My Betrothal Partner and the Secrets We Share

I looked up at the man in front of me, his gentle features softening under the dim light. My vision blurred as tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over. I didn’t understand why, but my chest felt tight, as though the air had been sucked out of the room. The ache was unbearable.

When Daniel saw my tears fall, he panicked. He fumbled to wipe them away, his movements clumsy and unpracticed. “Why are you crying? Did someone mess with you? Tell me the name and I’ll take care of them!” he said with a mix of urgency and concern.

Since childhood, Daniel had been the neighborhood bully. He was undisciplined and mischievous, always getting into trouble and his mother often chased after him, scolding or even beating him. In contrast, I had always been the frail one. Born prematurely, I grew up under the constant watchful eyes of my parents. They wouldn’t let me play outside with the other kids. I could only sit by the window, watching them run and laugh, longing to join.

Every time Daniel saw me sitting by the window while he played chase with the other kids, he’d sneak over, slipping me a handful of treats. He’d pinch my soft cheeks with a mischievous smile and whisper, “When can you come out and play with me?”

As I grew older, my health improved and by middle school, my parents finally relented and let me venture outside. Daniel was overjoyed—he was treating me as though I were made of glass. “Lenore,” he’d tell me solemnly, “if anyone dares to mess with you, just tell them my name. They won’t dare touch you.”

From then on, I was never alone. Daniel was always by my side, taking me wherever I wanted to go. If anyone so much as looked at me the wrong way, he’d show up like a storm, ready to shield me. He was my safe haven, my unshakable protector.

When we entered college, it felt natural for us to take the next step and become a couple. He grew even more attentive, showering me with a love so sweet and devoted it made me believe in forever.

Then Grace entered the picture.

She was everything I wasn’t—brilliant, beautiful and confident. She had a way of carrying herself that drew people in. She and Daniel were in the same major, sharing a connection I couldn’t understand. At first, Daniel tried to include me, translating their technical jargon so I wouldn’t feel left out. But eventually, he grew impatient.

“You won’t get it anyway,” he said one day, brushing me off. “Just go do your own thing.”

From that moment, their conversations deepened, ranging from class discussions to late-night chats online. They became inseparable, their connection undeniable. Meanwhile, the bond between Daniel and me began to strain. We grew more distant and our conversations became increasingly rare, reduced to nothing more than goodnight and casual greetings.

Friends tried to warn me, urging me to keep an eye on their growing closeness, but I waved them off. I told myself that even in a relationship, people deserved privacy. I trusted him—I trusted us.

But trust, I learned, could be a cruel teacher.

***

That night, Daniel insisted on staying, claiming he couldn’t leave me alone in such a state. His words were smooth, his tone carefully measured, but they rang hollow—like lines recited from a poorly rehearsed play. I stood there, studying him. After a long silence, I finally muttered, “Do whatever suits you.”

Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked toward my bedroom. His footsteps followed closely behind, but as he tried to step inside, I shut the door firmly in his face and turned the lock.

“Lenore,” his voice came through the door, soft yet insistent. “I’ll be right outside. When you’re ready to talk, just come and find me, okay?”

There was no anger in his words, no trace of the frustration I expected. That only made it worse.

I ignored him and hot tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping onto the backs of my cold hands. The sharp contrast burned, like an unrelenting reminder of the turmoil inside me.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, wrapping my arms tightly around myself as if to hold the pieces of me together. Daniel, I don’t want to love you anymore. The thought whispered through my mind like a quiet plea, both freeing and suffocating at the same time.

The next morning, I woke up groggy and disoriented, the weight of the previous night still pressing down on me. I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the dull ache spreading across my skull, before dragging myself out of bed.

As I stepped into the living room, I caught sight of Daniel hurriedly pulling on his jacket.

“Lenore, I have something urgent to deal with,” he said, his tone brisk. “I’ll come back tonight to pick you up. Let’s go out for dinner, okay?”

Before I could respond, he was already halfway out the door. By the time I blinked, he was gone.

I let out a slow breath, my eyes drifting to the sofa where he had spent the night. Something glinted on the cushions—his phone. He must have left in such a rush that he forgot it.

Picking it up, I hesitated. I thought about calling him later to return it, but before I could decide, the screen lit up with a notification.

Daniel hadn’t set a password on his phone and the message popped up clearly on the screen. What I saw made my stomach churn. My hands tightened around the phone as I stared at the message, my heart pounding in my chest.