Seven years together, and none of it measured up to three days with her.
At the end of it all, he was simply bored of me.
"Christopher, people change."
"But the thought of marrying you, the way you are now, makes me sick."
I crushed the cigarette out. My hands clenched tight, knuckles white, trying to hide the trembling.
Christopher's gaze swept over me, top to bottom, and he offered nothing more than a single flat sentence. "Give me one more year."
"I'm already thirty."
His step faltered. He half-turned, a smile playing on his lips that meant nothing kind. "So you do know you're thirty."
That sneer lodged in my chest like a needle.
I watched his back as he walked away, and all at once, I was done playing his game.
"Christopher, let's end this."
He didn't turn around. But he answered.
"You wouldn't dare."
I drew a long breath and sank into the couch. Even breathing felt tight.
He wasn't wrong. The old me wouldn't have dared. Or maybe it wasn't courage I lacked. It was that I couldn't stand the thought of giving up.
I'd imagined it countless times: if he didn't love me, what kind of woman would he love? And I'd told myself I could fight for it, compete, become that.