I tried.
God, I tried. I remembered the man who held my hand during thunderstorms and left post-its on the bathroom mirror. I missed him.
So I stayed. Hoping.
Our second anniversary was approaching, and for once, he had planned something. Told me to dress up, even booked a reservation at a place I’d mentioned months ago.
For the first time in ages, I felt a flicker of hope.
I spent hours getting ready. I did my makeup the way he liked. Wore the navy dress he’d complimented when we first shopped together.
I even curled my hair and wore the heels I usually avoided.
When we pulled up at the restaurant, it looked like something out of a movie. There were dim lights, white tablecloths, and a pianist playing softly in the corner. My heart swelled.
But as we walked toward our table, I stopped cold.
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