Leaving The Man Who Never Chose Me

He was on the phone when I handed over my resignation.

He signed it without so much as a glance.

I stood there for a beat, and he pulled the receiver away from his mouth, impatient.

"Anything else?"

I shook my head slightly. "No."

At the end of the day, Greg pulled his car up to the building.

Out of habit I reached for the passenger door. My hand had barely lifted before I saw someone already sitting there.

"I'm taking Yolanda out for a bit," Greg said. "Catch your own ride home."

Then, hearing the chill in his own voice, he softened it.

"It's been cold lately. Head back early."

The words had barely landed before the car started and drove off in the opposite direction from home.

The rain came down all at once, fast and hard.

I stood at the curb for almost half an hour and couldn't get a ride.

In the end I wrapped my arms around myself and walked to the subway station through the downpour.

By the time I dragged myself back to the rental, I was soaked through, my arms and legs shaking with cold.

I reached for the light switch. The room stayed pitch black, no response.

Only when I turned on my phone did I see the whole complex had lost power.

Right then Yolanda's post popped up on my social media feed.

Two pictures. One was a beautifully furnished new house, a hundred times more presentable than this cramped little rental of mine.

The other was the property deed, printed with her name.

The caption read: The favoritism that belongs to me alone.

A chill slid under my skin and settled deep in my chest, colder than all the rain on my body.

I stared at the screen for a long while, then quietly tapped "like."

A second later, a notification popped up. My visa had gone through.

That was probably the only good news of the day.

Without hesitating, I opened the booking page and bought a flight to the US for the day after tomorrow.

By the faint glow of my phone, I quickly packed all of my luggage.

Not long after I finished, my phone lit up with a dozen messages in a row, all from Greg.

Only then did it hit me. The payment was tied to a bank card in his name.

"Why are you buying a plane ticket to the US?"

"You don't actually think that if you keep up the act, you'll really make it to Harvard, do you?"

"Cancel the ticket now. Wait too long and they'll charge a cancellation fee."

"..."

I looked at the messages on the screen and could only find it laughable.

Half a year of effort, and in his eyes it was nothing but a show I'd staged and starred in myself.

Then let the show go on.

I replied with a single line, "I'm not canceling," and right after, wired him the full cost of the ticket.

Greg didn't send another word.

For the next few days, he didn't come back to the rental at all.

I contacted the landlord to end the lease, settled the rent, got back my deposit, and mailed all my luggage to a hotel near the airport.

On my last day at work, I ran straight into Greg in the break room.

I kept my eyes down, pressing the buttons on the coffee machine, avoiding his gaze.

In the past, whenever we crossed paths on a break, I'd always be the one to come over and vent about whatever was bothering me at work.

But today I couldn't be bothered to say a single word.

I was just about to leave when I was yanked hard into an embrace.

Greg's breath brushed against the side of my neck, his tone gentle.

"Why so down lately? Having trouble settling into the new position?"

I said nothing, pulled free of him, picked up my coffee cup, and turned to go.

The moment I turned, my shoulder slammed hard into someone.

Scalding coffee splashed all over my clothes. I looked up and met Yolanda's eyes.

Yolanda cupped a small red burn on the back of her hand, her eyes instantly welling up.

Greg grabbed her hand and rushed her to the faucet, running cold water over it to cool the burn.

He whipped his head around and glared at me, anger held tight beneath his voice. "Happy now?"