He shook his head.
“I love you. Isn’t that enough?”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
I loved him so much that I had spent years trying to make his hesitation hurt less. I had defended him to my friends, swallowed my disappointment, and convinced myself that patience was proof of my devotion.
But standing there, looking at the man I hoped would one day be my husband, I felt exhausted.
“No,” I finally whispered. “Love shouldn’t mean spending the rest of my life wondering whether you’ll ever choose me.”
I walked away before he could respond.
I locked myself in the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, covering my face with my hands.
I wasn’t crying because I needed a wedding.
I was crying because I had begun to suspect that I was the only person in our relationship who was still fighting for the future we had promised each other.
