###My fiancée and her co-star shared a passionate kiss on stage during their play. The audience was moved, swept up in the romance of the characters. But I knew—there was no such scene in the script. For a brief moment, guilt flickered across her face, but she quickly defended herself: “It’s just acting! What, am I never supposed to take on romantic roles again?” I didn’t respond with a dramatic argument or accusations. Instead, I handed the bouquet of hybrid roses I’d specially bred for her… to one of the extras. Without another word, I turned and walked out of their cast party. Once outside, I called my mentor. “Professor, I’ve decided. I’ll take the offer to go grow roses out west.” I was at home filling out application forms when my phone suddenly rang. Without thinking, I reached for it and answered. On the other end, there was no greeting—just the sound of chaotic chatter, as if the phone’s owner hadn’t realized they’d accidentally dialed me. “Dorothy, it’s your turn!” someone called out. Hearing the familiar name, my hand froze over the hang-up button. “If you could go back, would you still choose to date your current boyfriend?” I already knew what her answer would be, but when I heard her say it aloud, it still felt like a knife twisting in my chest. Laughter erupted in the background. “Exactly! I mean, what’s so great about Brian anyway? He’s just some guy who grows flowers.” “That whole flower thing is so lame. His taste is awful.” “Roses? Every time? Seriously? Could he be any more basic?” I let out a bitter laugh. So this is what they thought of the roses I carefully bred by hand. Roses that, once upon a time, were Dorothy’s favorite flower. Yet, not once did she speak up for me. Not a single word in my defense. Dorothy and I had met in college. She’d been standing in front of my research project display for ages, trying and failing to get the perfect photo. I happened to walk by to check on the exhibit and offered to help her. One thing led to another, and before long, we were dating. Because she loved roses, I even based my graduate research project around them. But back then, I didn’t know she was still holding on to an impossible love—her so-called “one that got away.” The chaotic conversation on the other end of the line continued. No one seemed to notice that the call was still active. Someone joked, asking Mason if he’d crash the wedding if his partner ever got married. Mason’s calm voice replied, “No, I wouldn’t.” The room on the other end fell silent, the sudden awkwardness palpable even through the phone. Someone quickly tried to lighten the mood. “Come on, it’s just a game! Don’t take it seriously. Let’s drink!” I couldn’t help but wonder what Dorothy’s expression looked like in that moment. Probably drowning her feelings in alcohol, pretending everything was fine. Funny how, when you’re not loved, we all end up looking equally pathetic. The phone call abruptly ended as someone finally noticed the accidental dial. I put my phone down in silence. By the time I finished my work, the clock read 11 PM. Turning off the last light in the living room, I headed to bed. I’ve always been a light sleeper—any bit of light keeps me awake. But no matter how late Dorothy comes home, she always leaves a lamp on in the living room. Soon, I’ll be heading out west. She might as well start getting used to the dark. Like many nights before, Dorothy didn’t come home. She stumbled through the door mid-morning, still glued to her phone, and without looking up, called out: “I’m starving.” I didn’t even glance at her, still focused on my work. “Then order takeout. I’m busy.” She frowned, putting her phone down and stepping in front of my computer. The smell of alcohol hit me immediately. “Brian, can you not?” she said, annoyed. “We were acting. What’s the big deal about a kiss when you’re in character?” She crossed her arms, her tone defensive. “Do you even know how many people bought tickets just to see Mason and me perform? Our chemistry is what sells!” I nodded lightly, my eyes drifting to the computer screen behind her. “You’re right. You acted beautifully.” She mistook my calmness for anger and grew more impatient. “Brian, seriously. You can’t expect me to stop taking romantic roles just because I’m with you.” When I didn’t respond, she turned around, intending to shut my laptop. But her hand froze when she saw the words on the screen: Wedding Plans. It was supposed to be our wedding. Yet from start to finish, she hadn’t been involved at all—not even in picking out her dress. I’d handled everything, only to realize I was the only one looking forward to it. For a split second, guilt flickered across her face. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “I’ve just been so busy with rehearsals lately. Once this is over, I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Busy. Too busy to come home, but not too busy to stay out drinking all night with her friends. Was she underestimating how much I noticed… or just didn’t care? But I didn’t want to argue anymore. I simply nodded and said, “Alright.”
