I stayed at my friend Laya’s place for a few days. I told myself it was space to think, to cool off, to maybe figure out if there was something worth salvaging. But deep down, I knew what this was. I knew there was no coming back from this.
The next few days were rough in ways I didn’t expect. I kept replaying everything in my head, trying to find the moment where things shifted. Trying to figure out if it was me. If I pushed too hard. If I moved too fast. If I loved him too much or not enough. If there was something broken in me he could sense, or something broken in him I couldn’t fix.
He called a few times. I didn’t pick up at first. I wasn’t ready to hear his voice saying my name in that soft way that always made me forgive him too quickly. Eventually, I answered one of his calls. We talked—sort of. Mostly silence. Mostly both of us breathing heavily into our phones, not knowing what to say.
He asked if I’d come home.
“I need more time,” I said.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d spent years waiting for him. And now, after the second proposal, after the garden, after the heartbreak, I was the one asking for time.
Not to decide if I loved him, but to figure out how to let go.
Then came the texts.
Oh God, the texts.
Not from him. From everyone else.
His friends. His parents. Even mutual friends we’d shared for years.
Apparently, he’d told everyone I dumped him because he wasn’t ready to get married. And of course, they all took his side.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
