“You wired half of our ten years' savings to that intern.”
I tossed the transfer screenshot onto the dining table.
He froze, then smiled. “Don't read into it. Something came up with her family. I just helped her out for a bit.”
“You helped her out. With our money.”
He didn't answer, just bent his head over his rice.
It struck me as ridiculous.
Ten years, and he'd never once brought up “when are we getting married,” yet helping someone else out came so easily to him.
“Let's break up.”
His chopsticks paused. He looked up at me. “Is it really worth all that?”
I didn't explain.
Three days later, I posted to my feed: a close-up of one of my hands, a diamond ring now on the ring finger.
The caption was one word: “Done.”
Amos Henson sent thirteen messages in a row. The last one was…
“Whose ring is that?”
I didn't reply.
Some men, you stay with for ten years and they never feel any rush.
The moment you're with someone else, they panic.
Too bad. Too late.
…
He set down his chopsticks and stared at me for two seconds.
“I want that money back next month.”
I didn't move.
“Fine.”
He frowned, probably not expecting me to agree so easily.
He picked his bowl back up, put a piece of pork rib in his mouth, and chewed.
“Her mom's in the hospital. She needed cash fast. Just three days.”
I picked the transfer screenshot up off the table, folded it twice, and tucked it into my pocket.
“I threw out that gray sweater of yours. It pilled too badly.”
His chopsticks stopped.
“That one cost over a thousand.”
“I know.”
He looked at me, cheeks still puffed out, the half-chewed rib seemingly stuck and impossible to swallow.
After a while, he took a sip of water.
“What exactly are you trying to say?”
I pulled out my chair, stood, and took his bowl away.
“We're breaking up.”
He sat there without moving, chopsticks still pinched between his fingers.
“You're serious?”
I didn't answer. I turned on the faucet and rinsed the bowl.
The water was loud. I didn't catch whatever he said after that.
He came over and turned it off.
“I'm asking you. Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Over a few thousand dollars?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
He froze, his lips moving twice.
“I can get that money back.”
“Don't bother.”
“What did you say?”
I dried my hands and draped the rag over the faucet.
“I don't want the money. Call it a dowry for your intern.”
His face went white.
“Watch your mouth.”
“Sure.”
I turned and went back to the bedroom, opened the closet, and started gathering my things.
He followed me in, leaned against the door frame, both hands in his pockets.
“Can you just calm down?”
I ignored him, folded two pieces of clothing, and stuffed them into the bag.
He walked over and pressed his hand down on my suitcase.
“There's really nothing between her and me.”
I lifted my head and looked at him.
“How many times did you have dinner with her last month?”
His eyes flickered.
“Having dinner for work is completely normal.”
“That photo she sent you, was that on your birthday?”
He let go of the suitcase and stepped back.
“What photo?”
“Your birthday. You told me you were working late. She posted to her feed, the photo was you, and the caption said, ‘Thanks for the cake, big brother.'”
He opened his mouth.
“That was her birthday, not mine.”
“Oh. So on your birthday, who'd you spend it with?”
He went silent.
I zipped the suitcase shut.
“You've been checking up on me?”
“No. It just came up in my feed. Small world.”
He leaned back against the door frame and stared down at the floor.
"That was a company dinner. Plenty of people were there."
"Mm."
"You don't believe me?"
"I believe you."
He lifted his head and looked at me.
"Then what are you angry about?"
I smiled.
"I'm not angry. I just think it's all pretty pointless."
I picked up my suitcase and headed for the door. He blocked the entryway.
"Where are you going to go?"
"Anywhere but here."
"Is this really necessary? Five hundred thousand, I'll pay you back, that's all. If it bothers you, I'll keep my distance from her."
I looked at him. Ten years, and this man still had no idea what I cared about.
"Move."
"No."
I set the suitcase down, took out my phone, and sent him fifty cents.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That's how much we're worth. You and me."
His face changed, and his hand came down slowly.
I picked up my suitcase and walked out.
He called out behind me.
I didn't turn around.
As the elevator doors slid shut, I saw him still standing in the doorway, wearing those slippers I'd bought him last year.
The elevator reached the ground floor and the doors opened.
He came running down barefoot.
"Wait."
I wheeled the suitcase toward the door, and he grabbed the handle.
"Over this? Ten years with me, and you'd walk out just like that, over an outsider?"
I pried his fingers loose.
"It's not that you don't want to get married. You just don't want to marry me."
He said nothing.
"You went to the movies with her last month. Don't think I don't know. Two tickets, and you paid."
He froze for a second.
"Several coworkers from the company were at that movie too."
