I didn’t confront Ethan.

That was the first thing I did differently.

For three years, every time he hurt me, I demanded an explanation.

This time, I gave him silence.

My parents’ flight to Vancouver was scheduled for Friday.

I changed my ticket to the same one.

Then I went home, packed everything that actually belonged to me, and submitted the documents necessary to transfer my remaining university matters.

I blocked Ethan’s friends.

But I didn’t block Ethan.

Not yet.

I wanted to know how long it would take him to notice I’d stopped chasing him.

Apparently, three days.

On Monday morning, he texted:

“Why haven’t you asked about my recovery?”

I stared at the message.

Then deleted it.

An hour later:

“Olivia?”

That evening:

“Are you angry?”

The next day, he called.

I didn’t answer.

Then Bella contacted me.

“Ethan told me what happened. Don’t take those jokes seriously. He was only trying to teach you a lesson.”

A lesson.

Ninety-six humiliations.

Three years.

And somehow they still believed I was the unreasonable one.

I saved the message.

Thursday night, Ethan appeared outside my apartment.

When I opened the door, he frowned at the boxes behind me.

—Where are you going?

—Canada.

He actually laughed.

—Stop joking.

—I’m not.

His expression changed.

—Because of the hospital?

I looked at him.

That was when he realized I knew.

—You heard us.

It wasn’t a question.

—Enough.

—Olivia, listen—

—Was the accident fake?

Silence.

—Yes.

—Was the blood donation part of revenge number ninety-six?

His jaw tightened.

—It wasn’t supposed to go that far.

I almost smiled.

—You arranged it.

—My friends exaggerated things.

—Did you arrange it?

Finally:

—Yes.

Something in my chest went quiet.

—Thank you.

He stared at me.

—For what?

—For telling the truth once.

I closed the door.

His hand stopped it.

—You’re really leaving me over this?

I looked at him in disbelief.

—No, Ethan.

I gently removed his hand.

—I’m leaving because our entire relationship was built to punish me for winning a dance competition.

His face hardened.

—Bella was devastated because of you.

—Because I won?

—You humiliated her.

—I performed better that night.

I shook my head.

—I didn’t cheat. I didn’t sabotage her. I didn’t insult her.

For the first time, Ethan had no answer.

—She lost a competition, Ethan.

I looked directly into his eyes.

—So you decided I should lose three years of my life.

He whispered:

—I didn’t expect you to fall in love with me that much.

That sentence hurt more than I expected.

But it also freed me.

—And I didn’t expect the person I loved to enjoy hurting me.

I shut the door.

The next morning, I left.

At the airport, Ethan called twenty-three times.

Then came a message.

“Revenge ninety-seven: disappearing to scare me?”

I read it once.

Then blocked him.

Vancouver became my second beginning.

It wasn’t magical.

I didn’t wake up healed.

For months, certain sounds brought back memories.

Rain reminded me of searching for his bracelet.

Hospitals reminded me of the lie.

Dance music reminded me of Bella.

So I returned to the one thing they’d convinced me to hate.

Dancing.

I joined a small studio.

The first time I stepped onto the floor, my hands trembled.

Then the music started.

And I remembered something important.

Before Ethan, dancing had belonged to me.

Two years later, I completed my degree.

Three years later, I began working with a performing arts organization while teaching younger dancers on weekends.

My life became full again.

Not because another man replaced Ethan.

Because Ethan stopped occupying every corner of it.

Back home, his little revenge game collapsed.

One of his friends eventually admitted that the hospital stunt had gone too far.

Another apologized.

Bella sent me a long message explaining that she’d never asked Ethan to spend years punishing me.

I believed part of it.

But I didn’t need to decide who deserved how much blame.

I simply stopped participating.

Ethan didn’t.

He emailed from new addresses.

On my birthdays.

At Christmas.

On the anniversary of the dance competition.

For years, I never replied.

Then, seven years after I left, I returned to my old city for a national arts program.

Ethan was waiting after the event.

He looked older.

Quieter.

—Olivia.

I stopped.

—Hello, Ethan.

His eyes searched my face.

—You knew I might come?

—No.

That seemed to hurt him.

Once, my entire world had revolved around predicting where he would be.

Now I hadn’t even considered him.

He swallowed.

—I owe you an apology.

—Yes.

He almost smiled sadly.

—I deserved that.

Then he told me something unexpected.

He had kept a list.

All ninety-six “revenges.”

He had written beside each one what it had actually cost me.

Missed graduation.

Illness.

Lost opportunities.

Humiliation.

Fear.

Trust.

—By the time I reached the end, I couldn’t understand who I’d been.

I looked at him calmly.

—You were someone who thought another person’s pain could prove your loyalty to Bella.

He lowered his eyes.

—Can you forgive me?

I thought for a moment.

—I stopped hating you years ago.

Hope flickered across his face.

I finished:

—But that doesn’t mean you get me back.

He nodded slowly.

—I know.

Then he asked:

—You never gave me revenge ninety-seven.

I smiled.

—No.

—Or ninety-eight.

—No.

—Ninety-nine?

I shook my head.

Ethan looked confused.

—Then I guess the game never finished.

I picked up my bag.

—It did.

He looked at me.

I smiled one last time.

—You spent three years planning ninety-nine ways to make me regret defeating Bella.

I stepped toward the exit.

—But there was only one revenge I ever needed.

—What?

I turned back.

—Living so well that one day I could stand in front of you and feel absolutely nothing.

Then I walked away.

That was revenge number one hundred.

Except it wasn’t really revenge at all.

It was freedom.