Our third anniversary arrived, and I was absolutely convinced this was the night Ryan would finally propose. He had orchestrated a reservation at a fancy downtown restaurant—the kind with candlelight, starched linen napkins, and hushed conversations—and told me to dress for a “special surprise.” After a brutal work week where I was passed over for a major promotion because of stupid office rumors about starting a family, I desperately needed this validation. I got my nails done, curled my hair, and wore the emerald-green dress Ryan loved. My heart felt light, already imagining the moment and the cheesy, loving words he might say before pulling out the ring I was certain was hidden somewhere nearby.
Dinner started wonderfully. Ryan complimented my appearance, and we shared wine and appetizers, enjoying the upscale atmosphere, though I noticed he seemed unusually distracted. He kept checking his phone and nervously tapping his fingers on the table’s edge. When the server approached to take our dessert order, my anticipation peaked; I straightened my posture, ready for the sparkly box to appear. Instead, the server placed a small white plate between us holding a single slice of chocolate cake with pink icing piped across it: “Congrats on Your Promotion!” I blinked, my smile freezing on my face. Ryan’s eyes lit up excitedly, like a child who’d executed a perfect, surprising magic trick.
“What is this?” I asked softly, trying to sound amused, but feeling only confusion. Ryan beamed, “Surprise! I thought it would be cute to manifest it happening! You’ve been so tense lately, and I figured this would help shift the energy. Positive vibes, babe.” The waiter, sensing the tension, quickly wandered off. My heart sank as I pushed the plate away. “You know I didn’t get it,” I whispered, fighting back tears of humiliation. “Why would you make everyone think I got something I didn’t? This wasn’t supportive or positive; this is just utterly humiliating.”
Ryan frowned, leaning back defensively. “Oh, come on. You’re taking this way too seriously. I was trying to be nice.” My voice started to shake as I confronted him: “I told you I lost that promotion because they view me as a future mom, not a professional! And you turned my biggest disappointment into a joke in front of strangers!” He scoffed, his true disregard exposed. “I mean, it’s not like you were actually close to getting it. I thought this would be the only way you’d ever hear ‘congrats.'” Stunned, I slid my credit card out. “I’ll pay for myself. You can go,” I told him. He grumbled about me “ruining the vibe” and stomped out, shouting, “We’re done, it’s over!”
Three days passed, and Ryan’s frantic, self-pitying texts went unanswered. He always loved throwing “Ryan Day” parties, obsessing over his thinning hair and vain image. I decided a different kind of celebration was necessary for my own closure. I texted him, suggesting I’d been too sensitive and had a “surprise” planned to apologize. He arrived, smug and cocky, only to freeze when he stepped inside. My living room was covered in black and gold balloons, a giant banner proclaiming, “Congrats on Becoming Bald!” A cake, nearly identical to the one he ordered, sat on the table: “Manifesting It Early!” His friends, and mine, were there.
Ryan’s jaw dropped, his face beet red with immediate fury. “What the hell is this?!” I smiled sweetly. “I’m just trying to shift the energy, Ryan. Good vibes, right?” He sputtered that it was petty and not the same thing. His friend Derek muttered, “Man, you kind of set yourself up.” Ryan stormed toward the door, yelling, “We’re done, it’s over!” I calmly replied, “Okay,” and he slammed the door. As his friends scattered, Zach lingered. “That was one of the best comebacks I’ve ever seen,” he admitted, shrugging. I looked at him, surprised, as he grinned. “I always thought you deserved better. If you’re not busy this weekend…” I finally felt like I’d gotten the last word, and maybe a new beginning.
