Why Does The Protagonist Leave In 'From The Corner Of The Oval'?

I gave him nine years. Nine years of stretching every coin, raising our son alone, sleeping on my side of the bed because I could not bring myself to take his. Nine years of telling Dave his father was working hard so they could have a better life. I believed it myself. Until I saw him on a public street with his hand on another woman’s waist, looking at her the way I spent nine years waiting for him to look at me. When he crossed the pavement it was not to apologise. It was to tell me she was his wife. Six months married. He told me to keep things calm, walked back to her, and introduced me as his cousin. The divorce papers came that same night. I needed a job immediately. For my son. For the bills that would not wait for me to finish falling apart. So I pulled myself together the way I always do and kept moving. I did not expect Mac Harlow. I did not expect him to run three blocks to return my dropped folder or offer me a job despite his sister’s calls to have me removed. I did not expect his daughter to find my son within ten minutes and decide they were already family. I did not expect to discover that the man I was starting to trust was connected to everything I was trying to leave behind. He did not know. I believe that. But Marshall knows now that someone else sees what he threw away. And he wants it back. He is nine years too late. Mac is looking at me like I am worth staying for. Not fixing. Not managing. Staying for. I spent nine years being someone’s afterthought. Never again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

During a typhoon alert, Joyce Lane calls me and tells me to pick her up from her company. On the way there, I receive a text from her. "You don't have to pick me up anymore. I'm going to stay over at Fin's place for a few days." I opt not to start anything with her. Instead, I calmly text back, "Okay." In the middle of the night, Finley Jones, Joyce's junior at work, uploads a social media post that's meant for my eyes only. Joyce can be seen huddling against Finley while feeding him some snacks in the photo. The window outside depicts a storm. The caption writes, "It's only befitting for me to tide out the worst weather with the woman I love the most." I leave a like on the photo calmly. Suddenly, Joyce calls me and demands what that like means. I reply coolly, "It means we're breaking up."

Every April Fools' Day, my boyfriend joined his childhood friend in the same cruel prank, pretending to propose to me. Last year, I slipped the ring onto my finger, my heart full of hope. Suddenly, the mechanism snapped tight. Pain shot through my hand, and I cried out. He apologized afterward and promised that, this year, the proposal would be real. As such, I arrived carefully dressed, believing him. Instead, I was met with a face full of cake. He reached out gently, wiping the cream from my face as if it were nothing more than a harmless joke. However, this time, I took a step back. After six disappointments, I chose to walk away. So why was it that, in the end, he was the one consumed by regret?

After I got a second chance at life, I stopped bringing lunch to my wife, who had become the factory manager. She would leave for meetings through the south gate, so I would sneak around through the north. In my previous life, I knew she only married me with an ulterior motive, but I still fell for her. I thought I could warm her heart over time. However, Shirley Scott was always just polite to me, nothing more. When I tried to get close, she would hand me a book and say, "Read more so people won't look down on you." Once, with a bit of liquid courage, I hugged her. Yet, she just stood there, stiff as a board, and said, "It's what married folks do." Years later, as I was dying, I read her memoir and learned about how she felt trapped in our marriage, like being stuck in the mud. She hoped she would never have to be with me again in another life. That hurt more than anything. However, then, I woke up and discovered that I was back to when there were whispers about her and the factory's technician. This time, I did not make a scene. I just asked for a divorce.

'Since when did so much hate become affection, no, NEED' Callum Reyes has spent his entire life earning his place. A scholarship wide receiver at Crestfield University — one of the most elite football programs in the country — he knows exactly what he is to the people here: a charity case with fast legs and a GPA they didn't expect. He keeps his head down, his grades up, and his heart locked behind something no one has ever bothered to pick. Then there's Jaxon Whitfield. Quarterback. Team captain. Golden boy of Crestfield's football dynasty. Jaxon is everything Callum isn't — legacy money, a famous last name, and a jaw that could cut glass. He's also, by every measurable standard, the most infuriating human being Callum has ever been forced to share oxygen with. From the first day Callum stepped onto that field, Jaxon decided he was a problem. Too fast. Too good. Too'there.' He rides Callum harder than any other player, gets under his skin in ways that shouldn't be possible, and looks at him with those dark green eyes like Callum is something he can't figure out — and hates himself for trying. But when a career-threatening injury, a locker room secret, a rivalry that's starting to feel like something else entirely, and one night neither of them planned for collide — Callum and Jaxon have to reckon with something they were never supposed to feel. 'Offside' is a slow-burn, enemies-to-lovers MM sports romance about two young men learning that the person who makes your blood boil might just be the person setting you on fire. It's about class and legacy, found family and loneliness, the weight of expectation, and what happens when the one person you want to hate is the only one who actually'sees' you.

I finally scored the World Cup tickets my fiancé, Louis, had been dying to get. I was thrilled and about to tell him the good news when I overheard his friend talking to him: "Skyler turned down a design gig at Milan Fashion Week just to be with you, and now you’re giving the ticket to Monica? That’s a dick move, man." Louis just chuckled, his tone dismissive. "Watching it with her is boring. You know I’m used to having Monica around for every World Cup." So he had already gotten tickets, and he never planned on taking me. The realization hit me then: for the past twelve years, every single World Cup, he had been by Monica’s side. Every time their team scored, she was the first person he hugged to celebrate. Back then, he would coax me: "Monica and I grew up together. I’m just used to it—she was around long before you were. Don't be mad, okay? Next time, I promise it’ll just be you and me." Suddenly, I just felt exhausted. I tore up the tickets, canceled our marriage registration scheduled for next month, packed my bags, and booked a flight back to my hometown for the very next day. This time, I was the one walking away.