Thanks for Stepping Aside

Once again, abandoned on the way to get a marriage certificate, I felt dazed. Strangers passed by—couples, families with kids, and old couples supporting each other.

Their happiness felt like an insult, as if reminding me that Rolf Trivett didn't really love me, or he wouldn't keep leaving me behind over and over.

Tears spilled out before I could stop them. I lifted my head stubbornly and walked to a corner, breaking down into loud sobs.

Eight years—you don't get a lot of that in a lifetime. But my eight years of love had only been met with repeated lies.

Despite wearing my best clothes, I was the most broken person on the whole street. No one looked worse off than I did.

But I'd already faced this kind of brokenness nineteen times. This was the twentieth.

People always say the third time's the charm, but I'd been through more than that many times over, so this time, I allowed myself to cry and be broken one last time, and then never again.

"Are you okay?"

A little girl in a princess dress came over with a smile and offered me candy. My eyes blurred with tears, and for a moment, I felt like I was back on the day I first met Rolf.

Back then, my family was in crisis. My mother lay in the hospital, barely hanging on. I was hiding in a corner, wiping my tears, when Rolf appeared, handing me a piece of candy. He told me, "Don't cry. You'll get through this. One step at a time."

That candy was so sweet that I felt enveloped in it, and Rolf's comfort helped me through. My mother got better, and I started searching for him everywhere.

I always believed he brought me luck, that it was meant to be.

I stared at the candy and reached out my trembling hand to take it.

The candy tasted bitter, so bitter that it hurt deep inside.

It turned out that he was poison wrapped in sugar all along. I was just too stupid to realize it.

I forced a smile at the little girl. She waved and ran off, taking the piece of my heart she touched with her.

After I gathered myself to call a cab home, a notification popped up on my phone—a notification from Miranda Rowe.

She was Rolf's childhood friend. She'd posted a short update. [With you here, I don't feel so sad.]

The picture showed Rolf feeding her.

They seemed really in love.

I painfully shut my phone and turned toward a nearby little bar.

Over the years, I rarely drank. Rolf hated the smell of smoke and alcohol, and I had made sure that everything catered to his needs.

It turned out that he was very good at taking care of people, too—just not me.

As I downed one drink after another, the burn in my stomach grew, but my heart strangely calmed.

I raised my phone above my head. In the camera, my face was flushed, my eyes glassy, red, and puffy. I looked like a train wreck.

But I didn't care. I lifted my glass and took a photo.

[Here's to my last eight years.]

That was the caption I posted on social media with the photo, and many people had already sent their sympathy.

[Didn't get the certificate, huh?]

[Did he ditch you again? Don't worry, babe. I'm coming!]

[What's this? Why are you out late, acting crazy? Are you playing the victim just to get people to blame me?]

Mixed in with those messages were Rolf's insults. He didn't ask why I was drinking, nor did he care enough to tell me to cut back. Instead, he angrily scolded me, telling me not to "act crazy".

My mood sank. This wasn't the first time Rolf criticized me, but every time he did, the wounds only got worse.