Shameless, My Sister Stole My Father and My Boyfriend

When I finally stood in front of my apartment, my body was battered, but my heart felt emptier than ever.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door. A thick wave of dust greeted me. Silence. The place was abandoned.

Once, this had been our little haven. Every piece of furniture, every decoration—we had chosen together. A framed photograph still hung on the wall. In it, we were smiling, our faces filled with love and promise. Now, the room felt lifeless. Cold. Devoid of warmth.

My chest tightened as I turned away. I ran downstairs, searching for a public phone booth. With shaking hands, I dialed Luke’s number.

“Duu—duu—”

The waiting tone stretched endlessly, each ring carving into me like a dull blade. No answer. I hung up. Dialed again. Still nothing. A familiar voice broke through my haze of despair.

“Ah, you’re back!” Aunt Wendy, my elderly neighbor, greeted me cheerfully as she returned from the market.

Desperate, I turned to her. “Auntie, have you seen Luke recently?”

She frowned, shaking her head. “Luke? No, dear. He hasn’t been around for quite some time.”

A cold, bitter laugh bubbled in my throat. He had already moved on. Disappeared. I had survived. Dragged myself from the brink of death. And for what? Clutching the last few bills in my pocket, I bought a new phone and a SIM card. Because one thing was clear—I wasn’t done yet.

Logging into the social media platform, I braced myself, expecting to see countless messages from Luke. He would ask where I had been, worry about my well-being, beg me to come back. But there was nothing. Not a single message.

Even if I had died, I doubted he would have cared. Like a madwoman, I scrolled through my feed, desperate for anything, any sign that he still thought of me. And then—I found it.

A post from my sister. A photo. The backdrop was breathtaking—the majestic, golden glow of the Snowy Mountains at sunrise. And beside her stood a familiar figure, his back turned to the camera. Luke.

The caption read.

[Thank you for remembering my original wish after so many years!]

My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. I had told him—countless times—that I wanted him to take me to see the Snowy Mountains. He would always brush it off, saying he was too busy with work, that he didn’t have time.

Turns out, it wasn’t about time. It was about who he wanted to see the Snowy Mountains with. And that person had never been me.

With trembling fingers, I typed out a message to him. Accusations, pain, betrayal—I poured my heart into it. Every word a wound. Every sentence a cry for the love he had so easily cast aside. Then, one by one, I deleted them all. What was the point?

In the end, only one line remained:

[Let's break up. Where should I leave your things?]

Almost instantly, he replied.

[Are you sure you want to break up? Then as you wish.]

No hesitation. No explanation. Just cold, indifferent words. Not even the slightest attempt to make me stay. Because his true love had returned and I was nothing more than an unwanted afterthought.