonight," I said, gently pushing him away. I couldn't bring myself to meet his advances.

He stiffened, anger flashing in his eyes. "What's more important, work or me?"

Once upon a time, I would have answered without hesitation—he was the most important. I had even transferred from my demanding role in field photography to a more accessible position in copy editing just to be home more to take care of him.

But this time, I have yet to respond. Instead, I quietly left the room and went to the guest room, shutting the door behind me.

"Damn it!"

I heard him curse loudly, followed by a chair being kicked over in frustration.

In his mind, remembering my birthday, buying me a cake, and a half-hearted gift was the grandest gesture of love. He thought I should be overwhelmed with gratitude, ready to fall at his feet in appreciation.

But I wasn't.

The next morning, despite having the day off, I didn't get to sleep in—my plan to rest until noon was abruptly interrupted when Kazely showed up unannounced.

The first thing out of her mouth was, "Oh, strange! Can she walk? I thought you were injured, Naia."

Annoyed by her rudeness, I said, "Did you forget to brush your teeth this morning? You walk in and start saying nonsense about me first thing?"

Still groggy from being woken up, I couldn't help but feel a wave of irritation wash over me.

Kazely, always playing the innocent, pouted dramatically and said, "Carson, Naia seems to  misunderstand me again." She said it with that same overly sweet, coquettish tone whenever she wanted to stir trouble.

"Naia, Kazely is just concerned about you," Carson said, calm but siding with her.

I held back a reply, realizing it wasn't worth the argument. Instead, I walked to the bathroom to freshen up, hoping to shake off the tension, but Kazely followed, lingering in the doorway like a shadow.

"Naia, why didn't you wear the nightgown Carson bought you yesterday?" she asked, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

I met her gaze in the mirror, unfazed. "That nightgown's a little too revealing for me. Besides, I don't need to rely on cheap tricks—I've got my looks to carry me."

My response landed perfectly, even though I hadn't put in much effort. When it came to appearances, I knew I easily surpassed her.

Kazely's expression hardened hearing me, but she tried to keep her composure. "Maybe it just didn't suit you," she said, her smile faltering.

"Or maybe," I replied coolly, "some people only attract attention by showing more skin."

Her frustration boiled over, and with an angry "Hmph!" She walked off, obviously upset by our exchange.

I thought that would be the end, but round two came when she decided to play domestic goddess in the kitchen. Not five minutes after she turned on the stove, she let out a scream so terrifying that it made my blood run cold.

Carson came running. His face was a mix of panic and worry as he rushed to her side. He wrapped her in his arms, his voice soft but urgent. "Kazely, what's wrong?"

Trembling, she pointed to the stove. "Fire… the flame…"

Carson immediately switched off the stove while his focus was entirely on her. Then he turned to me, his expression shifting to blame. "Kazely's a guest. Why would you let her cook?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Kazely had practically taken over the kitchen on her own.

Before I could respond, Kazely chimed in, playing the victim perfectly. "Don't be mad at her. I just wanted to cook something to make her happy."

Carson, of course, fell right into her act. "I'll cook. You go rest, Kazely," he said. His tone was so gentle like she'd done him a favor by collapsing in fear.

He'd rarely cooked in the five years I'd been with Carson. He'd hardly cooked for me at all. But every time he was at Kazely's place, it was like he'd transformed—cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. You name it, he was on it.

I'd argued, cried, and even thrown fits over this, but he always had the same excuse: that she had just moved out on her own, that she was not very independent, and that he was trying to help her.

I went to my room and changed my clothes, trying to shake off the familiar wave of frustration as I prepared to head to the library. Just as I reached the door, Kazely's voice interrupted me.

"Naia, where are you going?" she asked in that innocent tone she always used.

"Off to fight monsters and level up. Care to join?" I teased, forcing a lightness I didn't feel.

Instead of replying, she called out toward the kitchen, "Carson, Naia's heading out!"

Within seconds, Carson appeared, his eyes blazing. "We're about to have lunch. Where do you think you're going?"

Before I could open my mouth, Kazely talked in her voice, dripping with concern. "Naia, are you still upset about the fire on the mountain? I almost suffocated. Carson was just rushing to get me to the hospital."

I took a breath, keeping my voice steady. "I'm not angry."

"No, you're still upset. It's all my fault, and if kneeling will make you forgive Carson, then I..." Kazely began, dropping to her knees dramatically.

Before she could, Carson rushed over, grabbing her arm and glaring at me. "Naia, stop being so petty. This isn't her fault. If you're mad, take it out on me, but leave her out."

I stood there, stunned. When had I ever taken anything out on her?

"Carson, Naia hasn't done anything wrong. It's all my fault," Kazely added tearfully. "I shouldn't have come back. I should've just stayed abroad... or died there." And just like that, she broke into sobs.

As she put on her little performance, I felt my patience evaporate. I couldn't stay there another second. Without a word, I turned and walked out the door.

--

Time had flown so fast. When I came back, it was already 10 p.m. As soon as I entered, I saw Carson sitting on the sofa, his expression dark. The tension in the room was palpable.

"Why didn't you reply to any of the messages I sent?" he asked, his voice low and tight.

I blinked, surprised. I pulled out my phone and realized it was still on Do Not Disturb. "I was at the library, so I turned on Do Not Disturb. Did you need something?"

His eyes narrowed. "I think we have some problems in our relationship. But avoiding them won't fix anything. We need to talk."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Carson, isn't it a bit late to talk now? How often have I tried to discuss things with you before, only for you to call me petty or accuse me of overreacting?"

His frustration grew. "So, this is still about Kazely again? I've told you countless times—there's nothing between us."

"A pure, innocent childhood friend relationship, right? I've heard that so often it's like a broken record. You know what? I don't care anymore about whatever you and Kazely have."

He paused, taken aback by my words. "Then what do you care about?" I looked at the pot of chains of hearts on the windowsill. Its leaves had withered, and it was about to die.

The chain of hearts had been growing for three years, a symbol of our love that we had chosen together. It was meant to accompany us through a lifetime, a living testament to our commitment. Now, it was withering, like our relationship.

"Look, the chain of hearts is dying," I said, my voice tinged with sadness.

He glanced at the plant, and for a moment, I saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes. He quickly shifted the topic. "The day after tomorrow, I have a solo concert at Maybank Concert Hall. I've reserved the best seat for you, right in the center. Will you come?"