The Moon That Walked Away

Prologue I loved Logan for three years. I did his laundry, cooked his meals, stayed up all night drawing architectural sketches for him, and put everything about him before myself. Until the day I found a sketchbook in his study—one he had treasured for seven years. Inside were dozens of drawings, every single one of the same woman. On the final page, written in his own hand: *My love.* I finally understood why, in three years together, he had never once agreed to draw me. The bitter irony was the scar on his wrist, cut so deep it had nearly sliced to the bone. He had brushed it off as an accident. Then I learned that seven years ago, to save that woman, he had nearly destroyed the hand he cherished most in this world. It turned out he wasn't someone who didn't know how to love. He had just never loved me. Mia's POV Logan’s study was draped in cold tones. Minimalist black, white, and gray decor, just like the man himself—rational, almost bloodlessly restrained. I had only gone in there to find that Berlin architectural design portfolio. Tomorrow was bid day for a major project at Logan’s firm. He’d left in a hurry this morning and messaged me, asking if I could bring the portfolio to his office. Crouched in front of the massive dark walnut bookcase, my fingertips slid across the neatly aligned spines until I finally spotted the portfolio in a corner on the bottom shelf. I reached out to pull it. Because the books were wedged together so tightly, the neighboring reference folders loosened, and a black sketchbook slipped out from the gap, tumbling to the floor. It was worn, the edges frayed, its cover fitted with a small brass clasp. The lock had broken long ago, and as it hit the floor, it fell open to the first page. My hands froze. It was a charcoal sketch. The girl in the drawing had a clean, sharp jawline, her head tilted slightly upward, the wind catching the loose strands around her ear. She wasn't looking at the camera—or rather, not looking at the artist—leaving only a striking, unapologetic profile. In the bottom right corner, dated seven years ago in autumn, was an effortless initial: *L.* My heart skipped a beat. I’d seen Logan’s drawings before. As a top-tier architect in the industry, his pencil produced nothing but cold steel and concrete, precise geometric lines, and detached architectural perspectives. He had told me once: "I only draw buildings, not living things. People are too complicated. You can't capture their lines." Yet here, the man who claimed he didn't draw living things had captured a girl's profile with such breathtaking beauty. My fingertips went ice-cold. I knew snooping into someone’s privacy was wrong, but my hand turned to the second page entirely beyond my control. It was the same girl. This time, she was looking down at a book, long hair falling forward, the bridge of her nose delicate and high. On the third page, she was dozing against an easel. On the fourth, she was laughing. An entire sketchbook. Dozens of drawings, progressing from raw technique to effortless mastery, transitioning from charcoal to watercolor. The girl in the sketches was always vibrant, expressive, alive with an easy, careless confidence. I turned page after page, my breath catching in my throat. Until I reached the very last one. It was a view of her from behind. She was wearing an oversized men's white dress shirt, standing before a floor-to-ceiling window, the sunlight tracing a rim of gold around her silhouette. In the bottom right corner, there was no date. Only Logan's sharp, incisive handwriting: *My love.* A deafening roar erupted in my head. Everything shattered, and my ears rang relentlessly. I stared at that paper, my eyes burning with a stinging ache, yet not a single tear fell. My name is Mia. In our three years together, during those rare, fleeting moments of intimacy, Logan would lean close to my ear, his voice low and raspy as he murmured, "Mia." I had thought it was a tenderness reserved only for me—the sole warmth beneath his hardened exterior. Now, looking at those written words and that completely unfamiliar silhouette, it all felt absurd. ...He had never loved me. Not for a single second. I collapsed onto the carpet, my gaze involuntarily drifting toward the desk in the corner of the study. Three days ago had been Logan’s thirtieth birthday. For that gift, I had stayed up late for three straight months. I had traveled all across the city, visiting every landmark building Logan had ever helped design. Using the hands of a fashion designer, I had taught myself how to sketch architecture. A thick callus had formed on my middle finger from gripping pencils for hours. I had developed severe neck pain from the