My Boyfriend Carved Jack-o’-Lanterns For All Five. Except Me Chapter 04

My Boyfriend Carved Jack-o’-Lanterns For All Five. Except Me Chapter 04

The night before I left, the group chat avatars all changed.

Four of them used the same graduation illustration.

Leo in the top left.

Julian in the top right.

Caleb and Daisy on either side, fitting together into one picture.

I stared for a few seconds. Opened the member list.

Five avatars.

No matter how they arranged it, my plain landscape photo stood out.

Unnecessary.

Daisy posted in the group.

[These avatars fit together so well!]

Leo replied with a head-pat emoji.

[Of course. You picked them.]

Julian, rare, agreed.

[Very meaningful.]

Caleb tagged me.

[Don’t overthink it. The shop only had a four-person set.]

I hadn’t said anything. He’d already decided my feelings for me.

I closed the chat. Didn’t reply.

—

The next day at noon, Leo sent a restaurant location.

[7 PM. Family dinner. Don’t be late.]

Below it, a screenshot of a set menu.

Four-person set.

Two meats, two vegetables, one soup, four drinks.

I asked:

[Isn’t this a family dinner?]

Leo took a long time to understand.

[Daisy’s wanted to try this place for ages. The four-person set is a good deal.]

[When you get here, we’ll order more. Stop nitpicking.]

I looked at we’ll order more. Almost laughed.

They always said I was the most important person in the family.

But when they ordered, no one remembered to save me a seat.

Only when I stood at the table would they scoot over.

Add a plate they’d grabbed at the last minute.

As if letting me sit down at the end erased all the forgetting before.

—

Afternoon. I put the last piece of clothing in my suitcase.

A few things left in the drawer.

The hairpin Leo gave me when we were kids.

The class notes Julian copied for me.

The movie ticket from my first date with Caleb.

And the crooked paper airplane Daisy gave me when she first came into the family.

I didn’t throw them away.

Just left them in the drawer.

Taking them would mean I still cared.

When you truly stop caring, even getting rid of things feels like too much effort.

—

The moment I closed the suitcase, Caleb sent four photos of music festival tickets.

[Daisy fought for these for ages.]

[Exactly four. We’ll take her this weekend.]

[You don’t like crowds. Skip this one.]

I’d lost count.

How many times had they said I didn’t like something?

And accepted my exclusion for me.

That band. I’d listened to them with Caleb for three years.

Last year, when we couldn’t get tickets, he held me and said, next time, he’d take me.

So promises didn’t disappear.

They were just kept. For someone else.

I wheeled my suitcase out. Put the key in the mailbox by the door.

No goodbye letter.

No long list of grievances.

They wouldn’t read it carefully.

And if they did, they’d say I was overreacting.

—

On the way to the airport, the group chat kept buzzing.

Leo urging me to get to the restaurant early and save seats.

Julian asking me to pick up a box of Daisy’s favorite donuts on the way.

Daisy asking if I was still upset. Followed by a pitiful emoji.

The last message was from Caleb.

[Don’t sulk tonight.]

[After the festival, we’ll bring you a gift.]

I didn’t reply.

Before boarding, I left the five-person group.

The system asked for confirmation.

I tapped yes. Left clean.

On the plane, I sat by the window.

My phone buzzed again.

Caleb. A voice message.

His voice carried its usual exasperation.

“Lyra. What are you throwing a fit about now?”

“See the message and reply. Don’t make everyone wait on you.”

Takeoff. Another message.

[Be there before seven. Late, and no one’s waiting.]

I looked out the window.

The familiar buildings shrank.

The distance on the restaurant pin grew from a few kilometers to dozens.

I turned on airplane mode.

Tonight, they’d probably add a chair for me.

But that last-minute seat—I would never sit in it again.