That first night, I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Adrien’s face—confused, afraid, not fighting for me, not choosing me. Or worse, choosing me only because I was walking away.
And then came the questions—not out loud, inside my head, looping endlessly.
Did I ruin everything?
Was I too impatient?
Should I have waited?
Was I right to leave?
Was I wrong to ever propose in the first place?
The next morning, my phone buzzed non-stop. At first, I thought it was Adrien, but it wasn’t. It was everyone else.
His mother. His sister. His cousins. Friends I’d known for years. Co-workers of his who had my number from past events.
All of them saying some version of the same thing:
I heard you dumped him because he wasn’t ready.
Four years and you just walked away?
You’re really going to throw everything away over timing?
He loved you. Don’t you get that?
You broke him.
I stared at the messages until they blurred. I didn’t respond, because responding meant explaining everything—the beach proposal, the garden proposal, the quiet “not ready,” the absence of certainty—and no one seemed interested in understanding my side. They wanted to assign blame, and I was the easiest target.
That afternoon, I got a text from an unknown number.
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