sleepless nights, nearly fainting in the kitchen on the day of his birthday.Mia's POV When I had handed him that beautifully bound sketchbook of architectural drawings with a heart full of joy, Logan had just hung up a work call, his brow slightly furrowed. He had merely glanced at the gift box, tossed out a casual "Thank you," and left it on the desk. For three whole days, the sketchbook that had cost me every drop of my devotion had sat untouched in the corner of that desk, its plastic wrap not even broken. Yet this sketchbook before me, filled with another woman, was kept locked away, buried in the most hidden, secure corner of his shelves. Taking a deep, trembling breath, I pushed the black sketchbook back where it had been, picked up the Berlin portfolio, and walked out of the study. After dropping off the portfolio at his firm that afternoon, I went to the supermarket. Pushing the cart through the fresh produce aisles as usual, I picked out his favorites. Logan had a sensitive stomach, so I bought fish to make soup; he had been putting in so much overtime lately, so I stocked up on fresh vegetables and fruit. I tried desperately to fill the growing black hole in my chest with these mundane chores. Maybe... maybe there was a misunderstanding? I kept inventing excuses for him in my head. They were drawings from seven years ago, after all. Who didn't have a past? The person by his side right now was me. I was the one cooking his meals, doing his laundry, and knowing every little detail of his daily routine. Why was I getting hung up over an old sketchbook? At eight in the evening, Logan came through the front door, bringing with him the cold chill of an autumn night. He wore a tailored black coat, his brow sharp, his deep-set eyes shadowed. Even with visible exhaustion hanging over him, that face was still the one that made my heart race at a single glance. "You're back?" I walked up to greet him, taking his coat to hang it up. "Go wash up. Dinner's almost ready." Four dishes and a hot soup were laid out on the dining table, steam rising gently. I ladled a bowl of soup and placed it in front of him, keeping my usual gentle smile in place. Logan pulled out a chair, his eyes sweeping across the spread on the table. His brow furrowed immediately. "Why did you make so much again?" Disapproval laced his tone. "I've told you, I can't eat much at night. Two dishes are enough for the two of us. Anything more just goes to waste!" He sounded like a manager scolding a careless subordinate. My fingers curled inward slightly. Usually, when he said things like that, I would explain in a soft, placating voice that I just wanted him to eat well. Tonight, that sketchbook was lodged in my throat like a shard of glass, making even the act of swallowing painful. "I was in a good mood today," I murmured, keeping my head down. "What's there to be so happy about?" Logan tossed back casually, picking up his fork to take a bite, his attention already shifting to a work email popping up on his phone. I didn't answer. I picked up my bowl and mechanically pushed food into my mouth. Staring fixedly down into my plate, my eyes burned fiercely until finally, a single tear broke free and fell, vanishing into my food. Then a second. Then a third. I didn't dare make a sound. I didn't even dare let out a ragged breath. I was terrified he would look up and see how pathetic I looked—and even more terrified that if he asked why, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from demanding to know who that girl was. Logan never looked up. One hand scrolled continuously through his phone, while the other picked at his food. Through the entire meal, he never once noticed that his fiancée, sitting right across from him, was crying her eyes out. "I'm done. I have a few emails to answer. Clear the table when you're finished," Logan said, putting down his fork. He pushed back his chair, stood up, and walked straight to his study. I sat alone under the dining room chandelier, looking at the table of barely touched food. Unable to hold it in any longer, I pressed my hand over my mouth, letting out a stifled, agonizing sob. Three years of my youth, three years of unconditional devotion, had completely shattered today before an old, tattered sketchbook—reduced to shards of glass on the floor that could never be pieced back together.Mia's POV A chilly weekend in late autumn. Cold wind swept dead leaves across the street corner. I sat in my usual corner café, a cup of long-cold Americano sitting untouched before me. My eyes were still slightly rimmed in red, shadowed by dark circles I couldn't conceal. I had sat on the sofa all night; every time I closed my eyes, that face in the black sketchbook flashed