My boyfriend, Vito Sims, and I had been together for eight years. Three days before our wedding, I stumbled upon something that shattered our relationship—I found thousands of photos of another woman on his computer. In that exact moment, I booked a plane ticket to leave the country, dated for our wedding day.

The wedding went smoothly, though; Vito played his role so well it was as if nothing had happened. When he discovered I was missing from the party, he went crazy looking for me.

——

“Mr. Greer, I was wondering if that overseas training position we talked about is still available. I’ve made up my mind—I’m ready to take it.” My boss, Damon Greer, sounded pleased with my decision.

“That’s great. I’ll submit your information now. But didn’t you say you were getting married? Don’t you need time for a honeymoon?”

“Don’t worry about it. The wedding’s off.” There was a slight tremor in my voice, and I hung up quickly before he could notice the emotions I was trying to bury.

My eyes drifted back to the computer screen, staring blankly at the thousands of photos of that woman.

After we graduated, Vito and I both started working at the same company, though we ended up in different departments. Tonight, he was out with friends, celebrating his bachelor party, and he’d turned off his phone.

His boss called him repeatedly, asking for an important document—a proposal for their new project. When he couldn’t reach Vito, he called me. That was the moment when everything fell apart. As I searched through his computer for the document, I stumbled upon something I never expected: those pictures. Thousands of photos of another woman, her smile captured in every frame.

Memories from the past rushed back, overwhelming me. We had been together for eight years, and yet not a single photo of me was on his phone. Not one picture to show we had a life together. There was no proof of our relationship.

Every time I cried and asked him about it, he would say we saw each other every day, so there was no need to save pictures for memories. But now, staring at those photos, it finally hit me. It wasn’t that he didn’t think keeping photos was important—I just wasn’t important to him.

For eight years, I had made excuses for his indifference. Now, standing there, I realized how foolish I’d been, holding onto something that had never really existed.

Another memory flashed in my mind—something one of his friends had let slip when they found out we were getting married: “I thought you’d stay single for Lula. Are you really going to get married? You’re not just doing this out of spite, right?” He chuckled then.

At the time, I hadn’t noticed the panicked look in Vito’s eyes. He patted his chest and confidently replied, “No, we’re doing this for love.”

Now, those words rang hollow, and I no longer had the confidence to believe them. Taking a deep breath, I closed the computer.

I opened my phone, intending to tell Vito that I wanted to break up, but then I noticed he hadn’t even replied to my message from the day before about choosing my wedding dress.

I clicked into his social media page, and my heart sank. His profile was a black void—no posts, nothing but a single word beneath his profile picture: [Waiting.]

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I collapsed onto the couch. All this time, I had thought Vito’s quiet nature meant he was just bad at expressing himself; now I realized how naive I’d been.

I had asked him countless times about the meaning of that word written in his Instagram bio, but he had never answered. But now, I knew what it meant.

Three days left until our stripped-down wedding. I had set the countdown as my phone’s wallpaper, a constant reminder of the clock ticking down.

As I watched the seconds tick away on the screen, I rubbed my tired eyes, fighting back the overwhelming exhaustion. Just as I was about to book my flight, Vito’s friend called.

“Constance, Vito’s drunk. Can you come pick him up? I’ll send you the address.”

In the background, I could hear a familiar voice. It was hoarse, definitely from the alcohol. He mumbled and shouted at some point, “Lula, I love you!”

My heart tightened. The person on the phone hurriedly closed the speaker, and I heard the muffled sound before they hung up.

I shook my head, trying to push away the emotions I shouldn’t have, quickly changed, and walked to the door. Leaning against the shoe cabinet to put my shoes on, I noticed it: the couple’s keychain I had chosen so carefully sat on the cabinet. That part was Vito’s.

I had gone to a cute souvenir shop that took custom design orders. I picked the design carefully, making sure it matched our personalities and represented our relationship. He had called it childish, so he never wanted to use it.

Angrily, I picked up the keychain and tossed it in the trash. Then my eyes fell on the couple’s mugs beneath the coffee table, still sealed in their box, untouched. It was as if they were mocking me, witnesses to my one-sided fantasy. Annoyance and frustration surged inside me. I took off my shoes, stormed back in, grabbed the trash can, and threw away all the couple’s items we owned.

Once I was done, I hailed a cab to the address his friend had sent.

When I reached the designated room, laughter and conversation spilled from inside.

“By the way, Lula, what’s the deal with your homecoming? Did you hear Vito’s getting married and decide to change your mind? Still got feelings for him?” someone teased, and the room erupted in laughter.

I took a deep breath, forced a smile onto my face, and pushed the door open. As I walked in, all eyes were on me; the laughter instantly died, replaced by awkward silence. And there he was, the man I was supposed to marry in three days, lying comfortably in the arms of another woman—a woman whose face I had just seen in the thousands of photos on his computer.

