Ten Years of Lies He Never Loved Me

"What's that supposed to mean?" His voice dropped low.

"Exactly what it sounds like."

"Because she sat on my lap?" His pitch climbed. "I already told you, she was drunk and messing around. You wanted me to shove her off in front of everyone? I grew up with her. Her parents know my parents. You want me to—"

"I know."

"You know, and you're still acting like this?"

"I know she's your childhood friend." I kept my voice steady. "I know your families are close. I know she's different to you. I know your whole group calls her 'wifey.' I know all of that."

He went quiet.

"Valentine, do you even know what today is?"

Silence.

"November seventeenth."

Still nothing.

"The Flower Vendor day we got together was November seventeenth," I said. "Ten years ago."

The wind picked up, stinging my eyes. I blinked hard and kept walking.

"I bought hangover tea. I wanted you to take it easy on the drinking. I got to the door and saw the whole group, so I figured I'd wait a minute before going in. Then I heard them egging her on. Heard her climb onto your lap. Heard you laughing with her."

"She really was just—"

"You didn't push her off." My voice was flat. "You saw me. You frowned for half a second. And then you looked away."

Silence.

"In that moment, I thought," I said, "what if it were me? Sitting on another man's lap. What would you do?"

He didn't answer.

"You'd leave. You'd turn around without a word and walk out. Then you'd wait for me to chase after you, wait for me to beg you not to go, wait for me to cry and swear I'd never do it again."

I laughed. I didn't even know what was funny.

"But I can't do that. All I can do is stand there holding a cup of stone-cold tea, waiting for whenever you decide to glance my way."

"I never asked you to wait." His voice was muffled, tight.

"Right." I swallowed. "You never asked me to wait. You just never made us public. Never talked about a future. Never said you liked me. Never said you loved me. You just let me guess on my own, wait on my own, lie to myself on my own."

I stopped beside a trash can and pulled the phone away from my ear.

"Valentine."

"Yeah."

"Have I ever told you I love you?"

A pause. "…You have."

"How many times?"

"I don't remember."

"Every single day." My throat ached. "Every morning when I woke up. Every night before I fell asleep. When I could see you. When I couldn't. Every single day."

He said nothing.

"How many times have you said it to me?"

Silence.

"Not once."

I pressed the phone back to my ear. My voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Valentine, I'm done waiting for you."

Then I hung up. His name flashed on the screen, the phone buzzing with an incoming call. I swiped it away and blocked the number.

The phone went silent.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept walking. An overpass stretched ahead. I climbed the steps. Below, traffic surged in both directions, taillights bleeding together into a river of red.

Halfway across, an old man crouched beside a few bundles of wilting roses.

"Flowers, miss?"

I shook my head and walked past.

Two steps later, I turned back.

"How much?"

"A dollar."

I fished out the money and took a bunch. The roses were drooping, petals browning at the edges, but they still smelled sweet.

The old man pocketed the bill with a grin. "For your boyfriend?"

I looked down at the flowers in my hand.

"No," I said. "For me."

I walked to the other side of the overpass, held the bouquet up against the glow of a streetlamp, and took a photo.