He paused, caught off guard, before sneering, "Oh, learned how to play games with me, huh?" His tone grew darker, laced with venom. "Think about it—who's been keeping you afloat all this time? When you leave me, who else would want you after five years of being used?"
His words cut like a knife, but they didn't sting like they used to. The heartbreak, the fear, the nights spent apologizing—those feelings had numbed. Mom's passing had snapped me out of the fog, forcing me to see Mark for who he truly was.
"We've been together for eight years," I reminded him quietly.
Eight years of my youth were wasted on empty promises. If, in the past, I had been sad, I would have been afraid and I would have cried and apologized. But now, my heart is like a piece of dehydrated, frozen meat, numb to the knife.
'How could a man who hadn't been willing to give me a name for eight years truly want to marry me?'
I hung up, hailed a cab and went home to pack. Halfway through packing, I realized I didn't have much to gather. Mark had to go out to socialize; his suit and shirt hung all over the closet, while my side held only a few old pieces.