"Really? Then why did you tag your location as the office, and she tagged hers as the theater?"
He let go of the handle.
I'd taken two steps with the suitcase when he caught up again.
"Fine, I admit it, I saw a movie with her that day. But it was just coworkers grabbing a meal and a movie. There was nothing to it."
I stopped and looked at him.
"You eat with her, see movies with her, wire her five hundred thousand, and then tell me there's nothing to it?"
He opened his mouth.
"Then let me ask you. When was the last time you took me to a movie?"
He thought about it.
"Can't remember, can you?"
He didn't answer.
"Ten years with you. My birthday, your birthday, Valentine's Day, our anniversary—when did you ever once ask me out yourself?"
"I don't like all that formality."
"You remembered her birthday clearly enough."
His face was ugly.
"Okay, I handled it badly. But walking out like this, don't you think you're overreacting?"
I gave a small laugh.
"You know, my mom called last week and asked me. She said you two have been together so long, isn't it time you thought about getting married. I told her soon."
"And the next day, I saw you wire her that five hundred thousand."
He lowered his eyes.
"I'll admit I didn't talk to you about that money. That was wrong of me. But her mother really was sick, she came to me for the loan, and I couldn't very well say no."
"She asks for a loan and you hand it over? Then why is it, when I ask you to marry me, you won't?"
He raised his head and looked at me, his lips moving a few times.
"Give me one more chance."
I turned, pulling the suitcase along.
"No need."
He shouted after me.
"Come back! Let's talk this through properly!"
I flagged down a cab and put my suitcase in.
He ran over, his hand braced against the car door.
"Don't go."
I looked at him for a few seconds.
"You never once said 'I love you' to me."
He froze.
"Ten years. You never once said it."
The car door shut. He was still standing at the curb, barefoot.
As the taxi pulled away, I glanced back.
He hadn't moved, his phone clenched in his hand.
The screen lit up.
I didn't look.
Three days later, I posted to my feed.
The photo was just one hand, with a diamond ring on the ring finger.
The caption: Done.
My phone buzzed thirteen times.
Amos's messages came one after another.
The last one read: "Whose ring is that?"
I didn't answer.
The call came in. I hung up.
It came again. I hung up again.
On the fifteenth one, I picked up.
"Whose ring is that?" His voice was hoarse.
"None of your business."
"You're lying. Where would you find someone? You were with me for ten years. Where would you even get someone?"
"There's a lot you don't know."
He drew a breath.
"Come back, let's talk. Forget the five hundred thousand, it's all yours. Whatever you want, I'll agree to it."
"Amos, do you remember my thirty-second birthday?"
He said nothing.
"I waited for you until eleven that night. You said you were working late. I lit a candle by myself, blew it out, and made a wish."
"What wish?"
"I wished that by this day next year, either you'd have married me, or I'd already be gone from your side."
The line went silent.
"It came true."
"You can't do this to me."
"I can."
His voice shook.
"Who is he? Do I know him?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters. I want to know who it is."
"You wouldn't know him even if you met him. He doesn't work at your company. He won't post on social media to fool me, and he won't take my money to help some other woman."
A long silence.
"Her mother was never in the hospital."
I held the phone and didn't move.
"I asked around. Her mother's perfectly fine. She just wanted to borrow money from me to buy an apartment, with her boyfriend."
"Mm."
"You already knew?"
"I guessed."
"Then why aren't you cursing me out?"
"Would it do any good?"
His voice dropped lower and lower.
"I'm coming to find you right now."
"Don't bother."
"Why?"
"I'm not in that city anymore."
Something shattered on the other end of the line.
"Where did you go?"
"Somewhere you don't know."
"Come back—"
"No."
"We had ten years—"
"So what? Ten years and you never figured it out, but three days and suddenly you have?"
He didn't answer.
"Amos, it's not that you don't know how to be good to someone. You just didn't want to be good to me."
"It's not like that—"
"Then what is it like?"
He had no answer.
I hung up.
He called many more times after that. I didn't pick up a single one.
In the end he sent one message.
"I hope you'll be happy."
I didn't reply.
The diamond ring was a little tight on my finger. Wear it long enough and you get used to it.
After I put on the ring, Amos lost his mind.
First came a call at three in the morning.
"That post on your feed. Delete it."
I was in the middle of a face mask, pressing the corner of my mouth down.
"Why should I?"
"It's an eyesore."
"Then don't look."
He took a deep breath, like he was holding back his temper.
"What does he do? How old is he? How did you two meet?"
"We were set up on a date."
The other end went quiet for two seconds.
"Set up on a date? You went on a date three days after leaving me?"