Maybe it was guilt, or something else entirely, but Dorothy actually stayed home all day and cooked an entire meal from scratch. During dinner, my advisor sent me a message. I meant to type a reply, but I accidentally hit the audio playback button instead. “Brian, your application has been approved. You’re all set to leave on the 11th.” Dorothy’s ears caught the key detail immediately. “What application? Are you transferring somewhere?” I calmly explained, “No, it’s just a favor for a coworker. I submitted the application for them, but I guess my advisor thought it was mine.” I casually replied to the message with a quick “Got it.” Dorothy, seemingly satisfied, picked up some food and placed it in my bowl. “Oh, that’s too bad. Your coworker won’t be able to come to our wedding then. Make sure to send them some of the party favors later,” she said with a hint of regret. I laughed to myself, bitterly. Not only would my coworker miss the wedding—I wouldn’t be attending it either. The next morning, Dorothy woke up bright and early, fully dressed and made-up, and dragged me out of bed. Groggy, I glanced at the calendar, trying to remember if today was some special occasion. She tapped my head with her makeup brush, rolling her eyes. “Are you serious? You forgot we’re taking our wedding photos today?” Wedding photos. Right. I’d almost forgotten. Months ago, I’d planned to surprise her by booking a session at the city’s most sought-after studio—six months in advance, no less. But when she found out, she’d scolded me for being wasteful. “Why would you book something so useless? What a waste of money,” she’d snapped. I remember blaming myself for not understanding what she wanted. Then one day, while cleaning, I found a stack of photos tucked behind her awards—pictures of her and Mason in various poses, dressed in coordinated outfits. Turns out, she wasn’t against taking photos. She just didn’t want to take them with me. Since the studio had a no-cancellation policy, the whole thing was left unresolved, and honestly, I’d nearly forgotten about it. On the way to the shoot, Dorothy hesitated before speaking up. “Mason wants to be one of the groomsmen for our wedding.” I let out a dry laugh. So this photoshoot was just her way of buttering me up to agree. I shrugged. “Sure, whatever you want.” A smile spread across her face, and she continued, “He’s my partner, so his groomsman suit shouldn’t be like the others.” “It also can’t be cheap. It should match the quality of your suit, at least.” She might as well have just asked me to hand over my suit and let Mason wear it himself. I nodded. “Alright, I’ll get him a suit.” When we arrived at the studio, she got a phone call. Her expression darkened as she stared at her screen. I asked, “What’s wrong?” She quickly hid her phone behind her back and snapped, “Can you stop being so possessive? I can’t even talk to my friends without you overreacting?” She waved me off. “Go get dressed. I’ll join you in a bit.” But when everything was ready—my suit, the set, the photographer—Dorothy was nowhere to be found. Her phone went unanswered. The staff stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do. The photographer, clearly a little nervous, cautiously asked, “So… should we start?” I stayed calm, as if I’d seen this coming. After all, her phone screen before she left had been open to a chat with Mason. “Yeah,” I said evenly. “Might as well. It’d be a shame to waste such a beautiful backdrop.” After all, I’d be leaving this city soon. These photos would be my last keepsake. When it was time to leave, I discovered Dorothy had taken the car. Stranded at the remote location, I ended up hitching a ride with the equipment truck. Squeezed between piles of lighting gear, I must’ve looked pretty pathetic. Still, I was grateful they gave me a lift. Without them, who knows how long I’d have been stuck out there. Back home, I reached out to the editor working on our wedding video. “Hi, sorry for the trouble, but there’s been a change. The couple in the wedding video has… shifted. I’ll need you to re-edit it.” Then I sent over a folder with several gigabytes of photos and videos. It wasn’t long before the editor replied, almost excitedly: “Oh, now this is a real couple! The chemistry is undeniable!” “The last two people looked like they hated each other. Every photo had this huge emotional gap between them—it was impossible to edit!” Even a stranger could tell who Dorothy was closest to. How could she not?
