Not sure.
Something inside me froze.
And that’s when it hit me. Not like a slap, but slowly, like water filling a room you didn’t notice was flooding.
He didn’t mean he wasn’t ready for marriage.
He meant he wasn’t sure about me.
Not us.
Me.
The realization was so quiet, so simple, I almost missed it. But once it landed, it sat there, heavy and immovable.
I leaned back into the couch, staring at him.
“Are you ever going to be sure?” I asked.
He looked up at me, and for the first time in four years, he didn’t have an answer. He didn’t even try. He just stared at his hands, shoulders caving in, saying nothing.
That was the moment I knew. Not because I wanted to. Not because I was ready. But because staying meant signing up for a lifetime of waiting—of hoping one day he’d wake up certain.
I couldn’t do that.
I stood up.
“I can’t keep doing this,” I said softly. “I love you. I do. But if you’re not sure about me by now, you never will be. And I’m not going to wait forever hoping you’ll change your mind.”
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