Chapter 3

The staff pulled up a rope barrier and cordoned me off outside the frame.

Before the shutter clicked, I caught sight of the sun-shaped pin on Evan's chest.

That was mine.

I stepped over the rope and pointed at his lapel.

"Give me back the pin."

Evan glanced down. He didn't remove it.

"I borrowed it to hold my tie. You'll get it after the shot. Don't keep everyone waiting."

Sage looped her arm through his to adjust their pose.

"Lena, it's just a little pin. Today is Evan's big moment. Let him have it."

The photographer waved his hand impatiently.

"Non-essential personnel, step back. Girlfriends included—don't disrupt the promotional workflow."

My supervisor moved forward, but the vice dean intercepted him.

"Young people's collaboration disputes should be settled privately. The school just won a gold medal. Let's not make a spectacle."

I thought that, at the very least, my supervisor would speak up for me. Instead he looked at Evan on the stage, then quietly tucked the validation report back into its folder.

"Lena, sit tight for tonight. I'll ask him for a proper explanation."

Sage beckoned the group over with a smile.

"Everyone, come closer. Evan doesn't like wasting time."

Evan stood at the center.

The pin caught the flashbulbs and gleamed. The number on the back read 442.

That was the commemorative pin the meteorological bureau had given me after I completed my first solo severe storm warning.

Evan had once threaded it onto a red cord and said that when our long-distance days ended, he'd hang it beside the shared calendar in our new home.

After the photos, he unpinned it and held it out.

"Hold on to this. Try not to lose things all the time."

I opened my palm to take it. The clasp snapped with an audible click.

The body of the pin dropped onto the thick carpet.

I didn't bend to pick it up. I only stooped for the broken metal clasp and slipped it into my pocket.

"If it's broken, I don't want it."

Sage covered her mouth.

"Maybe I fastened it too tight. Don't be upset, Lena. I'll buy you a new one."

"Can you buy back the serial number?"

Evan frowned, bent to retrieve the fallen pin body himself, and closed it in his fist. His voice stayed calm.

"Objects are just objects. If you insist on measuring a relationship by an old pin, the only person you'll hurt is yourself."

I slipped my hand into my pocket and felt the broken clasp.

"Is the model just an object too?"

"That's different." He tapped his phone awake. "The school's celebration dinner is tonight. Go back to the motel first. I'll have a driver take you. Don't sleep through your bus tomorrow."

"I was invited too."

Sage flipped open the guest list. Her fingertip stopped at the bottom.

"There's only one seat for an original-author observer, but given the conflict of interest, the school has given it to an external professor. If you go, Lena, there won't be a seat for you."

At the restaurant entrance, the invited guests signed in one by one.

The receptionist was an upperclassman from my undergraduate days. When she saw me, her eyes slid away.

"Lena, please don't put me in this position. The guest list was confirmed by Evan personally. Your supervisor was just hauled off by the vice dean to drink with the investors. There's no one here who can stand up for you tonight."

Inside, someone was riling up the crowd.

"The gold-medal duo—sit together, take a photo!"

"Evan, tell us. Who couldn't you have made it without on the road to success?"

Evan lifted his glass and answered mildly.

"I couldn't have made it without someone who can keep pace."

My chest tightened.

Through the table's laughter, Sage pushed his stomach medication toward him.

"Guess I'll grit my teeth and keep up for a few more years, so you don't get dragged down by unnecessary emotions."

The glass doors slid shut.

The upperclassman pressed a folder into my hands and whispered:

"This is the removal notice. I shouldn't be showing it to you, but the dates inside are wrong."

I waited until I reached the far end of the hallway before I opened it.

The document stated that, due to my prolonged absence from the project, I voluntarily surrendered my byline and any subsequent rights.

The signature line was blank, but attached was an exported record from the shared calendar.

Blue entries stretched back two years, saturating every day.

My yellow entries had been categorized as invalid data. And the deletion timestamp wasn't the day of the anniversary—

Two years ago, on September 17th, the night Evan first handed his account permissions to Sage, the replacement plan had already been drafted in the system.

At the bottom of the document was a single line of small print:

"To take public effect at 9:00 PM tomorrow evening, pending confirmation from the original author."