When I Died on Love Anniversary

I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at Naomi’s camera. She was zooming in and out, admiring her perfect shots under the coconut tree. Every detail was flawless.

Noticing me looking, Naomi quickly clicked a few buttons and tilted the screen towards me. This time, the photos were of me—blurred focus, awkward angles. Each shot captured my embarrassment in full.

If this had been the old me, I’d have cried and made a scene, trying to get Mason to prove he loved me more. But now, I just felt humiliated and ridiculous.

I calmly took the camera from Naomi’s hands and started deleting those photos and with them, five years of memories.

Mason, seeing that I wasn’t making a fuss, felt a twinge of guilt. He rarely softened his attitude, but he took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders. “I’m sorry about the photos. I didn’t get any good ones. Did you bring a long skirt? I can take a few more shots after you put it on.”

I felt a mix of anger and disbelief. Did he really expect me to endure this date with Naomi and his lovey-dovey behavior, all while nursing my injuries?

Just then, a sweet fragrance surrounded me. I thought Naomi was too close until I noticed the jacket I was wearing. The cuffs were lined with long hairs that definitely weren’t mine.

Disgusted, I tossed the jacket to the ground. Naomi happened to come over with a Band-Aid and as she did, the zipper of the jacket scraped her ankle.

Mason thought I was trying to provoke him, so he grabbed the camera and slammed it into my chest. “It’s just a few broken photos. I already apologized. Do you really need to hit her?” he snapped.

He turned on me, saying, “You’re the one who pushed Naomi, who only tried to help by getting you a Band-Aid. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before acting like this!”

He then cradled Naomi’s foot, examining it carefully. It was just a minor scratch, but he seemed more concerned. Without a second thought, he whisked Naomi off to get a tetanus shot, leaving me behind.

I ended up taking a taxi to the hospital alone. The doctor checked my wounds and said they were contaminated with seawater and had debris in them, making them prone to infection. He recommended debridement surgery, which meant I’d need a week to recover.

So, I had to cancel my flight, which I had just booked. I looked at the calendar and realized that in seven days, I had to report back regarding the foreign exchange. Not long ago, my tutor had praised my research and recommended me for a study abroad program in the UK. Mason’s friend had even hinted at a romantic proposal, which made me decide to stay and marry him.

Now, I was grateful for this unexpected turn of events. It gave me a decent reason to bow out gracefully.

I had planned to leave tonight. But rushing off while injured, barely able to drag my luggage, felt too humiliating. Seven days—that was perfect. Enough time to sever ties completely and leave with some dignity.

After the surgery, I returned to the apartment I shared with Mason. I mentally mapped out my seven-day breakup plan, starting by tossing out old junk. The dusty couple’s water cups went first, followed by the couple’s shirts, tags still attached. They, like my one-sided love, belonged in the trash.

It was 1 a.m. and I was sorting through thesis papers when Mason suddenly walked in. I was a bit startled—mostly because, just an hour ago, he posted his first-ever Instagram post. The caption read, [I’ll never let you get hurt again,] with a picture of him on one knee, applying medicine to Naomi. The note section had exploded.

Most people were speculating about the mystery girl. A few mutual friends, however, jumped to the wrong conclusion.

[Mason and Jessica finally went public! Wishing you two the best!]

[This pose looks like a major hint!]

But when I refreshed it again, all I saw was the spinning loading symbol. He had probably blocked me.