through my mind. "Did you drag me out here in a rush just to watch you zone out?" My close friend Chloe pushed the door open, dropped her designer bag onto the couch across from me, and slid into the booth. Snapping out of it, I forced a faint smile. "It's nothing. Just a little tired. What have you been up to lately?" "What else? Getting roped into planning that annoying alumni reunion," Chloe rolled her eyes, picking up my water glass to take a sip. "Though, on the alumni prep chat yesterday, I saw Logan's class roster. The top-ranked architecture graduate back then is practically the school's walking billboard now." At the mention of Logan's name, my fingers tightened around my coffee cup. Not noticing anything off, Chloe kept talking. "Honestly, though, Logan was a real wild card back then. Someone in the chat brought up an old college rumor yesterday, and that was how I found out how he got that scar on his left wrist. He almost ruined his entire hand over it." My head snapped up, my voice shaking. "What scar?" "The one on the inside of his left wrist, about two inches long. You've been with him for three years—don't tell me you've never seen it?" Chloe looked at me, puzzled. How could I not have seen it? It was a deep scar, like an ugly centipede resting against his fair skin. Once, while we were in bed together, my thumb had brushed over the raised tissue. Logan's entire body had stiffened instantly, and he had smoothly, wordlessly pulled his hand back. Later, aching for him, I had asked, "How did you get that scar? It must have hurt so much." Logan had been standing by the window smoking. He exhaled a ring of smoke, his voice completely flat: "I slipped with an X-Acto knife while building a model back in school. It stopped hurting years ago." I had never brought it up again. But every time I helped him put on his watch, my touch was always impossibly gentle, terrified of hurting that old wound. "He said... it was an accident with a knife," I said, my voice dry. "He was totally lying!" Chloe let out a scoff. "A senior from his old studio group in the chat said that wasn't it at all. Sophomore year, an art major girl was rushing an assignment in the studio. A plaster bust on the shelf beside her gave way and started falling. Logan happened to be there. Seeing that heavy plaster bust about to crush her skull, he threw himself over her without a second thought." Chloe gestured with her hands. "The bust shattered, and a jagged shard sliced right into Logan's wrist. They said blood literally sprayed everywhere. It took over a dozen stitches! The doctor said if it had been a single millimeter deeper, it would have severed the nerve, and he wouldn't even be able to hold a pencil today. And he told you an X-Acto knife did that?" A wave of pure ice crashed over me. My chest felt as if it had been struck by a blunt weapon, a dull ache throbbing so violently that even breathing tasted like iron.Mia's POV "That girl..." I heard my own raspy voice asking. "What was her name?" "I think it was... Clara? Yeah, Clara Vance. A famous talent and beauty in the photography department back then. But I think she moved abroad later, and nobody really heard from her after that." Chloe stopped, finally catching sight of my deathly pale face. The casual gossip melted away, replaced by concern as she leaned across the table. "Mia, what's wrong? Why do you look so sick? Did Logan do something to you?" Closing my eyes, that girl's gorgeous profile from the sketchbook surfaced in my mind once more. Clara Vance. So her name was Clara. The girl he was willing to throw his life away for, the one he risked his entire career as an architect to protect—her name was Clara! "I'm fine," I said, standing up so abruptly that my knee knocked the coffee cup off the table. The dark brown liquid dripped over the edge, splashing across my cream-colored trench coat in an ugly stain. "I just remembered I have something to take care of. I have to go." I practically fled the café. Back at the apartment I shared with Logan, I drifted into the study like a ghost. Logan wasn't home today; he was out of town surveying a plot of land for a project. Walking straight to the bookshelf, I didn't reach for the sketchbook. Instead, my eyes locked onto the top row of thick, foreign architectural magazines. I remembered clearly—once, while cleaning his study, I had accidentally opened one of them. Stepping onto a chair, I searched through them, issue by issue. Finally, inside an original issue of *Domus* at the very end, I found a dog-eared page. Opening it revealed a dried, yellowed petal pressed between the sheets. Years had drained it of its color and moisture, leaving it paper-thin. Yet, leaning close, I could still catch the faint, lingering scent of lilac. My hand shook violently. The magazine dropped to the floor, and the dried petal drifted down, landing softly on the top of my foot. Lilacs. Clara's favorite flower was lilacs. I had seen a comment buried under an old post on Logan’s Ins that he had forgotten to delete. An account named *Clara* had written: *The lilacs are blooming so beautifully this year. Logan, you owe me a bouquet.