Ten Years of Lies He Never Loved Me

Wilted roses, a November night, blurred streetlights.

I opened social media and posted the photo.

No caption.

After posting, I scrolled down and saw something Valentine had shared three hours ago. A group photo with his crew. He was in the middle, and Rosalie was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes curved into happy little crescents.

Caption: Old friends reunion.

I stared at those two words for a long time.

Old friends.

Oh. So she was an old friend.

Then what was I?

I kept scrolling, looking for some trace of myself. I scrolled for a long time. There was nothing. He had never once posted about me.

The only thing even remotely connected to me was from my birthday last year. He'd posted a photo of a dish I'd cooked.

Caption: Dinner.

Not even my shadow made it into the frame.

I put my phone away and walked down the overpass steps.

The wind had stopped. It felt like rain was coming.

I stood at the curb waiting for the bus. Fine threads of rain began to drift down, thin and cool against my skin.

My phone lit up again.

Not a call. A text.

Unknown number, but I knew who it was the second I saw it.

"Don't do this. Come home and we'll talk."

I stared at that word. Home.

The apartment we rented together. The curtains I'd picked out. The sheets I'd chosen. The dishes I'd bought. The pothos plant I'd kept alive on the windowsill. He called it home, but he spent half the month sleeping somewhere else.

I deleted the message.

Another one came through.

"She's really just like a little sister to me. I don't think of her that way."

Deleted.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you? I didn't even finish my drink before I ran out. It's raining."

Deleted.

"Can you just say something? Anything?"

Then the last one.

"It's been ten years. You're really just going to walk away?"

I stared at that line. Rain dotted the screen, blurring the words.

Ten years.

Yeah. Ten years.

And what ten years had earned me was his buddies calling Rosalie "wifey" while they teased them together. It was the way he'd looked away from me when I stood outside that booth. It was him laughing and playing around with her at the bar while I walked out carrying a cup of tea that had gone cold.

I typed. My hands were steady.

"Valentine, in ten years, what did you ever give me?"

Send. Block the number.

The bus came. I got on and sat in the last row, by the window.

The rain picked up, streaking down the glass in long, uneven lines.

I watched the city outside. Neon signs bled together into a smear of red and green and yellow, all of it running, running downward.

My phone was quiet.

I looked down and saw the post I'd just shared. A few people had liked it.

I tapped. A coworker. A college classmate. A couple of casual friends.

Not Valentine.

He never showed up on my feed.

But every single thing he posted, I'd liked.

I leaned against the window and closed my eyes.

One thought kept circling through my head.

He'd said she was just like a sister.

But in ten years, he had never once called me his girlfriend.

The rain came down harder.

The window was covered in water now, and the world outside dissolved into nothing, red and green lights all bleeding downward.

I pressed my forehead against the glass. The cold seeped in, and my temples throbbed.

Another text. Another new number.

"Are you coming back or not?"

I stared at those five words.

No "home." No "us." No "I'll wait for you."

Just are you coming back or not.

Like I'd asked him what he wanted for dinner. Like I'd just stepped out to grab something from the store. Like I was throwing some little tantrum and once the rain stopped, I'd slink back on my own.

I typed one word: "No."

Send. Block.

The bus lurched. My stop. I stepped off, and the rain hit me full in the face, drenching. I didn't run. I just walked.