I ironed my best dress, rehearsed a yes in the mirror. The bistro glowed like a ring box, candles pinned to tablecloths. He kept patting his pocket; my heart clapped along. When dessert arrived, he cleared his throat and set a tiny velvet case between us. Inside wasn’t a ring—just the apartment key I’d lent him, laid on cotton like a lesson. He said he needed “space,” a word that sounded like a door closing.
My yes shrank to a pinhead. I swallowed salt, not wine, and asked for the bill. Outside, the night air felt clean. I walked home lighter, remembering love isn’t a prize someone grants but a life you build. I opened my own door, turned on the lights, and proposed to myself: choose me, every day. Morning came with a quiet courage—to return the dress, keep the spine, and begin again.
