I Made Us Matching Avatars, But He Protected Another Girl Chapter 01

I Made Us Matching Avatars, But He Protected Another Girl Chapter 01

Nate’s Bitmoji had been the same tired default for years. Then one day, out of nowhere, he swapped it for a cartoon brown bear.

It struck me as funny, so I screenshotted the bear’s paw and turned it into a matching couple avatar for the two of us.

That night we had a company happy hour, and Nate, a man who never so much as glanced at his phone for anything, actually sent the invite himself in the group chat.

Lily replied first. “Got it!”

The chat went quiet for a beat. Then somebody couldn’t help herself. “Lily, you and Mr. Sinclair have the same profile picture now? Don’t tell me tonight’s actually your engagement party.”

Nate answered before anyone else could pile on. “She’s shy. Leave her alone.”

The whole chat erupted in teasing.

I sat there frozen for a second, then quietly switched my own picture back.

Five years of loving him in secret, and all at once none of it seemed worth the trouble anymore.

—

I left the group chat and pulled up my mother’s messages instead.

There was one from three hours earlier, asking if I could come home for dinner this weekend.

Every word sounded careful, almost apologetic, the kind of tone that broke my heart a little.

My throat tightened, and it took everything I had not to cry as I typed back: I’ll be there tonight.

For five years, Nate had cost my family more than I liked to admit.

I’d spent my mother’s birthday knitting him a scarf. While my father lay sick in bed, I’d fretted over the fact that Nate had only managed half a bowl of soup that day.

When friends invited me skiing or hiking, I always laughed it off with some line about Nate not being the outdoorsy type.

I’d built my whole life around him without ever really noticing.

Not anymore.

At five sharp, I clocked out and packed up my desk, right on schedule.

On my way past the executive floor, I ran into Nate, and he did not look happy.

He spotted me and exhaled, giving the untouched coffee in his hand an irritated little shake.

“Claire, go grab a 34C bra and drop it off in my office.”

He looked at me the way you’d look at someone you’d never met, flat and indifferent.

Five years at this company, and that was still the closest thing we had to intimacy in front of other people.

My hand curled into a fist at my side, and I bit down until I tasted copper.

34C. Lily’s size.

When I didn’t answer right away, his brow furrowed.

He never bothered to explain. He just stood there and waited for me to catch up.

Same as it always was.

The night Lily’s pipes burst, he’d dropped whatever we were doing without a word and walked straight out the door.

The time her stomach flared up, he’d left me curled around my own cramps and never looked back.

He never explained himself, because in his mind, he didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

As his girlfriend, I was simply supposed to understand. Supposed to trust him completely, no questions asked, like that was the whole job description.

I let my eyes drop, tired down to the bone, my fingers curling and uncurling at my sides.

“It’s after five, Mr. Sinclair. I’m going home.”

I said it in the flat, professional voice I reserved for clients, then turned and walked off before I had to watch his face go dark.

I drove clear across town to grab my parents’ favorite takeout from their favorite place.

Watching their faces light up when I walked in, something in my chest twisted all over again.

It didn’t matter how far I drove or how much trouble I went to for the things Nate liked. He never gave me anything back but that same bored, half-there look.

Sometimes he even scolded me for it.

“Are you seriously that dense, Claire? Three hundred miles round trip with cramps, all for some ten-dollar trinket? You don’t know how to pick your battles, do you?”

Maybe I really was that dense.

Halfway through dinner, a text came through from him.

Upset? Why?

Whatever spark I still had left just went out. I scrolled back through our message thread and realized how rarely he ever texted first. Most of what filled that thread was me, talking to myself, asking questions no one bothered to answer.

That single line practically qualified as a novel, by his standards.

I let out a short, humorless laugh and locked my phone.

Even the mac and cheese in front of me, my favorite comfort food since I was a kid, tasted like nothing at all.

My parents noticed. After a long silence, my mother finally spoke up, treading carefully.

“Claire, sweetheart, did you and Nate have a fight?”

I just shook my head.

Then she tried again.

“You’re twenty-eight this year. Have you two even talked about marriage? Any idea when…”

“Mom.”

I set my fork down and cut her off, and somewhere in that pause, I made up my mind.

“We’re not getting married.”

“He and I just aren’t right for each other.”