No Return Ticket for Our Lost Love Chapter 09

No Return Ticket for Our Lost Love Chapter 09

The text was short, consisting of only three words: [I am leaving.]

There was no signature, but I knew it was Matthew. My expression didn’t waver. With a practiced flick of my thumb, I swiped left, deleted the message, and blocked the number.

Time pressed fast-forward.

A year later, autumn returned to Eastgrove exactly on schedule. I had been fast-tracked for a promotion, officially becoming an Acquisitions Editor at Eastgrove Publishing House.

While reviewing submissions one afternoon, I casually clicked open the finalist list for the Moonfire Literary Award. As my mouse scrolled down to the third spot in the short story category, my eyes paused slightly.

**Author:** Matthew.

**Title:** The Unclaimed Ticket.

The synopsis was brief: A proud Alpha buys forty-two train tickets to the exact same eastern city for several consecutive years.

Yet, he always sits alone in the departure lounge, watching the train leave without ever walking toward the ticket gate.

This tragic short story, dripping with overdue devotion, had struck a massive chord with the judging panel.

“Hannah,” the editor-in-chief said, walking over to my desk with a mug of coffee. She pointed at the name on the screen. “This author, Matthew, his bio says he was originally a math prodigy at Argent Academy.”

“You graduated from a university in Southerland, right? Do you remember him?”

Moving the mouse, I closed the webpage without a second thought.

“Never heard of him,” I replied, my tone completely flat and untroubled.

I skipped the award gala over the weekend, choosing instead to stay back in the office to proofread a new book layout. Around nine that evening, my phone buzzed repeatedly.

Vanessa, who also worked at the publishing house, sent over a few high-definition photos from the ceremony.

Vanessa: [Oh my god! Matthew won the gold award for short fiction!]

Vanessa: [But he looked terrible up there today.]

Vanessa: [He didn’t say a single word during his speech. He just stared into the crowd the whole time.]

I tapped on the final attachment to view the full-size photo.

In the picture, Matthew was dressed in a sharp black suit, his frame noticeably leaner and sharper than it had been a year ago.

He stood directly beneath the blinding glare of the spotlight, his gaze cutting past the wall of camera lenses, stubbornly locked onto a completely vacant corner of the auditorium.

He was searching for the one spectator who would never show up.

I locked my phone and flipped it face-down on the desk, plunging right back into my work.

Just then, the glass door of my office was pushed open with a sharp click. The editor-in-chief walked in briskly holding a document fresh off the fax machine, her expression a mix of gravity and intense excitement.

“Hannah, the Moonfire Literary Award committee just sent over a formal notice.”

“Matthew is willing to grant us the exclusive physical publishing rights for The Unclaimed Ticket—with zero royalties.”

My brow knit slightly. I made no move to touch the paper. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s only one condition,” the editor-in-chief said, taking a slow breath as she held my gaze.

“He explicitly stated that the managing editor for this book must be you. Otherwise, the deal is completely off the table.”

I lowered my eyes, looking at the letter of intent.

“Hannah,” she whispered cautiously when I remained silent.

“Securing a gold-award winning title with zero royalties is an incredible milestone. It would be a massive boost to your professional portfolio and our department’s publishing quota for next year.”

“Whatever history you two had doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is the value on the table right now—”

“I’m not taking it.”

I cut her off cleanly, pushing the document steadily back across the desk toward her.

“Chief, Eastgrove Publishing House is full of talented editors. If he genuinely wants to hand this book over to us, he can choose anyone — but it cannot be me.”

She was visibly stunned. “Do you realize what you’re turning down? This is a guaranteed bestseller delivered right to your desk.”

“I know,” I said, picking up my red editing pen. “But I don’t need anyone’s charity or belated performances to pave the way for my career.”

“Please decline the offer.”

The editor-in-chief stared at me for a long beat, clearly reading the absolute finality in my eyes. With a heavy sigh, she scooped up the document and turned to leave the office.

The following day, Eastgrove Publishing House issued a formal notification through official channels, politely declining Matthew’s exclusive authorization.

With that, the name Matthew Davis—along with his loud, spectacular displays of devotion—vanished entirely from my world.

Walking down the moonlit streets after work, I looked at the flat, open road stretching out before me, and stepped into a life that belonged completely to me.