A Grave at the End of Spring

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My boyfriend suffered from clinical depression.

His medication and expert therapy sessions cost thousands of dollars a month. To cure him, I worked day and night, taking on freelance art commissions and running food deliveries. My friends constantly warned me I was going to work myself into an early grave.

That was until one day, I snatched a delivery order for an ultra-exclusive, gated mansion community.

I respectfully used both hands to hand over a $2,500 premium sushi order to the customer. When I looked up, the boyfriend who was supposed to be at his psychological counseling session was standing in the doorway, staring at me in utter shock.

"Aren't you supposed to be at the clinic, Carter?"

I stared at the elegantly lavish mansion, my left hand gripping the sushi takeout box so tightly it ached.

Even though the temperature outside was over 100 degrees, I was trembling like I had been plunged into an ice box. I had only ever seen places like this in movies.

"I'm sorry, Harper, let me explain. Dr. Evans had an emergency this afternoon..."

"I'm just hanging out at a friend's place."

Caught red-handed, Carter lost his composure and reached out to grab my sleeve.

It was his go-to move when apologizing. It always worked. But right now, it failed.

I coldly slapped his hand away.

I couldn't name the brand of the custom-tailored shirt he was wearing, but the irony was suffocating. It suited his wealthy, aristocratic aura far better than the cheap basics he usually wore around me.

I lowered my eyes, pulled out my phone, and opened the app for the city hospital. Seeing that Dr. Evans' schedule still had plenty of open slots for the day, I lost the energy to even call out his lie.

Taking a deep breath, I gathered my thoughts and forced myself to speak with a calm, steady voice:

"Is this fun for you, Carter?"

"Pretending to be a broke, depressed, struggling kid by my side... acting like you couldn't even afford a cup of coffee... when in reality, you're a billionaire heir who drops $2,500 on a single meal!"

My lips trembled. I glared at the man in front of me with pure resentment, entirely unaware of when my eyes had filled with tears.

"You really... played me for an absolute fool..."

"$2,500! I have to make six thousand deliveries for that. That's two months of non-stop work..."

The most ridiculous part was the only app left open in my phone's background.

It was a text I had sent Carter half an hour ago.

I told him we were having a feast tonight, that I was going to make his favorite slow-cooked beef stew. Because the customer in the rich neighborhood had been incredibly generous and left a 0-050 tip.

I never in a million years imagined that the tip had come from Carter himself.

Late at night, Carter would hold me in his arms and whisper that my love was the only thing in this world he would never doubt.

He said even his own parents' love wasn't as pure as mine.

Those private whispers used to make me overjoyed, thinking I was the lucky one to find genuine sincerity in a world where it was so rare.

Looking back now, I realized no one else would be stupid enough to risk heatstroke for a $5 hazard-pay bonus, just so they could scrape together enough money to pay for his medical bills a day earlier.

"I haven't slept more than five hours a night in ages. Even in my dreams, I was praying for you to get better."

"You knew that better than anyone, didn't you?"

My voice choked on the questions.

Carter's relatively calm expression finally cracked. With red rims around his eyes, he nodded.

In that cramped, run-down studio apartment that was a thirty-minute walk just to get to the subway... he watched me suffer. He watched me stretch every single dollar.

He watched me struggle, desperately paying for his twisted, hypocritical poverty simulator, just to treat the "depression" he had written into his character.

He watched the entire thing like a god, cold and detached.

"I'll wire a sum of money to your bank account. Call it compensation."

"I'm sorry for doing this to you."

Carter lowered his head. His eyes carried guilt and a hint of panic. Realizing he could no longer lie his way out of this, he simply gave up.

With stiff fingers, I pulled the crumpled receipt out of my pocket. It was a foot long, filled with orders for the highest-grade wagyu and sashimi.

I crumpled it into a ball and hurled it at him with all my strength.

Carter didn't dodge. His expression was a mix of sorrow and regret.

The air conditioning spilling out from the mansion offered a trace of coolness. Over the hum of the cicadas, footsteps approached from inside.

Along with them came a whining, feminine voice:

"Carter, is the food not here yet? I'm starving to death!"

Carter and I broke our standoff. His expression shifted drastically.

As we both turned, a young woman in a lace slip dress walked toward the door.

Panicked, Carter stepped forward to block her. "Why did you come out? I'll be right back inside. Be good, go back in."

But the girl seemed determined to see what was going on.

She walked around him and looked at me with a sweet smile, a flicker of recognition and contempt flashing in her almond eyes.

"And this is..."

No one answered.

Seeing our mutual silence, the corners of her lips curled up.

She naturally hooked her arm through Carter's, pulling down the collar of her dusty-pink, sheer nightgown just a fraction.

The red marks on her neck and the curves beneath the fabric were on full display.

She leaned against Carter as if she had no bones.

The man's anxious gaze fell on me.

In utter despair, I turned my head away and closed my eyes.

My sweat-soaked hair clung uncomfortably to my face, and a throbbing pain pounded at my temples.

I would have to be completely brain-dead not to know what had just happened here.

I originally thought I was just the unlucky collateral damage in a rich boy's poverty-simulation game. Now I realized I was just the spicy side-plot in a wealthy couple's romance.

What a disgusting joke.

I didn't want to stay another second. I turned around, packed up my delivery bag, and prepared to leave.

But the girl suddenly called out to me:

"Wait, are you the little slum-girlfriend Carter was playing with off-campus?"

"I didn't recognize you in that delivery uniform. You're Harper from the Art Department, aren't you?"

