“Emma? Come on, Donald. It’s not that serious.”
I stopped in the hallway.
My hand tightened around the strap of my gym bag.
Luke laughed.
“Just because we’ve been together for eight years doesn’t mean anything.”
The words landed slowly.
Then he kept going.
“She’s not wife material. She’s great to live with, sure. Life is easy with her. But a wife? No. That’s different.”
I froze.
My gym bag slipped off my shoulder, and I caught it before it hit the floor.
“I know,” he said. “I’m still waiting to meet the one. Emma’s comfortable. There’s a difference.”
Comfortable.
That was what I was.
Not loved.
Not chosen.
Comfortable.
I pressed one hand against the wall to steady myself.
The apartment suddenly felt unfamiliar. Cold, even.
Eight years of loyalty, patience, family holidays, shared bills, quiet hope, and waiting.
And all along, I had been a placeholder.
I did not cry.
I did not burst into the room.
I did not give him a chance to soften the words with excuses.
I backed away carefully, picked up my sneakers, and left the apartment as quietly as I had entered.
Ten minutes later, I came back.
This time, I made noise.
I jingled my keys, stomped on the mat, and called out, “Babe? I’m home. It’s pouring out there!”
Luke came out of the bedroom smiling.
His phone was nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” he said, kissing my forehead. “You almost got soaked.”
“Class got canceled.”
“Want me to start dinner?”
“That’d be amazing. Thank you.”
I smiled.