It wasn’t until the afternoon that Dorothy finally texted me an explanation: “Mason’s sick, and we have a show coming up. I can’t just leave him hanging.” It was a sloppy lie. Just a few hours earlier, I’d seen Mason’s Instagram story: “Helping a friend escape her controlling boyfriend,” accompanied by a picture of two hands making peace signs. “Just reschedule the photoshoot,” Dorothy added. “We’ll redo it later.” No. There’s no need to reschedule. There’s no need for a wedding at all. But I still replied politely: “Got it. Take care and focus on rehearsals.” I could see the “typing” indicator linger for a long time, as if she hadn’t expected me to be so calm. Finally, she sent a short response: “You too.” For the next few days, Dorothy didn’t contact me. Instead, her social media updates became more frequent—a steady stream of posts about rehearsals, low-calorie meals to stay in shape, and other curated snippets of her life. It felt deliberate, as if she wanted to make sure I saw everything. I obliged, liking every single post. Meanwhile, I stayed busy. I sorted through years of accumulated belongings, donating anything unnecessary. In the greenhouse, the roses I’d cultivated were in full bloom. I cut every last one, bundling them into two bouquets. Then, I headed to my advisor’s office. “Professor, thank you for everything these past few years. Please, take these.” My professor looked surprised. “I remember when you first planted these roses,” he said. “You told me you’d save them for someone important.” A sharp pang hit my chest, but I forced a smile. “Well, you are important to me.” We both knew it was a lie, but neither of us said anything more. My professor looked down at the vibrant roses. “They’re stunning. My wife will love them.” After saying goodbye, I went to the orphanage where I’d grown up and gave the other bouquet to the director. The children were playing outside, their laughter filling the air. As we sat in the garden, I told the director that I’d be heading out west soon to grow roses. She didn’t get a chance to respond before the kids swarmed her, reaching for the flowers. “They’re so pretty!” “Wow, these are amazing!” She smiled and began handing out the roses, one by one. A brave little boy looked up at me and asked, “Can you really grow roses in the desert?” I grinned mischievously. “Of course I can. Just wait and see.” “Whoa, that’s so cool!” When I left the orphanage, my phone was flooded with missed calls. I finally answered one, only to be met with an angry tirade: “Brian, you’re still Dorothy’s fiancé! It’s her 100th show, and you couldn’t even bother to show up? And don’t even get me started on your stupid roses—you couldn’t spare even one for her?!” “Marrying someone like you is the worst thing that could ever happen to her!” The same people who mocked me for giving Dorothy roses were now upset that I didn’t. I held the phone away from my ear, letting them rant until they ran out of steam. “I forgot,” I said flatly. “I’ll Venmo you some money. Buy whatever you want.” I opened the app, found their profile, and sent over a generous amount. Without waiting for a response, I hung up. They were probably already celebrating, even though tomorrow was supposed to be our wedding. As I finished packing my bags, ready to leave, Dorothy stormed through the door. Her face was cold and unreadable as she shoved past me, heading straight for the bedroom. I knew this routine. She wanted to start a silent war. In the past, I’d always been the one to break first, finding ways to win her back. And she’d always used that to her advantage—secure in the knowledge that I cared too much to let her go. But now? I was exhausted. The taxi was already waiting downstairs. As I walked out with my suitcase, I spotted Mason leaning casually against a car. He gave me a smug smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of your bride tonight. I’ll return her to you tomorrow.” His words dripped with mockery, but I didn’t care anymore. I gave him a glance before getting into the taxi. As the car pulled away, I sent Dorothy one last text: “Congratulations on your wedding.” Congratulations to you and Mason.
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