After Eight Years of Dating, I Ran Away From Marriage

Clearly, Vito’s friends hadn’t expected me to show up so quickly. One of them rushed over to pull him away from Lula, but Vito didn’t budge. He was dozing off, muttering through his drunken haze, “Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone.”

It was the first time I had ever seen him this drunk. His friend leaned in closer, whispering into Vito’s ear, “Constance is here to pick you up. Come on, man, you need to get up. And you’re gonna get married in three days, remember?”

The others moved in to help, prying Vito’s fingers away from Lula’s arm. With considerable effort, they finally managed to peel him off her. He slumped heavily into the couch, his face flushed.

His friend seemed relieved, then turned to me. “We need time to get him up, haha,” he said, rubbing his nape as if it could shake off the awkwardness. “Oh, this is Lula Wallace, one of our friends from college. She left the country during our second year, and she just got back today. It was just a coincidence that she could join us. Vito just had too much to drink… Don’t worry about it.”

If this had been in the past, I probably would’ve lost my temper right then and there—demanding to know why, knowing Vito and I were getting married, they’d invite Lula along, or why no one tried to stop him. But now, all I could muster was a tired, indifferent smile.

Lula’s eyes, however, were sharp, as though studying me with quiet amusement. Then Vito’s friend, clearly uncomfortable with the tension in the room, attempted to clarify my role in the night’s mess.

“This is Constance, Vito’s…” He paused before continuing, “…fiancée.”

“She’s just a friend!” Vito shouted abruptly. He, who was looking like a wet tablecloth and barely able to say coherent words, shouted that clearly.

Instantly, my fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeve, gripping so tightly that my nails bit into my palms. The pain was barely enough to steady the trembling in my hands. The room went dead silent. Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, avoiding my eyes.

This wasn’t the first time Vito had refused to acknowledge me publicly. I had already seen the signs—his refusal to post about us on social media, his reluctance to be seen together at work, and even his insistence on a private, low-key wedding without our families. Deep down, I had always known where we were headed. But I had been too stubborn, too unwilling to accept it, hoping that eight years of love would be enough to change his heart. Clearly, I’d lost that bet.

Keeping the smile plastered on my face, I turned to Lula and nodded politely. “Nice to meet you, I’m Constance Freeman, Vito’s friend. You’re even prettier in person than in the photos.” I tried to make my voice sound as casual as possible.

However, the tension in the room thickened, and no one dared say a word. Everyone exchanged uneasy looks.

Lula didn’t seem fazed, though. She simply smiled back, reaching for a piece of fruit from the table. But before her hand could close around it, Vito suddenly shot up from the couch, his voice filled with concern.

“Don’t eat that, Lula! You’re allergic to mango!”

Lula froze for a moment, staring at him, then chuckled softly. “My, my, aren’t just the same as you were ten years ago? It’s watermelon, silly. Why don’t you let her take you home? You’re so wasted.”

At that moment, it felt like something inside my heart shattered into pieces, jagged and painful. He remembered something as small as her mango allergy, even after a decade. But for eight years, no matter how many times I reminded him, he never remembered that I was allergic to seafood.

We had gone to seafood restaurants on countless dates. At first, I had been angry. Eventually, I gave in and compromised, convincing myself he was just too overworked to remember these things. But now I knew the truth—he wasn’t forgetful. He just didn’t care.

Every small detail tonight exposed just how little he had loved me all this time. With no expression on my face, I pulled Vito to his feet and helped him outside to catch a cab.

As we reached the lobby, Lula followed us out, her gaze soft as she looked at Vito, her lips curling into a gentle smile. She spoke to me, her voice sweet, as if offering helpful advice.

“Vito doesn’t handle alcohol well, and he’s allergic to the ingredients in most hangover pills. You should make him a cup of honey water when you get home. But don’t let the water temperature go above sixty degrees, or it won’t work. He’ll feel better after that. I’m afraid if you don’t deal with his hangover, he’ll wake up with a splitting headache tomorrow.”

Vito had never told me any of this—what he preferred or how to deal with a hangover. I gritted my teeth and turned to open the car door. But she wasn’t finished.

“Oh, and how about we exchange numbers?” she added. “So that you can ask me what to do if he feels unwell in the middle of the night. You’ll need to keep an eye on him—Vito tends to toss and turn a lot when he sleeps after drinking. If he kicks off the covers, make sure to put them back on him right away. Otherwise, he’ll catch a fever by morning.”

My nails dug so hard into my palm I thought they might draw blood, and my eyelids fluttered as I fought back the tears threatening to spill over. I stared at her innocent, wide-eyed face for a long moment before I finally nodded.

We exchanged numbers, and when I opened her profile, the background photo was a picture of her and Vito. It was from ten years ago—two young faces, eyes full of hope and determination, their fingers intertwined.

As the car door shut and the engine roared to life, the first tear slipped down my cheek. I had always scoffed at the idea of someone being another’s “first love,” that one unattainable love who lingers in their heart forever. I believed in the power of real love, the kind that could overcome anything.

But tonight, that belief wavered.