...

The next day, Desmond texted me the plan early.

We'd dine at a steakhouse at 7:30, shop at 8, and watch a movie at 9. Everything was perfectly arranged, like he'd done it a million times.

Before, he never bothered with dates, calling them a waste of time.

...

I waited from 7:30 to 9, starving, so I made myself some pasta.

With my hand injured and Desmond buried in work, we had arranged for Bruce Maynard to go to a nursing home a few days ago.

I stopped being the free caretaker, and Desmond couldn't handle it.

It was ironic that he couldn't even stand his family.

At 10 p.m., I washed off my makeup, showered, and crawled into bed.

Pain shot through my stomach in the middle of the night.

I stumbled out of bed and collapsed in sweat. Shaking, I pulled out the emergency contact and dialed Desmond's number.

The phone rang five times before it went through.

"Desmond, come back," I said weakly.

What came from the other end was Megan's voice. "Desmond is talking to a client. What's up? I'll pass it on."

Her tone oozed smugness.

I hung up, biting back the pain, and called an ambulance.

...

When I opened my eyes again, something heavy was on my hand.

I looked down and found Desmond asleep beside me. I pulled my hand free, and he stirred.

His face was tight with worry. "I'm so sorry. Investors suddenly came to the lab. I showed them around and forgot our date. Megan answered your call but failed to sense anything wrong. I shouldn't have left you alone and let you end up in the hospital. It was all my fault, but I got you a ring. Try it on."

He pulled a small box from his pocket, slipped out a ring, and put it on my finger.

The diamond was visibly bigger than my size.

He pressed his lips together and asked tentatively, "Are you upset?"

I shook my head. "Not really."

He frowned at my nonchalance. "If you don't like it, we'll pick another when you're better."

I declined, "No need. It's fine."

"Are you all right?" He blinked, confused and anxious.

I forced a smile, my face pale but calm. "I'm fine. I get how busy you are. Work matters."

He wanted to say more, but his phone rang.

I recognized the special ringtone he had set for Megan, but this was nothing new.

"Go answer it. She might need you for something," I said.

He didn't move until Megan called the third time. He faltered, "I'll take this outside. Will be right back."

I nodded, and he never came back.

With two days left, I pulled out the love letters he wrote me.

He preserved the ones for Megan carefully, and I did the same for mine.

The thick stack showed no signs of dampness or bug bites. Only the pages were yellowing and peeling, a testament to the countless nights I had read them under the lamp.

In college, Desmond couldn't afford dates, and he refused my money.

Instead, he wrote letter after letter to show his love, convincing me that I was special.

But it had an expiration date. By this time, it was overdue.

...

The next day, I went to the airport, checking Megan's social media.

There was a photo of her raised hand, with a diamond ring sparkling on her finger.

I recognized it as the same one Desmond had tried on me in the hospital.

The caption was a blushing emoji, but it spoke endless emotions.

I commented: [Looks perfect on you.]

Three minutes later, Desmond called, furious. "Megan was just trying on the ring. Why are you being passive-aggressive on her post? As I said, this ring is yours, and I'll marry you. What's there to worry about? You should apologize to her, or we're done!"

Ignoring him, I grabbed my luggage and headed to the gate.

The broadcasting reached his ears, making him fret. He asked, "Where are you? The airport?"

My voice was flat. "Well, I'm tired of these 13 years. It's time to end this. Keep that ring. It fits Megan just fine."

I hung up and boarded the plane.