Clearly, Vito’s friends hadn’t expected me to show up so quickly. One of them rushed over to pull him away from Lula, but Vito didn’t budge. He was dozing off, muttering through his drunken haze, “Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone.”

It was the first time I had ever seen him this drunk. His friend leaned in closer, whispering into Vito’s ear, “Constance is here to pick you up. Come on, man, you need to get up. And you’re gonna get married in three days, remember?”

The others moved in to help, prying Vito’s fingers away from Lula’s arm. With considerable effort, they finally managed to peel him off her. He slumped heavily into the couch, his face flushed.

His friend seemed relieved, then turned to me. “We need time to get him up, haha,” he said, rubbing his nape as if it could shake off the awkwardness. “Oh, this is Lula Wallace, one of our friends from college. She left the country during our second year, and she just got back today. It was just a coincidence that she could join us. Vito just had too much to drink… Don’t worry about it.”

If this had been in the past, I probably would’ve lost my temper right then and there—demanding to know why, knowing Vito and I were getting married, they’d invite Lula along, or why no one tried to stop him. But now, all I could muster was a tired, indifferent smile.

Lula’s eyes, however, were sharp, as though studying me with quiet amusement. Then Vito’s friend, clearly uncomfortable with the tension in the room, attempted to clarify my role in the night’s mess.

“This is Constance, Vito’s…” He paused before continuing, “…fiancée.”

“She’s just a friend!” Vito shouted abruptly. He, who was looking like a wet tablecloth and barely able to say coherent words, shouted that clearly.

Instantly, my fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeve, gripping so tightly that my nails bit into my palms. The pain was barely enough to steady the trembling in my hands. The room went dead silent. Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, avoiding my eyes.

This wasn’t the first time Vito had refused to acknowledge me publicly. I had already seen the signs—his refusal to post about us on social media, his reluctance to be seen together at work, and even his insistence on a private, low-key wedding without our families. Deep down, I had always known where we were headed. But I had been too stubborn, too unwilling to accept it, hoping that eight years of love would be enough to change his heart. Clearly, I’d lost that bet.

Keeping the smile plastered on my face, I turned to Lula and nodded politely. “Nice to meet you, I’m Constance Freeman, Vito’s friend. You’re even prettier in person than in the photos.” I tried to make my voice sound as casual as possible.

However, the tension in the room thickened, and no one dared say a word. Everyone exchanged uneasy looks.

Lula didn’t seem fazed, though. She simply smiled back, reaching for a piece of fruit from the table. But before her hand could close around it, Vito suddenly shot up from the couch, his voice filled with concern.

“Don’t eat that, Lula! You’re allergic to mango!”

Lula froze for a moment, staring at him, then chuckled softly. “My, my, aren’t just the same as you were ten years ago? It’s watermelon, silly. Why don’t you let her take you home? You’re so wasted.”

At that moment, it felt like something inside my heart shattered into pieces, jagged and painful. He remembered something as small as her mango allergy, even after a decade. But for eight years, no matter how many times I reminded him, he never remembered that I was allergic to seafood.

We had gone to seafood restaurants on countless dates. At first, I had been angry. Eventually, I gave in and compromised, convincing myself he was just too overworked to remember these things. But now I knew the truth—he wasn’t forgetful. He just didn’t care.

Every small detail tonight exposed just how little he had loved me all this time. With no expression on my face, I pulled Vito to his feet and helped him outside to catch a cab.

As we reached the lobby, Lula followed us out, her gaze soft as she looked at Vito, her lips curling into a gentle smile. She spoke to me, her voice sweet, as if offering helpful advice.

“Vito doesn’t handle alcohol well, and he’s allergic to the ingredients in most hangover pills. You should make him a cup of honey water when you get home. But don’t let the water temperature go above sixty degrees, or it won’t work. He’ll feel better after that. I’m afraid if you don’t deal with his hangover, he’ll wake up with a splitting headache tomorrow.”

Vito had never told me any of this—what he preferred or how to deal with a hangover. I gritted my teeth and turned to open the car door. But she wasn’t finished.

“Oh, and how about we exchange numbers?” she added. “So that you can ask me what to do if he feels unwell in the middle of the night. You’ll need to keep an eye on him—Vito tends to toss and turn a lot when he sleeps after drinking. If he kicks off the covers, make sure to put them back on him right away. Otherwise, he’ll catch a fever by morning.”

My nails dug so hard into my palm I thought they might draw blood, and my eyelids fluttered as I fought back the tears threatening to spill over. I stared at her innocent, wide-eyed face for a long moment before I finally nodded.

We exchanged numbers, and when I opened her profile, the background photo was a picture of her and Vito. It was from ten years ago—two young faces, eyes full of hope and determination, their fingers intertwined.

