Nine months into our whirlwind romance, Greg proposed. He was charming, magnetic, and made me feel like I was the only girl in the world. I believed him when he said I was “different”—that I understood him in ways others didn’t. So when his birthday came around, I poured my heart into a handmade scrapbook: photos, ticket stubs, inside jokes, and love notes. It wasn’t expensive, but it was intimate—crafted with care, memory, and meaning.
He smiled when I gave it to him privately. Said it was “beautiful.” I believed him.
But that night, surrounded by his friends, everything changed.
One of them asked what I’d gotten him. Greg smirked, pulled out the scrapbook, and said, “She made me this… thing.” He flipped through it mockingly, exaggerating the doodles and jokes. Then he tossed it aside like trash. Laughter erupted around the room—except from me.
I felt my cheeks burn. My heart sank. I’d given him a piece of myself, and he turned it into a punchline.
I didn’t say anything then. I just smiled tightly and excused myself early. But I knew something had shifted.
The next morning, I packed up my things. I left the ring on his kitchen counter with a note: “You taught me something valuable—love should never be mocked. I hope someday you understand what you threw away.”
Later, I found out his friends had confronted him. One of them—whose girlfriend had cried over a similar humiliation—told him he’d crossed a line. Greg tried to call me, apologize, say he “didn’t mean it.” But I was done.
Love isn’t a performance. It’s vulnerability. And when someone laughs at your heart, they don’t deserve it.