* Stumbling back into the bedroom, I yanked open the vanity drawer. Inside sat four identical perfume bottles, neatly aligned. It was a niche British fragrance house, packaged in minimalist glass. For three years, on every Valentine's Day and anniversary, Logan's gift to me had unfailingly been this exact perfume. I had once thought this was his special way of loving me. I thought he was just rigid, that once he found a scent he liked on me, he stuck to it. I had even lovingly complained to my friends: "He's just stubborn. Once he settles on something, he never changes it." To cater to his "special preference," I had abandoned the citrus scents I loved and faithfully wore this perfume every day. Every morning, every night before bed. I had immersed myself in this fragrance just so that when Logan pulled me close, he would wear that relaxed, almost intoxicated expression. With trembling hands, I pulled the cap off one of the bottles. A fine mist settled into the air. An initial note of cool woods gave way to an overwhelming, soul-piercing scent of lilac. The very scent that had once been my greatest comfort now felt like an icy hand wrapping tightly around my throat. Covering my mouth, I dashed into the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet. Having eaten nothing all morning, only bitter bile came up. Tears poured down my face, mingling with the nausea. Kneeling on the cold tiles, I stared into the mirror at the pathetic wreck of a woman looking back. I had cut my hair into the same sharp bob as Clara. I wore the same minimalist clothes as Clara. I smelled of the lilacs that belonged to Clara. For three years, I had slept beside this man, listened to his heartbeat, and felt his warmth—only to realize I was nothing more than a skin suit named "Clara Vance." Logan didn't love me. He had simply used my haircut, my clothes, and my scent to reminisce about the woman who had left an indelible mark on his soul. From start to finish, I was just a perfect, unwitting substitute. As the scent of lilac thickened in the bathroom, something snapped inside me. Rushing out, I grabbed the expensive bottles of perfume from the drawer and hurled them violently into the trash can. The suffocating, overpowering fragrance instantly consumed the room.Mia's POV At one in the morning, the rain outside turned into a torrential downpour. Sitting in the back of a cab, I watched the neon lights blur past the wet window, my eyes hollow. Half an hour ago, Logan's assistant, Joe, had called me, on the verge of tears. "Mia, could you please come to The Velvet Room? Mr. Davis had too much to drink at the celebration dinner. He refuses to get in my car, and nobody can talk sense into him." I hadn't wanted to go. Knowing the truth, even hearing Logan's name made me sick. But when I caught the faint sound of his stifled coughing over the line, I still grabbed my coat and ran out into the storm. I despised my muscle memory. I despised how I had been conditioned over three years to act like a loyal dog, still wagging its tail at the slightest sound of its master's distress. Inside the private VIP lounge, Logan was slouched deep into the leather sofa. His usually crisp dress shirt was rumpled, the collar unbuttoned to reveal his sharp collarbones. His deep-set eyes were squeezed shut, his brow knit tight in pain. "Mr. Davis, Mia is here," Joe said hurriedly. Logan didn't open his eyes. I walked over, but I didn't smooth the furrow between his brows, nor did I coo gentle words to soothe him. I simply reached out, took his arm with cold efficiency, and said flatly, "Logan. Get up. We're going home." Miraculously, the man who had lashed out at anyone who tried to touch him actually leaned into my strength and stood up. His tall frame swayed, leaning heavily against my slender shoulder. The sharp stench of alcohol, mixed with the faint traces of his usual tobacco, washed over me instantly. Gritting my teeth, I half-dragged, half-supported him into the waiting cab. The car was stuffy. The driver, a man in his fifties, glanced back and muttered casually, "Kids these days. Drinking like there's no tomorrow, and in the end, it's always the wife who has to come clean up the mess." I didn't say a word, keeping my eyes fixed out the window. Logan leaned heavily against my