The phone rang early in the morning. Emily, still half-asleep, heard Victor’s hoarse, nervous voice on the other end:
“Emily… I… I need to tell you…” He trailed off, as if searching for words. “I’ve thought about it… I’m not ready. Do you understand? Not ready to get married. I’m lost. I… I don’t even know what I feel for you now.”
Emily froze. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She forced out the words:
“You’re serious? A week before the wedding?”
“There won’t be a wedding,” he said flatly. Confidently, as if he’d rehearsed it.
“What?!” she gasped.
“I want to start fresh. My career, my goals. And you… you’ll find someone better. You deserve more.”
A click. He hung up.
Emily sat motionless. Then, as if in a dream, she stood, walked to the cupboard, and pulled out a bottle of whisky. Drank from the glass. No chaser. No taste. No thoughts.
And then… she screamed so hard the walls seemed to flinch.
Their story had lasted four years. It felt like love. Real love. A chance meeting—Emily had taken her laptop to a repair shop, and Victor fixed it. When he returned it, he asked for her number. A few days later, he took her on a date. She said yes. And it all began.
Six months in, he confessed: he wanted to move abroad. More opportunities there, he said.
“Will you come with me?” he’d asked, half-expecting her to refuse.
But she went.
Left everything—her job, friends, family. Because she loved him. Because she believed in him. Because he was her world.
He went first, to “get settled.” Met her at the airport—no flowers, no smile, no spark in his eyes.
“Aren’t you happy?” she whispered.
“Yeah, just tired. Stressed.”
He took her not to a flat but to a hostel, a room barely separated by a curtain.
“I thought you’d rented a place…”
“I did at first,” he muttered. “Then the money ran out. Couldn’t find work.”
Emily hugged him. Said they’d make it. And she started working. Not in her field—just wherever would take her. Cleaned, scrubbed, walked dogs. Took any odd job she could.
She even got him a position. Talked to a client, pulled strings. Victor got a chance.
Things improved. They got back on their feet. Rented a modest flat. Dreamed about the future. Talked about a family.
But Victor never stayed anywhere long. He kept getting fired. Emily carried everything alone. Back to the hostel, back to searching. She worked. He “found himself.”
“Vic, maybe enough?” Emily finally snapped one day. “We’ve lived like drifters for nearly two years. Back home, we had lives. Here, we’re just surviving. Let’s go back.”
He stayed silent. Then nodded. A month later, they were home.
Emily returned to her old job. They welcomed her warmly. Victor got hired on probation. He passed, grinning like a schoolboy.
Weeks later, he proposed: “Shall we register for the wedding?”
Emily glowed. They planned it all. She stayed with her parents—moving in together before marriage was unthinkable.
“My parents don’t believe in cohabitation,” she explained.
“And yet you flew abroad with me,” he smirked.
“I told them I was visiting a friend. Never admitted the truth.”
He laughed. She dreamed.
But soon, he got swept into another project. Two weeks without a call. Without a text. Then it hit him—he didn’t miss her.
“And I was about to marry her…” he thought. “But why? Forever? Is this what I really want?”
He made up his mind. Called.
After that morning, Emily took sick leave. Spent a week in bed. Cried. Barely ate. Barely lived.
Then came the anger.
“So he’s confused? Doesn’t know what he feels?” she whispered into the emptiness. “And me? I followed him to another country. Worked twice as hard. And he couldn’t even say it to my face. Over the phone. Coward.”
First pain. Then resolve.
“Good riddance!” she told herself. “He left me—not the other way around. That’s even better! The groom ran off? His loss, not mine! Now I know: I come first. No more sacrifices. Only forward. Only me.”
She stepped outside. The city was in bloom. Spring sang at every corner. Emily walked—and smiled for the first time in ages. The sun shone just for her.
Yes, the memories lingered. The tears. The questions without answers. But she didn’t call. Didn’t beg. Didn’t plead.
“Enough,” she repeated. “He was a lesson. Thank you for that. I’m stronger now. I’m smart. I’m beautiful. My whole life’s ahead. Just keep walking. No looking back.”
Months later, she gathered all his gifts, photos, little keepsakes. Packed them in a box. Tossed them by the bins.
“Time to tidy up,” she told her mum with a smile.
And Victor?
He’s just… living. Heard he’s job-hunting again.
