Chapter 1: Shadows in the Feed

It was one of those perfectly ordinary days, the kind where the world feels muted, as if sound itself has been dialed down. The afternoon sunlight filtered through my curtains, painting pale stripes on the hardwood floor, and the faint hum of the fridge was the only noise in the apartment. Out of pure boredom, with nothing but the soft glow of my phone for company, I found myself typing Ethan Caldwell’s name into Instagram. My screen was quickly flooded with business news—Forbes, Bloomberg, all the usual big names. I scrolled through article after article, my thumb moving automatically, until I suddenly landed on his ex-wife’s Instagram account.

I knew it was her because the profile picture was unmistakable: the two of them together, smiling in a faded, Polaroid-style photo that looked like it belonged in a thrift shop frame. They looked impossibly young, their faces still round with youth, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, him in a college hoodie that hung a little too loose. Her public posts were sparse and mostly forgettable. In one, she’d reposted a food blogger’s restaurant recommendation and tagged an account, joking: “Ethan, let’s try this place!”

But that post dated back eight years. It was like stumbling onto a digital time capsule, sealed and untouched, carrying the weight of years gone by. Seeing it made my chest tighten, like unearthing a memory you never lived but can still feel lingering in the air.

That must have been Ethan’s old burner account—a throwaway profile he used for privacy, the kind some people set up to keep things separate. I clicked on it first. There was nothing left, just an empty, blank profile, probably deleted long ago. The absence felt oddly final, like reaching the end of a story and realizing the last page is missing. My stomach gave a little twist, remembering the first time Ethan mentioned deleting old accounts, and how he’d laughed it off like it meant nothing.

Then, almost without thinking, I tapped into his ex-wife’s Instagram. My thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than it should have, as if my whole body was caught between wanting to know and wanting to turn away. My mind spun: Was this crossing a line? Why did I need to see? The internal tug-of-war made my heart beat faster, a mix of guilt and anticipation warring inside me.

Why? Because I’m Ethan Caldwell’s girlfriend, and we’re planning on getting married. That thought usually sent a rush of excitement through me, but right now, it just made my hand tremble and my breath hitch in my throat.

I’d tried asking Ethan about his ex-wife before, always circling the subject instead of diving in. Each time, he’d clam up—his jaw would tighten, he’d look away, his shoulders stiffening—and I’d let the question fade. Eventually, I learned to stop asking, letting the silence settle over us like a layer of dust in a room no one visits anymore.

When Ethan and I started dating, he and his ex had already been divorced for almost three years. I struggled with that for a long time before finally saying yes to him. Lately, he’s been dropping hints about marriage—not an official proposal, but enough for me to believe we’ll probably walk down the aisle in a year or two.

I think every woman gets curious about her boyfriend’s ex, whether the breakup is still fresh or ancient history. We turn into amateur detectives, piecing together the past from whatever clues we can find—like listening to an episode of "Serial" or binging a true-crime show, searching for the missing pieces. So, with a secret thrill, I scrolled through her Instagram, letting myself indulge in the forbidden curiosity.

Her most recent post was from two years ago—just a simple like, no caption or comment. She’d all but vanished from social media. Still, I kept scrolling, determined to find her very first post. I didn’t realize how far back I’d gone until I finally hit the bottom. Her first post was from May 2011. I paused, then started reading my way up, one post at a time.

It was a living scrapbook from eleven years ago. Her captions painted a picture of someone who truly loved life—optimistic, bubbly, always surrounded by family, obsessed with astrology, a foodie who’d post every brunch, and the proud owner of two golden retrievers. She’d tag favorite coffee shops, rave about the latest season of "The Bachelor," and post Sunday selfies in her Yankees cap. Her background screamed privilege, but I wasn’t interested in that. I was searching for something else.

Finally, I found it: the first time Ethan Caldwell appeared on her Instagram.

Ethan Caldwell, eleven years ago. The photo was a little blurry, but you could still see his sharp jawline and those deep-set eyes—handsome, tall, just a younger version of the man I knew. They were sitting in a coffee shop—probably a Starbucks, judging by the green straw poking out of her drink. He was smiling at the camera, a smile so bright it cut through the blur. On the table: a cup of black coffee and a banana milkshake. Her caption read: “Iced Americano ❤️ Banana Milkshake.”

His iced Americano, her banana milkshake.

My heart gave a little squeeze. Honestly, I hadn’t expected them to look so normal, so happy together. I’d always assumed, from the rumors, that their marriage was just a strategic match between two well-off families. I never pictured them sharing the kind of simple, everyday happiness that comes from splitting a milkshake and laughing over inside jokes.

As I kept scrolling, a dull ache settled in my chest. Almost every post was a breadcrumb trail of their once-sweet love. After he took her out for burgers, she’d post a cute selfie, tagging him to say which dish she liked or didn’t like. When he was away on business, she’d tag him from afar, writing how much she missed him…

All those little moments pulled me back to eleven years ago, to a time when they were in love.

It was so vivid, it made my heart ache. I could almost hear the laughter echoing in their kitchen, the clink of coffee mugs on marble countertops, the shuffle and panting of two golden retrievers begging for scraps. The nostalgia was so strong, it was like the scent of fresh-baked bread or the warmth of sunlight on my skin—a physical weight pressing down on me.

This was Ethan Caldwell from eleven years ago—a version of him I never knew, who belonged to someone else.

There’s a big age gap between me and Ethan. He’s eleven years older than me. I’m a dance instructor. We first met at an industry conference in Chicago, at the Hyatt overlooking the river, where I performed during a break. Later, at dinner, he walked over, all polished charm, and asked if I’d like to dance.

Since he was the only one without a partner, I agreed and danced with him.

That was our first meeting. The music was a slow jazz number, something that wouldn’t be out of place in a Nora Ephron movie, and I remember how steady his hand felt on my back, how he matched my rhythm with effortless grace. He made small talk—asking if I’d seen the Bean yet or tried deep-dish pizza—but his eyes stayed focused, never wandering.

To be honest, a man at Ethan Caldwell’s age is at his most attractive: experienced, mature, composed, intelligent, and just a touch aloof—always attuned to his partner’s feelings, with that old-school courtesy you see in classic movies. And he’s easy on the eyes, with those deep-set, thoughtful eyes that make you feel like you’re the only person in the room. When he looks at you, it’s like being swept into a whirlpool.