Anniversary day. Lillian handed me a ring dotted with scattered diamonds and said, "Love me forever."

Moments later, her assistant posted on Instagram: "She said she'd love me till the end of time." The picture showcased a custom-made ring.

My heart felt numb, unlike before when I would have demanded explanations in fury. Instead, I quietly packed my things and walked away. Six years of marriage, nothing more than an illusion.

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The comments section on Erin Sullivan's Instagram felt like a public flogging.

"Oh my god, Lillian only gave him a tiny diamond ring. She's way too kind to you!"

"The ruby ring in Erin's hand looks massive, probably at least five carats."

"Exactly! Unlike some people who only get a sprinkle of diamonds, it's laughable!"

"Yeah, the old flame can't compete with the new one. Who cares about yesterday's news?"

Today marks our six-year anniversary. I had meticulously planned a surprise for a month, booking a table at the city's fanciest rooftop restaurant. I even put together a handmade album, capturing the highlights of our journey together. I eagerly waited for her arrival, imagining her delight at the gifts.

But as the restaurant neared closing, a cold takeout box was delivered. Inside was a diamond ring, missing even decent packaging. Fighting off disappointment, I told myself she might just be too swamped to plan.

My phone screen blinked with a message from Lillian: "Did you get the ring? Do you like it? Love you forever."

Those three words, "Love you forever," instantly dispelled all my dissatisfaction. I rushed to flaunt the diamond ring that embodied our love on Instagram.

Yet, moments later, Erin Sullivan's post overshadowed mine. The glaring photo of a ruby ring seemed to ridicule my foolish innocence.

A waiter came over, gently asking if I wanted anything else. Jolted back to reality, I stared at the now cold dish before me. An inexplicable bitterness rose within.

I picked up a piece of ravioli and stuffed it into my mouth, swallowing large chunks, while my stomach churned with cold sweat. But I felt no physical pain; my heartache was far more intense.

My stomach turned violently, and I rushed to the bathroom, retching uncontrollably. Afterwards, I slumped against the cold tile wall, utterly exhausted.

Erin Sullivan had posted on Instagram again, this time with a short video. In it, Lillian and Erin sat facing each other, their arms intertwined as they shared a coffee.

"Does this mean you're a couple now?" someone called out.

"When do we get to see Lillian and Erin's wedding?" another voice chimed in.

The room was filled with laughter and teasing. Erin looked triumphant, while Lillian's smile was as radiant as ever. At the end of the video, Erin leaned in and whispered something to Lillian, and they both exchanged knowing smiles. The screen paused on a close-up of their faces, almost touching.

So, the "client" Lillian kept mentioning was Erin. I’d lost track of how many times she’d used "work commitments" as an excuse to leave me alone and be with her.

Casually, I snapped a picture of the river and posted it on Instagram, "Six years... cheers." The image showed a dark river, with only a few scattered, distant lights.

Every anniversary, I make a post, and this year was no exception. Although this year has been far from happy, it may well be the last.