As the car door shut and the engine roared to life, the first tear slipped down my cheek. I had always scoffed at the idea of someone being another’s “first love,” that one unattainable love who lingers in their heart forever. I believed in the power of real love, the kind that could overcome anything.

But tonight, that belief wavered.

On the way home, Vito’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Lula was blowing up his inbox, asking if he’d made it home safely. I unlocked his phone, planning to reply politely, but then something caught my eye—a string of messages between him and his friends. I couldn’t help but read them.

[This is my last shot. If she doesn’t come back after hearing I’m getting married, I’m really giving up. You can post about it in our school group chat, but don’t tell them that it’s fake.]

I froze, my fingers gripping the phone tightly. My heart pounded in my chest as I locked the screen, trying to process what I’d just seen. It felt like someone had knocked the air out of me. No matter how hard I tried to breathe, my chest stayed tight, the oxygen refusing to fill my lungs. Tears blurred my vision, spilling down my cheeks.

It all made sense now. His sudden proposal three days ago, without any talk about a home, a future, or anything substantial. No ring, no conversation about a venue or even the simplest details like a dowry. His only request was that I keep everything a secret from my family.

I’d assumed it was because he was finally feeling guilty for not showing enough attention, that maybe my patience had finally gotten through to him after all these years. But I was wrong. 

The proposal, something I had longed for after eight years of dating, wasn’t out of love. It was bait—nothing more than a lure to get Lula to come back from wherever she was. The trust I had clung to for so long had finally run dry. All the doubts I’d had about us, about him, were now glaring truths. I was shattered, but there was nothing I could do but comfort myself with the decision I had already made. I was leaving, and once I walked away, nothing about them—about this—would ever bother me again.

When we got home, Vito, still a little drunk, headed straight for the shower without saying a word. I went to the kitchen and made some honey water for him, just the way Lula had told me. Three more days. That’s all I had left to endure—just three more days. I wasn’t going to leave this relationship with any regrets.

I carried the honey water over to the couch and sat down, letting out a long breath. Not long after, my phone rang. It was Mr. Greer, my boss. He asked if I could finish up the remaining work before my departure and I agreed, hanging up quickly.

“Where are you going?” Vito’s voice came from behind me, sounding annoyed. He was rubbing a towel through his wet hair, watching me with a cold, blank expression.

“Just… business trip,” I replied calmly, handing him the honey water.

He didn’t respond, just took the cup from me. He didn’t seem interested in why I was leaving or where I was going. Either he didn’t think it mattered, or maybe, deep down, he really just didn’t care at all. He took one sip of the honey water and immediately spat it back out, glaring at me.

“Honey water? Seriously? Do you really think that’s good for a hangover? You probably read that online, didn’t you? Just because a lot of people say it works doesn’t mean everyone likes it.” He grumbled, slamming the cup down on the table and storming off to the bedroom, looking irritated. I let out a bitter laugh. Constance, you’re an idiot! How stupid could I be, trusting advice from the woman who once had been his lover?

The next morning was our pre-wedding photoshoot. Vito woke up like nothing had happened, treating me with the same cold indifference as always. After seeing how affectionate he’d been toward Lula last night, I could no longer believe that it was his nature. I just couldn’t understand how I had put up with it for so long.

As we finished breakfast, he glanced at his phone. “Let’s take the photos at the old school instead of the park. School-themed shoots are really popular lately,” he said abruptly. 

I paused, mid-way through clearing the table. “Your call,” I replied flatly. “I’m fine with anything. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

I knew why he had changed his mind so suddenly. That morning, Lula had posted a photo on WhatsApp, saying she missed our old school and was thinking about visiting it. The connection was obvious. But I didn’t bother arguing or pointing out the obvious lie he was weaving right in front of my face. I wasn’t going to humiliate myself, especially with the relationship about to end. Only a day and a half left before I left the country, and I wanted to leave with my dignity intact.

Before we left the house, I already knew how the day was going to play out, so I deliberately chose a simple wedding dress, something that would make it easier to move around in.

The photographer took us to the playground area. Throughout the shoot, the photographer kept directing us on how to pose, but Vito wasn’t paying attention. He kept glancing around like he was searching for something—or someone. It wasn’t long before I saw the familiar figure emerge from the other side of the trees.

Without a word, without even glancing back at me, Vito rushed over to her, leaving me standing there, forgotten. The photographer looked bewildered, unsure of what to do. I forced a small, awkward smile, turning to him with a resigned sigh.

Without a word, without even glancing back at me, Vito rushed over to her, leaving me standing there, forgotten. The photographer looked bewildered, unsure of what to do. I forced a small, awkward smile.

“I’m really sorry for the trouble. Let’s wrap it up. We’ll still pay you as agreed,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, polite.

The photographer hesitated, looking between me and Vito disappearing into the distance with Lula, clearly unsure of how to handle the situation. But I didn’t wait for him to respond. I simply gathered the train of my dress and walked to them.