My boyfriend, who I’ve known since childhood, just came back to the country. After five years with Zachary, he finally proposed to me. But instead of the proposal ceremony I had been dreaming of, it turned into a welcome party for another girl. She was wearing the diamond ring designed by my favorite designer, which had been stored up at home for over a month. Later, Zachary got down on one knee, begging me to take him back, holding out an even bigger, shinier diamond ring. The guy next to me pulled me close, deliberately stepping on Zachary’s foot, and flaunted his own engagement ring: “Wow, this ring is stunning. My wife designed it herself.”

——

I stood outside the private room, taking a deep breath. I was nervous and excited, thinking this was finally the moment Zachary would propose. But when I opened the door, what I saw wasn’t at all what I expected. Zachary was slouched on the couch, clearly drunk. He usually holds his liquor well, so it was obvious he’d been drinking heavily. I walked over to him, and that’s when he finally noticed me.

“Welcome, Madeline,” one of his friends greeted me.

“You’re here! They made me drink too much,” Zachary said, pulling me into a hug, sounding almost like he was whining. I hugged him back, but the excitement I’d felt earlier was quickly turning into frustration.

We’d been together for five years, and yet Zachary still acted like a kid around me. I couldn’t help but smile at how clingy he was.

“Is this Madeline? I’m Emma,” a soft voice said. I turned and noticed a beautiful, petite girl sitting next to Zachary. Her voice was gentle, her skin flawless, and she was stunning. I didn’t recognize her, but since Zachary always kept a high profile, I figured she should know I was his girlfriend.

“Emma just got back from abroad. This is her welcome party,” Zachary explained, introducing us. I greeted Emma politely, but when I shook her hand, my heart skipped a beat. She was wearing a diamond ring, a limited edition designed by my favorite designer, D. Armstrong. Zachary had taken that ring months ago, and I’d found it in a rarely opened cabinet at our house, thinking he was going to propose.

I had discovered it a month ago, thinking he might propose to me. I never expected him to give it to Emma as soon as she got back. Sensing my unnatural look, Emma let go of my hand and said calmly, “You’re a fan of D. Armstrong too? This is an exclusive limited-edition ring she made for me. Such a sweet little gift.”

The way she said it made it sound like the ring was just some trivial gift from Zachary. “You have no idea how hard it was to get this. I had to fly all the way to Country A to buy it. You owe me big time for this,” Zachary joked, sounding pretty pleased with himself. He knew how much I loved D. Armstrong’s work, and this ring was her final masterpiece.

“Since you love D. Armstrong so much, how about we use her designs for our wedding?” Zachary suggested, looking at me with a hopeful expression. I had been collecting D. Armstrong’s design books for years, so I knew exactly what he meant. But now, that ring was on Emma’s hand. I bit my lip, trying not to cry. Zachary was still chatting with Emma, as if he’d forgotten everything we’d discussed before.

Seeing how upset I was, Zachary finally spoke up, “Emma and I grew up together. She went abroad for college and just got back. We’re really close.” So they were childhood friends, which meant their bond went back further than our five years together. He had never mentioned Emma to me before. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was because I wasn’t important enough to him or if she was too important to mention.

“I’m not feeling well. I caught a cold today, so I’m going to head back,” I whispered, tugging on Zachary’s sleeve.

“Okay, take care on your way home,” Zachary said, barely glancing at me as he waved me off at the door. It was obvious that the party was far from over for them.

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but wish for something more. I didn’t drink much, and I wasn’t very familiar with his friends who liked to party. I usually felt out of place at their gatherings, and I hated to be a burden. My friends, who were always having a good time, would end up having to carry me home. Zachary knew I struggled to fit in, but he would still play around with them for a while before taking me home. He used to say, “My girl is so lovely; of course, I have to take care of her.” Later, I was afraid of dampening the mood, so I rarely attended their gatherings. But this time, I told myself that maybe he just hadn’t seen Emma in a long time and didn’t want to leave her side.

With no plans for the day, I wandered the streets for what felt like hours and somehow ended up near the school Zachary and I used to attend.

I was an abandoned child, taken in by my grandmother, who had also been cast aside by her family. I got into my dream university, but she passed away before I could share the good news with her. My earliest memories are of my grandmother; I couldn’t recall anything before that, except for the last name Reed.

Even though my grandmother never went to school, she remembered a poem she had learned as a child:

"I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;"

When she named me Madeline, it was the most cultured name she could think of, a name that she felt carried a sense of grace and beauty. I may not remember much from my early life, but her loving care filled in the gaps. She told me that when she found me, I was badly injured, lying by the roadside, barely alive. She always regretted that after all these years, she hadn’t been able to find any information about my birth family.

I was deeply sad when my grandmother passed away, but the grief seemed to be trapped inside me, and not a single tear came out. After taking care of her affairs, I went back to school. I avoided speaking and interacting with others, and life suddenly felt dull.

One time, while sitting in a coffee shop, I was dragged out by a group of people. They accused me of “pretending to be high-minded” and said I didn’t realize how “dirty” I was deep down. The leader of the group grabbed my collar and pulled me outside, saying, “You lost our love letters? That little bitch made me lose a bet with someone else.”

Probably, their discarded love letters were among the trash from yesterday. Their lives must be so empty if they intersect with someone like me, who’s on the fringes. At that moment, I didn’t say anything. I took a punch without flinching, and just as the second punch was about to land, a pair of big hands stopped it.

A few people who had been so aggressive suddenly lost their confidence and said, “Zachary, let’s get out of here.” They quickly ran off, looking defeated.

“It’s okay,” Zachary said, turning around with a gentle smile. His words felt like a warm breeze that melted away the sadness I’d been shielding.

So, standing by the roadside with a swollen face, I started crying loudly. Zachary, looking a bit flustered, quickly came over to comfort me, saying, “Don’t cry. I’ll go beat up those guys later.”

He took me to the hospital for a check-up, and I had a slight concussion, but my face still hurt badly. After the treatment, I saw three people with swollen, bruised faces, trying to avoid Zachary’s gaze.

“Madeline, your name sounds beautiful. I’m Zachary,” he said with warm, sincere eyes and a bright smile. That day, Zachary and I started to become close.