After Seven Years, I Finally Chose Myself

The past eighty-seven times, he hadn't chosen me. This time would be no different.

After the engagement party ended, I walked my parents to their car.

The moment it pulled away, my phone lit up with a message from Winston.

In the chat box, again, there was only a single number. 2.

Of course. Every promise he'd ever made, he'd never once kept.

I thought back to all the times before.

My college graduation, the most important day of my life. I hadn't invited a single soul. My whole heart had just been waiting for him to come.

I waited in that auditorium an entire day. Afterward, he brushed it off, saying Michelle Henson had caught a cold and needed someone to look after her.

The day I received a national award. The spotlight fell on me, and the first thing I did was look toward the door. He wasn't there.

Later I found out he'd taken Michelle to watch the sunset and clean forgotten our plans.

Even the night he proposed, when he knelt on one knee, slid the ring onto my finger, and made his solemn vows.

In the end, he still left for Michelle. His reason never changed. Michelle was in a bad mood. He had to be with her.

Before, every time I saw that number 2, I'd call him over and over, send long, long messages, pour out every drop of grievance and unwillingness and rage I had.

But my messages sank like stones, and my calls went forever unanswered.

The instant Michelle started her countdown, the instant she started needing him, my love, Winston, would vanish into thin air, belonging completely to someone else.

Seven years. I'd made enough scenes. I was burned out.

This time, I didn't cry, didn't scream, didn't cling. I simply sent one calm line.

"The engagement party's over. Let's break up."

Winston didn't reply all night. There wasn't a ripple in my chest. I'd long since stopped being surprised.

In Winston's eyes, my hurt and my heartache, every emotion I had, none of it weighed as much as a string of countdown numbers in Michelle's chat box.

In those seven years, Winston had chosen me exactly once.

That day, just to keep him with me at Disney, I'd let selfishness win and deleted the countdown message Michelle had sent.

What I got in return was a phone call that same night. Michelle had slit her wrists and been rushed to the ER.

Winston, always so steady and unshakable, panicked for the first time.

His eyes were terrifyingly red that day. He pushed the car to seventy-five, racing to the hospital like a man gone mad.

When he learned I'd deleted the message, he raised his hand and slapped me hard across the face.

That slap shattered every last bit of hope I'd been clinging to.

After that, he never let me touch his phone again.

In those seven years with Winston, the truth was he'd never once chosen me on his own.

It was over with Winston, but my life still had to go on.

I got up as usual and went to work at the school.

But I'd barely reached the front gate when I saw them through the window of the bubble tea shop by the road. Winston, his arm around Michelle, sitting by the glass.

He ordered her favorite cake and the drink she always got, smooth and practiced, telling her gently to sit tight and wait for him until his class let out.

Before he left, he reached over and playfully tapped the tip of Michelle's nose.

That tender little gesture. I'd seen it countless times. Winston had done it to me countless times too.

The old me would have charged in, dumped the whole cup of bubble tea over Michelle, made her stay away from Winston.

But this time, I didn't want to fight. I didn't want to make a scene.

I just watched for two seconds, then turned to go. But the second I turned, a hand closed around my wrist.

It was Winston. He held my hand, his tone weary.

"You see me and don't even say hello. Are you still holding a grudge over me leaving the engagement party yesterday?"

"Michelle was in a bad place yesterday. You know that. She has depression. Can't you be a little more understanding with her?"