Solitude Love - Breaking Up With My Long-time Girlfriend

I had been with Amanda Wright for eight years, but on the night of our engagement, she went out drinking with her first love.

I saw them with my own eyes, walking into a hotel together, arms around each other. I waited outside the hotel the entire night. The biting wind left my body numb and chilled my heart even more.

The bitter cold took its toll, and I fell seriously ill, spending half a month in the hospital. Because of this illness, I missed the chance to see my grandmother one last time before she passed away.

When I confronted her, she said, "It was just a drink with Jayden. Are you really going to make such a big deal out of it?"

Her words crushed the last remnants of hope I had for us. In utter disappointment, I quietly left her.

But then she called, crying over the phone. "Yvo, are you really going to leave me?"

——

On the night of our engagement, I had prepared 999 roses and a candlelit dinner, waiting for her to come home and celebrate. The clock ticked on, but she never showed up.

I called her five times in my worry, but she didn’t answer a single one. Eventually, I saw her post on her social media—a photo taken at her favorite bar. The image showed two tightly clasped hands, both wearing matching couple rings.

The caption read: [An unforgettable night.]

Alarmed, I rushed to the bar, only to catch a glimpse of their backs as they left. Without thinking, I followed them.

I watched as they entered a hotel, arms entwined. It was then that I forced myself to accept the harsh reality.

The man by her side bore an uncanny resemblance to me, even down to his style of dress. But then I realized: my style had always been chosen by Amanda.

Once, I had found a photo in her bag—a picture of a young man, youthful and full of innocence. That boy had now grown into a mature and composed man. It turned out it was that man.

When I asked her about it, she brushed it off, saying it was merely a keepsake from her youth. But today, her “keepsake” had made its way to a hotel bed.

Standing outside the hotel, I didn’t have the courage to confront her. All I felt was overwhelming disappointment.

My phone buzzed with a message from her. [I’m working late tonight. Go ahead and eat without me.]

I let out a bitter laugh. So, this was what “working late” looked like.

Looking back now, I realize just how much of a cheap substitute I was. In our relationship, I was always the one to back down.

Her moods were erratic, and when she was unhappy, she’d often lash out, sometimes even physically. Yet, I was always the one to apologize and make amends.

I used to think that was just her personality. But now I understand—it was simply because she didn’t love me.

I waited for five hours in the snow, only heading home as dawn broke. My legs were numb, and I collapsed into the snow, shards of glass cutting into my knees. Blood flowed freely, but I didn’t feel a thing.

Back home, I tore apart the roses I had so carefully prepared, scattering petals across the floor. They looked like the shards of my broken heart.

I stayed awake all night.

The next morning, Amanda came back as if nothing had happened. Seeing the mess in the room, she frowned, her voice tinged with impatience. “What’s wrong with you now?”

I looked at her, waves of grief washing over me, but all I could muster was a dry whisper, “Where were you last night?”

Her eyes flickered with guilt for a moment before she regained her usual cold demeanor. “I told you, I was working late. It got too late, so I slept at the office.”

I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white. Taking a deep breath, I held up my phone with a screenshot of her social media post.

Her face went pale, panic flashing in her eyes, though it was quickly replaced by anger. “You followed me?”

I let out a hollow laugh as I spat, “Followed you? I just wanted to know why my fiancée didn’t come home all night. Amanda, what do you take me for?”