Too Late For Your Proposal

Gavin

Modern | Completed

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My boyfriend, Carter, chose a ski trip with his manipulative "best friend," Bridget, after I gave him an ultimatum. "If you go, we're over," I had warned. He just laughed and told me not to come crying to him when I got lonely. But while he was gone, the stress of his silence and Bridget's taunting Instagram posts sent me to the hospital with a bleeding stomach ulcer. Lying in an urgent care bed, hooked up to an IV, I saw him liking her posts-pictures of them looking like a happy couple, with captions mocking me. He wasn't just ignoring my pain; he was actively endorsing it. In that sterile room, something inside me didn't just break; it turned to ice. The years of begging for his affection, of fighting for his attention, simply evaporated. So when he came home expecting his favorite dinner, I had a surprise for him instead. "We broke up," I said, pointing to the moving boxes that held every last trace of him. He pulled out a Tiffany bracelet, claiming he was going to propose. But it was too late. I had already called the movers.

Betrayal Divorce Rebirth Divorce Personal growth

Chapter 10

12-01 16:52

Chapter 1

But while he was gone, the stress of his silence and Bridget's taunting Instagram posts sent me to the hospital with a bleeding stomach ulcer.

Lying in an urgent care bed, hooked up to an IV, I saw him liking her posts-pictures of them looking like a happy couple, with captions mocking me. He wasn't just ignoring my pain; he was actively endorsing it.

In that sterile room, something inside me didn't just break; it turned to ice. The years of begging for his affection, of fighting for his attention, simply evaporated.

So when he came home expecting his favorite dinner, I had a surprise for him instead.

"We broke up," I said, pointing to the moving boxes that held every last trace of him.

He pulled out a Tiffany bracelet, claiming he was going to propose. But it was too late. I had already called the movers.

Chapter 1

Ellie POV:

The text flashed on my screen, a cruel joke wrapped in a Tiffany blue box. It was a picture of the bracelet I had always wanted, the one I' d pointed out in every window display for the past year, only to be met with a dismissive shrug from Carter.

"Coming over for dinner. Expect it to be ready," the message read, as if it were a royal decree.

My heart didn't clench, not like it used to. It just hummed a low, steady thrum.

It was almost funny, the brazenness of it. He' d casually tacked on, "Oh, and Bridget's joining us."

Bridget. Always Bridget. She was the shadow that had clung to our relationship, a constant, irritating buzz in the background that had finally escalated into a deafening roar.

Then came the next text, a separate one, because Carter always had to exert that extra bit of control. "Cook my favorite, you know the one. Don't disappoint."

Before I could even process the audacity, the phone call that undoubtedly led to these texts disconnected. Not a goodbye. Not a confirmation. Just a click, severing the connection, leaving me hanging.

But I wasn't hanging anymore. I was standing in the middle of our living room, the scent of fresh cardboard and packing tape replacing the usual lingering aroma of his cologne. His belongings, meticulously sorted and neatly folded, filled half a dozen moving boxes. Each one was labeled with his name in bold, black marker. This wasn't a game. This was real.

A small, bitter smile touched my lips. "Did you forget?" I typed, attaching a photo of the stacked boxes. "We broke up."

I hit send. No reply. Just the infuriating, self-assured silence I had grown to despise.

I continued to pack the last few items from the bathroom cabinet, his toothbrush, his rarely used shaving cream, into a smaller box. Each movement was deliberate, unhurried. There was no shaking in my hands, no tremor in my chest. Just a quiet, determined focus.

The sun had set, painting the windows in hues of bruised purple and deep indigo. I hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. The apartment, once filled with the warmth of shared laughter and the occasional heated argument, felt vast and empty in the deepening gloom. It was a space I was reclaiming, one box at a time.

Then, the familiar jingle of keys at the lock. Followed by a burst of lighthearted chatter, two voices, one deep and resonant, the other high-pitched and tinkling, echoing in the hallway.

Bridget' s laughter rang out, a little too loud, a little too close. "Oh, Carter, you're such a menace! Stop that!"

I heard the distinct sound of a playful shove, followed by Carter' s amused groan. It was the easy intimacy of two people who knew each other's body language, who had shared countless private jokes. I stood still, blending into the shadows, a witness to a scene I had already mentally rehearsed a thousand times.

"Come on, handsome, let's get you inside," Bridget purred, her voice dripping with an exaggerated affection that made my stomach churn. "Your poor Ellie has probably been slaving away all day for your royal majesty."

A faint smell of cheap perfume, Bridget' s signature scent, wafted through the crack in the door. I could almost picture her, leaning against him, her hand probably resting on his arm, her eyes sparkling with false adoration.

Carter chuckled, a sound that used to make my heart flutter, now just a dull pang of recognition. "She better have. I' m starving."

His voice was laced with a casual arrogance, assuming my compliance, my unwavering presence. It was the same tone he used when he expected his clothes ironed, his coffee brewed, his every whim catered to.

I took a deep breath, the air thick with anticipation. The moment had arrived.

"Ellie?" Carter's voice floated through the apartment, a question laced with impatience. "Honey, you here? Why is it so dark?"

There was a click, and the living room was suddenly bathed in the harsh, unforgiving glow of the overhead light. Carter stood framed in the doorway, a slight frown on his face, Bridget a little too close behind him, her arm still linked through his.

His eyes scanned the room, darting from the stacked boxes to the empty spaces where his possessions used to be. The frown deepened, confusion clouding his features.

"What is all this?" he demanded, his voice edged with disbelief. He gestured wildly at the boxes, as if they had materialized out of thin air. "Why do you have all my stuff packed up?"

Before I could answer, his gaze landed on me, standing silently by the kitchen counter, my face devoid of emotion. His confusion quickly morphed into anger.

"And where's dinner?" he barked, striding further into the room, his eyes blazing. "I told you I was coming over, and I'm starving! What kind of welcome is this?"

He didn't wait for a response, his eyes already sweeping towards the kitchen. He yanked open the refrigerator door, peering inside with an almost theatrical indignation. The fridge was bare, save for my few personal items.

"Are you serious?" he roared, spinning around to face me. "There's nothing in here! Not even a frozen pizza?"

Bridget, ever the opportunist, stepped forward, her hand gently touching Carter's arm. Her expression was a masterclass in feigned concern, her eyes wide with a manufactured sympathy. "Oh, Carter, honey, calm down. Maybe Ellie just had a long day. She probably forgot." She turned to me, her voice sweet as poison. "Ellie, darling, is everything alright? You know how much Carter was looking forward to this. He was even planning a special surprise, weren't you, sweetie?"

She squeezed his arm, her eyes flashing a triumphant challenge at me. Carter shifted uncomfortably, his anger momentarily deflated by Bridget' s sudden intervention.

My gaze flickered between them, a cold clarity settling over me. The performance was pitiful, almost laughable.

I took a step forward, my voice calm, even. "There's no dinner, Carter, because we broke up." I pointed to the boxes. "And those are your things. You need to take them."

My voice was flat, devoid of the emotion he probably expected, the tears he was used to. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the top box, a symbolic gesture of finality. This was it. The end of a very long, very painful chapter.