Too Late For Your Proposal

ie

e my pain. The phone would ring unanswered, or go straight to voicemail. I' d send desperate texts, paragraphs spilling out my fear, my hurt,

ing under a blanket of anxiety, he was out having the time of his life, basking in her adoration. The cold silence from him, the loud celebration from her – it was

s pain, however theatrical, was real to him. But it was a fraction of what I had endured. And I felt nothing for

't drag these poor men into our drama." I gestured to the movers, who stood awkwardly, waiting for the scen

pleaded, his voice a desperate whisper. "Are you really, truly sure you want to end

ords back at me, twistin

ifferent Ellie. A weaker Ellie.

quarely. "I am sure. I'm more sure than I

ar, always believing that if I just loved him enough, he would eventually see my worth. I had been so wron

ftening slightly, a gesture of peace, not surrender. "Let

ed. Bridget, sensing the finality of the moment, remained sile

filled with his heavy winter coats, the ones he'd worn on countless "guys' trips" where I was n

ing truck. His golf clubs, his collection of vintage vinyl records, his oversized gaming chair. Ea

towering bookshelf once stood now looked strangely vast. The empty

ace. The apartment, once our shared home, felt like my

ement, imagining our lives unfolding within these very rooms. Our first arguments, our tender reconciliations, the quiet evenings spent curled up on this very sofa. I had env

e this. With his things being hauled away by strangers, leaving behind an echoing si

as now too big for one, with a future that was sudden

ure, Ellie?" Mr. Henderson, our kind, elderly landlord, asked, his brow furrowed

r. Henderson. It's time for a fresh start." I shook