Introduction

Ethan Bishop promised me a future seven times.

Seven times I pictured Napa weddings, picket fences, or at least a lease with both our names on it.

And seven times, his college "one that got away," Olivia Hayes, would drift back into San Francisco, and Ethan would suddenly need "space" or declare it "bad timing."

This time, he swore it would be different – a house in Mill Valley, a real future – once the funding round with Olivia's firm closed.

Then he breezed in, buzzing about a "critical pre-meeting dinner" with her.

I didn't scream, I didn't cry.

I just pulled out the dusty cardboard box, already packed with every hopeful trinket, every broken promise.

"It's yours," I said, my voice flat, placing it at his feet.

He just scoffed.

"Don't be dramatic."

"We'll talk after this Olivia deal."

"Gotta run, she's waiting."

He didn't even look back.

Seven times I'd been "a little overwhelmed" or "not used to this world," while he prioritized Olivia's comfort.

The burning humiliation from a past public betrayal finally extinguished the last flicker of hope.

This wasn't just another storm he could weather; it was the unequivocal end.

That night, no more tears.

The next morning, as he met with Olivia, convinced I was just "pouting," I called a moving company.

I emptied my half of our apartment, leaving his favorite takeout menu-now useless to me.

No note.

Nothing left to say.

Then, I dialed a number I hadn't called in over a decade: my Grandma Eleanor.