They called me selfish. Immature. A jerk. Insensitive. Unreasonable. Someone who threw away a four-year relationship over a ring.
None of them understood.
It wasn’t the ring. It wasn’t the wedding. It was the truth behind his hesitation. If someone isn’t sure about you after four years, how long do you wait? Five? Ten? Forever?
Some people, thankfully, understood. A few of my friends told me they would have left after the first rejection. Others said they weren’t taking sides, but they understood why I walked away. Their quiet support kept me grounded.
A week after I left, I went back to our apartment one last time to get the rest of my things. Adrien wasn’t there. I was relieved. I didn’t want another emotional goodbye.
I packed everything, left my key on the counter, and closed the door behind me. No crying, no dramatic collapse. Just quiet.
Four years over, and it hurt like hell. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had done something that honored the part of me that still knew my worth.
When I walked out of that apartment for the last time, I didn’t feel free. I didn’t feel relieved. I didn’t feel empowered.
I felt heavy, like I’d swallowed a stone that settled deep inside my chest and refused to move.
I went back to Laya’s place. She’s the one who let me crash the night I left. She didn’t bombard me with questions. She just handed me a blanket, pointed to the couch, and said, “Sit. I’ll make tea. Cry later.”
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