1#01

1

Amanda Wright and I had been together for eight years, but on the evening we got engaged, she went out drinking with her former flame.

I witnessed them myself, entering a hotel together, their arms intertwined. I remained outside the hotel all night. The harsh wind left me frozen and further chilled my already aching heart.

The freezing temperature took its toll, and I became gravely ill, spending two weeks in the hospital. This sickness prevented me from seeing my grandmother one final time before she died.

When I questioned her, she replied, "It was just a casual drink with Jayden. Are you really going to blow this out of proportion?"

Her response shattered any remaining hope I had for our relationship. Feeling utterly dejected, I silently walked away from her.

But then she phoned, sobbing. "Yvo, are you actually going to end things with me?"

——

On our engagement night, I had set up 999 roses and a romantic dinner by candlelight, anticipating her return to celebrate. Time passed, but she never arrived.

I called her five times out of concern, but received no answer. Eventually, I saw her social media update—a picture taken at her preferred bar. The image showed two hands tightly clasped, both wearing identical couple rings.

The caption said: [A night to remember.]

Worried, I hurried to the bar, only to catch a glimpse of them leaving. Without hesitation, I followed.

I observed as they walked into a hotel, arms linked. It was then that I had to face the harsh truth.

The man beside her looked remarkably similar to me, even in his clothing style. Then I realized: my style had always been Amanda's choice.

Once, I had discovered a photo in her purse—a picture of a young man, looking innocent and youthful. That boy had now grown into a confident adult. It turned out to be that man.

When I had asked about it, she dismissed it as a memento from her past. But today, her "memento" had found its way to a hotel room.

Standing outside the hotel, I lacked the courage to confront her. All I felt was profound disappointment.

My phone vibrated with a message from her. [Working late tonight. Don't wait up for dinner.]

I let out a cynical chuckle. So this was what "working late" entailed.

Looking back, I now see how much of a poor substitute I was. In our relationship, I always yielded.

Her temperament was unpredictable, and when upset, she'd often lash out, sometimes even physically. Yet, I was always the one to seek forgiveness and make peace.

I used to attribute it to her personality. But now I understand—it was simply because she didn't love me.

I waited for five hours in the snow, only leaving as daylight broke. My legs were numb, and I fell into the snow, glass shards cutting my knees. Blood flowed freely, but I felt nothing.

At home, I destroyed the roses I had carefully prepared, scattering petals across the floor. They resembled the fragments of my broken heart.

I remained awake all night.

The next morning, Amanda returned as if nothing had occurred. Seeing the disarray in the room, she frowned, her voice laced with irritation. "What's the matter with you now?"

I gazed at her, overwhelmed with sorrow, but could only manage a weak whisper, "Where were you last night?"

Her eyes briefly revealed guilt before she regained her usual cold composure. "I told you, I was working late. It got too late, so I slept at the office."

I clenched my fists tightly. Taking a deep breath, I showed her my phone with a screenshot of her social media post.

Her face paled, panic flashing in her eyes, quickly replaced by anger. "You followed me?"

I let out a hollow laugh as I retorted, "Followed you? I just wanted to know why my fiancée didn't come home all night. Amanda, what do you think I am?"