I Love A Guy, But He's 15 Years Older

Now, all of it—those things and those memories—is going to be buried by me.

Over the years, Ulysses gave me so much. Designer bags, limited-edition sneakers, luxury watches—each one expensive. I listed them all on a secondhand marketplace, slashing the prices by half.

“They’re useless to me now,” I told my reflection, trying to sound convincing. “It’s not like I’ll ever get gifts like these again anyway.”

Soon, a buyer started reaching out. They wanted to know why I was selling them so cheaply. I just said I needed the money. But honestly, I just wanted that stuff gone. It felt like if I got rid of the things, I could get rid of the feelings, too—the ones I shouldn’t have had in the first place.

Late that night, I heard a car engine outside.

When I looked out the window, there they were—Ulysses and Ginger coming home together. They were talking and laughing. It was the kind of warmth that could shatter you if you let it.

I shut the curtains, shoved on my headphones, and went back to practicing my farewell ballet dance. The music drowned out their voices—and muffled the sound of me crying.

When I couldn’t move anymore, I lay flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Just a week left before I leave. I had to perfect this dance. It’s my last one here, my way of closing the chapter.

My phone buzzed—it was one of the buyers asking about the stuff I listed. I replied to each message and set up the transactions for tomorrow. Once all of that’s done, I’ll be completely free of it all.

Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Another late night found me in front of the rehearsal room mirror, going over the moves again and again. My clothes were soaked through with sweat, but I didn’t want to stop.

Stopping meant letting it all hit me—the pain, the anger, the sadness. Instead, I poured everything into the dance. Let the music carry it all away.

That’s how I’m saying goodbye. One last dance to leave behind this state, this villa, and the man I loved for so many years.

And he’ll never know how much of my words are behind this dance.

The day before I was set to leave was my 18th birthday.

Every other year, Ulysses would take the day off to celebrate with me.

We’d go to the amusement park, eat way too much ice cream, and make wishes under the night sky.

But this year? Different story.

When I woke up, I got a text from him.

[Gotta take Ginger to try on wedding dresses today. We’ll celebrate your birthday another time. Sorry.]

I stared at the message until my eyes started to sting.

I should’ve seen it coming. Their wedding’s next month, and of course, they’re busy.

I went downstairs, and the dining table was empty.

Usually, by this time, he’d have breakfast ready for me. Smiley-face eggs, little bear-shaped toast—my favorite.

But today, I poured myself a glass of milk and bit into some plain bread.

Then the housekeeper walked up with a cake box in her hands. “Miss, Madam had this ordered for you.”

I looked at the fancy box and let out a laugh. So, someone in this villa still remembered my birthday.

Inside was a simple cream cake. On top, in chocolate, it said: [Happy 18th Birthday!]

I sat at the table, staring at it.

Eighteen. Legally an adult. But I’d never felt more fragile in my life.

My phone buzzed again. It was a text from Aunt Petunia.

[Happy birthday, sweetie. Ready to leave?]

I sent back a smiley face and started packing.

I’d already made my decision. No point lingering any longer.