My Ex Proposed to Me on My Wedding Day

Gwyneth looked shy, but Gerard didn’t seem to care.

We bumped into each other right at the elevator.

I didn’t say much, but Gwyneth started fidgeting in his arms. Her face was bright red.

“Gerard, put me down already.”

Gerard frowned. “You’re hurt. Stop moving.”

Then, out of nowhere, he turned to me. “What are you doing here? Are you sick?”

I held up the bottle of medicine in my hand. “Just some insomnia.”

He paused like he was thinking. “I’ll have my assistant pick up some lavender. Put it in the bedroom; it might help.”

He was about to say something else, but the girl in his arms cut him off.

Gwyneth let out a soft whimper like a kitten.

The elevator kept going down—until suddenly, there was a loud bang, and it came to a dead stop.

The lights went out.

In the pitch black, I crouched down. My whole body started shaking.

I’m terrified of the dark.

Gerard didn’t forget. He called out to me. “Yvaine? Yvaine, are you okay?”

I choked out a shaky reply. “M-Mm-mm.”

“Gwyneth, get down for a second,” he said. “Yvaine’s scared of the dark…”

But Gwyneth started sniffling softly in the corner. “But I’m scared too, Gerard! Don’t let me down…”

Gerard didn’t say anything to me after that. His attention was all on her, soothing her in that gentle voice of his.

Meanwhile, my palms were clammy, and my body wouldn’t stop shaking.

This wasn’t the first time. Years ago, Gerard and I had been stuck in an elevator together.

The lights had gone out, and we were stuck between floors.

I was so scared I couldn’t even cry, just shook and broke into a cold sweat.

Back then, Gerard had held me. He’s a neat freak and hates any kind of mess, but that day, he hugged me so gently. No complaints, no disgust.

Just like how he was now—comforting Gwyneth.

“G-Gerard…” I whispered.

The darkness made me feel fragile; tears slipped down my cheeks.

I found myself craving the warmth of his arms again.

But then he shattered that small, stupid hope. He replied, “Gwyneth’s hurt…”

I didn’t say another word. Just buried my head in my arms and stayed quiet.

After what felt like forever, the lights flickered back on, and the elevator started moving again.

As soon as we hit the first floor, I staggered to my feet and rushed out.

When I got home, I was still in a state of shock.

Mom had sent me pictures of wedding dresses to pick from, but I couldn’t focus on them.

I just sat there, quietly watching the clock tick.

I don’t know how long it was before Gerard came back.

He walked in with a bouquet of lavender and a bag of takeout.

I opened it. A container of lobster bisque.

Gerard had forgotten I was allergic to shellfish.

He didn’t even notice. He just muttered an apology.

“You haven’t eaten yet, right? Eat this while it’s hot.”

I opened the lid and drank every last spoonful.

The hives broke out almost instantly, but I didn’t care.

“Come back for dinner tomorrow,” I said. “It’s your birthday.”

He froze, surprised, but then nodded quickly.

I got up and went to take some antihistamines.

Making a dish had never been my thing.

The only thing I’m halfway decent at making is birthday spaghetti.

But tonight, no matter what I did, it kept turning out wrong.

I didn’t want to waste it, so I forced myself to eat the failures.

I kept an eye on the time.

Once Gerard came home and had his birthday dinner, I’d leave.

For good this time.

But he never showed up.

Instead, he called.

“Gwyneth burned her fingers while cooking. I need to take her to the hospital,” he said. “You go ahead and eat without me.”

His lies have always been terrible.

My main Facebook account couldn’t see his updates anymore.

But my alternate account? It showed everything—a photo of him and Gwyneth standing by a cake, streamers floating in the background and frozen mid-air, and two of them smiling and holding hands.

“Hello? Hello?” Gerard’s voice brought me back. He was still on the phone.

I just let out a slow, shaky breath. “It’s… It’s okay. No rush.”

Then, from my alternate account, I liked his post.

I tossed the spaghetti straight into the trash.

Gerard doesn’t love me anymore.

Letting him go would probably make him happier anyway, so I dragged my suitcase out of the house.

On the way, I put together all the evidence of Gwyneth and Gerard’s years of flirting and posted it on my main Facebook account.

Plenty of our mutual friends would see it.

If I’m leaving, well, I’m not leaving quietly.

Before the plane took off, I sent Gerard one last message.

[Happy birthday. Goodbye.]

I didn’t even bother saying it was over.

Seven years of being together with no commitment—there wasn’t much to break up in the first place.

Even the abortions didn’t mean anything to him—just collateral damage in his mess of a life.

Right before I turned my phone off, the calls started flooding in, and I accidentally picked up one.