shoulder, his breath hot and ragged. His head shifted with the bumps in the road, his soft hair brushing against my neck. In the past, I would have found this a sweet burden. I would have cradled his head gently to make him more comfortable. Now, my entire body was rigid with disgust. As the car climbed onto the elevated highway, a dead silence fell over the cab. Just then, Logan stirred. His hand groped blindly across my lap until he found mine. His palm was large, callused from years of drafting, and burning hot. His fingers tightened, gripping my hand in a crushing hold. Frowning, I tried to pull away, but Logan buried his face deeper into the crook of my neck. A low, heavily nasal murmur broke the silence of the car: "Clara..." It was so soft, barely an unconscious whisper, yet it struck like a dagger driven straight through my heart.Mia's POV I froze completely. "When are you coming back...?" His voice carried a fragile, desperate pleading I had never heard before. The cool, rational Logan Davis—the man who thought uttering a single romantic word to me was a waste of time—was now whimpering in his sleep, begging another woman to return. The driver clearly heard it too. He glanced into the rearview mirror, his expression shifting into awkward discomfort. To cut through the suffocating tension, he cleared his throat and quietly turned up the car heater. The warm air blew across my face, yet I felt an icy chill seep straight into my bones. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of freezing ice water over my head, extinguishing the very last, fragile ember of hope I possessed. I didn't shove him away, nor did I throw a fit. I merely looked down at my hand trapped in his tight grasp. He was holding on so hard, as if desperate to brand someone else's name into my flesh and bone. A sudden urge to laugh bubbled up. So it was true what they said: a drunk mind speaks a sober heart. When sober, I was "Mia," the convenient stand-in. When drunk, stripped of his rational veneer, I became "Clara," the woman he actually loved. Back at the apartment, I used every ounce of my strength to haul Logan onto the bed. I didn't fetch warm water to wipe his face, nor did I go to the kitchen to brew him honey water. I simply stood by the bed, looking down at the man with his furrowed brow, before turning and walking out of the bedroom, not even bothering to pull the blanket over him. Three in the morning. I sat alone in the office chair in the study. In the pitch-black room, the faint blue glow of the computer monitor illuminated my pale face. Earlier, while helping Logan settle in, a folded flyer had slipped out of his coat pocket. It was a ticket stub for a photography exhibition dated two weeks ago, on a Saturday. That Saturday, Logan had told me he was traveling out of state for a critically important industry conference. My fingers clicked the mouse mechanically. I had guessed the password to his private laptop—the one he had never allowed me to touch. It wasn't his birthday, nor was it mine. It was a date from seven years ago. Opening the browser, I brought up the search history. Instead of dry architectural files, the screen filled with an obsessive, nauseating list of search terms: *Clara Vance photography exhibition* *Clara Vance Paris* *Clara Vance return* *Clara Vance interview*... The earliest search dated back three years ago, the exact month I had agreed to start dating him. The latest one was from two weeks ago. He had been watching her the entire time. Every single day of our three years together, while playing the role of a devoted fiancé to me on the surface, he was scouring every corner of the internet for any trace of that woman. Two weeks ago, Clara had returned to hold her debut solo photography exhibition. He had canceled our weekend appointment for a wedding dress fitting, lying that he had a conference, just to go see her show. Like a shadow hiding in the crowd, he had watched his beloved girl shine under the spotlights, then carried that crumpled ticket stub back home to me. Staring at the blinding lines of text on the screen, my dry eyes could shed no more tears. My hands were steady—so steady it frightened me. I closed the tabs one by one, then clicked shut down. The moment the screen went dark, the study plunged into total blackness. I didn't turn on the lights, nor did I return to the bedroom. Sitting like a soulless statue, I stayed there in the dark. From three in the morning until the sky turned gray, until the first ray of dawn broke through the clouds and illuminated my face. Overnight, the Mia who had spent three years trailing behind Logan, looking up to him, loving him, and finding joy for days over a single compliment from him—had died.