I froze, turning back to stare at her.

A few seconds later, I finally placed her.

She was a senior, one year above me. Serena Kensington. The wealthy, gorgeous, incredibly popular girl surrounded by admirers.

But we had a history.

Because she had used her family's connections to steal my financial aid grant for one of her friends, I was the only person who refused to act like a sycophant around her.

Seeing my darkened, unnatural expression, Serena tightened her grip on Carter's arm.

Feigning absolute delight, she spoke in a saccharine voice:

"I can't believe it, Carter! Last year, I casually complained to you about an annoying, stuck-up junior."

"You asked a few questions, and you actually went and ruined Harper for me. I have to admire your methods. So brilliant..."

Serena looked up, shot me a glaring look, and continued:

"So brilliant that you played our department's great artistic genius, Harper, like a pathetic dog."

My hands, hanging by my sides, slowly curled into fists. The cold air from the mansion blew over me, but it brought no relief.

To people like them, a normal person's future, feelings, money, and sweat were nothing but annoying weeds on the side of the road. Not only did they ignore them, but they also went out of their way to trample them underfoot and spit on them.

Serena leaned up and kissed Carter's cheeka reward for making a fool out of mebefore shooting me a provocative look.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, her expression shifted into something bizarre and manic. She asked:

"Harper, did Carter tell you he suffered from depression?"

I frowned but didn't deny it.

Seeing my reaction, the woman burst into uncontrollable laughter, doubling over.

The words that came out of her mouth made my blood run cold.

"That's because I told Carter you had a younger brother who committed suicide because of depression."

"As long as Carter said he had depression, I knew your brainless self would fall for it."

"And I was right."

As her words hung in the air, time seemed to stop entirely, leaving only the droning of the cicadas.

My brain exploded, obliterating every ounce of my sanity. I bit down hard on my lower lip, ripped the delivery helmet off my head, and hurled it at Carter like a madwoman.

If I swallowed this humiliation, I might as well roll over and die.

My chest heaving violently, I screamed:

"Depression, huh?! Playing poor?! You love poking at people's trauma?!"

"You deserve to have parents who don't love you, you animal! You deserved to watch your dad beat your mom right in front of you! Why didn't he beat you to death while he was at it?!"

"I'll beat you to death for him right now!"

During the year I spent with Carter, whether it was an act or real emotion, we had shared our deepest vulnerabilities.

I knew his ultimate, unforgivable trauma was his parents' coldness and neglect, leaving him starved of familial love his entire life.

And right now, that became my weapon to attack and curse him.

Before either of them could react, I lunged forward and started throwing punches wildly at Carter's face.

Fueled by pure, blinding rage, I gasped for air. My chronic lack of sleep made my head spin dizzily.

The moment Serena mentioned my brother, Hayes, the fragile sanity I had clung to all afternoon instantly crumbled.

He was my reverse scalethe one thing no one was allowed to touch.

Until Serena finally managed to pull me away, Carter didn't fight back once.

He covered his mouth, his hand covered in blood.

"Are you okay, Carter?! I'm calling the police!"

"This crazy bitch has a death wish, daring to hit you?! I'll have my dad..."

Serena's furious voice was thick with tears, but Carter grabbed her wrist and shook his head:

"No. Don't."

"It's... what I owe her."

He smoothed down the hair I had violently messed up, stood up, and walked over to me.

He pulled a solid gold card from his pocket and held it out to me:

"The password is your birthday. I know what's done can't be undone, but... just take it. I'm sorry."

I let out a cold laugh, my eyes looking at him with nothing but ice and hatred.

"Drop dead."

I forcefully snatched the gold card from between his fingers, spat out those words, and walked away.

There was 0-000,000 on the card.

After demanding my final paycheck from the delivery dispatch boss, I quit my job.

My 250-square-foot apartment could be seen from end to end in a single glance.

When Carter and I moved out of our dorms, it was because he claimed the physical symptoms of his depression were worsening, and he needed me by his side every day.

Originally, I hadn't been completely unguarded when Carter aggressively forced his way into my life. But seeing that he suffered from the exact same illness as my brother... it softened my heart. It made me foolish.

Even now, I couldn't tell if my feelings for him had been driven more by love, or by an urgent, desperate need to compensate for the infinite guilt I felt toward my brother.

I had been frantically, obsessively trying to cure Carter's depression.

It was as if I believed that by saving him, the nightmares I couldn't escape would finally fade.

Over the course of a year, we had accumulated a fair amount of things.

But looking at the matching couple's items felt like daggers in my eyes. I threw every single one of them straight into the trash.

Listening to the rattling hum of the ancient air conditioner, I stared at the ceiling. Finally freed from my day-and-night exhaustion, I fell into a deep sleep.

In my dream, I couldn't tell how many times I had seen Hayes lying in that bathtub.

He lay bloodless in a pool of dark red liquid. His skin was pale as porcelain, devoid of temperature, devoid of breath.

An empty pill bottle was knocked over by his drooping fingertips. His long eyelashes were resting peacefully, just like the times he used to doze off waiting for me to finish studying.

Except this time, he would never open them again. He would never rub his sleepy eyes and ask when his big sister was going to bed.

On his phone, he had deleted his chat histories with everyone. The only thing he left behind was a message to me: "I'm sorry, sister," along with a Venmo transfer of $500.

It was every last cent he had.

That year, the spring was blooming beautifully. Hayes, brilliant and talented, left the world during its best season.

And I was forever trapped in that spring.