Or so I thought.
Three years later, I heard Elena was getting married.
A mutual friend mentioned it casually.
“She’s marrying a guy who works at a small auto shop. Not much money. Kind of… ordinary.”
I smiled when I heard that.
In my mind, it confirmed everything I wanted to believe:
that Elena had downgraded,
that she’d been bitter and impulsive,
that she’d lost without me.
I decided to attend the wedding.
Not to congratulate her.
But to prove—to myself—that I’d won.
The venue was modest. Tasteful. Warm.
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