Benjamin walked over to me and finally registered what I was doing. He spoke, not with concern, but with a note of reprimand. “Why are you only
ironing your own clothes? What am I supposed to wear?”
“Never mind, I’ll just grab something. Just remember to do mine first next time.”
As he reached the door, he finally took in the full scene. “What are you doing, packing a suitcase? Are you really this mad just because I have to
work late?”
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I pulled out my phone and showed him the picture of Maya in the gown. “Maya, she…”
But he cut me off the second he heard her name, his voice laced with annoyance. He didn’t even spare the photo a glance as he turned to leave. “I‘
m really just going to work. Why are you bringing Maya into this? Do you have to make a scene?”
“After all these years, can’t you learn to be even half as understanding as she is?”
The door slammed shut with a deafening bang.
Just like our seven–year relationship, it ended abruptly.
I stopped the recording on my phone.
Then, I notified both of our families. I created a group chat and sent them the screenshot of Maya’s post and the audio of Benjamin’s parting wor- ds. I laid out the entire story, clear and concise.
Benjamin had wronged me. We were done. The engagement was off.
I wouldn’t suffer in silence.
After I finished packing, my phone rang. It was my university professor.
“Cynthia, are you really sure about studying abroad?” he asked. “I highly recommend the program, but you’ve turned it down so many times for Benjamin. I’m a little worried.”
I managed a small laugh. “Don’t worry, professor. This time, I’ve made up my mind.”
I’m a psychology major, and the university was offering a rare opportunity for an international research internship. My professor had urged me to apply several times, seeing it as a golden chance to advance my skills.
I desperately wanted to go. It meant exposure to cutting–edge research and a much broader career path. The only thing holding me back was Benjamin.
Benjamin suffered from severe separation anxiety. His parents were busy entrepreneurs who had shuttled him between relatives since he was a child. He was passed around like a parcel, from one resentful household to another. The experience had left deep psychological scars, making it nearly impossible for him to form stable relationships.
By the time he transferred to my high school, it was his forty–second school.
The loneliest time for him was always free period during gym class. Everyone else would be in pairs or groups, playing games or chatting. Benjam- in would just sit in the shadows, watching them with envy.
Seeing his guarded, longing eyes and remembering the rumors about his past, I felt a pang of kinship. His desolate expression mirrored a part of my own history.
My heart softened. I walked over to him. “I’m stuck on a problem,” I said, steering him toward the classroom. “I hear you’re really smart. Could you help me with it?”
