Deep Love, Silent Sorrow

At the party, my girlfriend lost a round of Truth or Dare.

The crowd immediately started chanting, egging her on to list ten of my childhood best friend's greatest qualities.

Lyla didn't even hesitate.

He's outgoing, handsome, in great shape, and knows exactly how to charm people, she said, her voice bright. "He's always smiling, has high emotional intelligence, is incredibly capable, and has impeccable taste. Oh, and he really knows how to make people happy."

In the next round, Alan smiled and turned the question back to her. "What about Miles? What are Miles's best qualities, Lyla?"

Lyla looked at me, pausing for a few seconds.

When she finally spoke, she only offered a single word.

"Dependable."

Someone laughed to break the sudden tension. "And? What else?"

Lyla frowned, looking as if she were thinking incredibly hard. But after a long silence, she couldn't find a second thing to say.

In the middle of that awkward quiet, a wave of exhaustion washed over me.

Lyla and I had been together for seven years, and our wedding was scheduled for next week. Yet, after racking her brain, the only positive thing she could say about me was that I was dependable.

This time, I didn't want to be the dependable one anymore.

I stood up to leave, but someone slammed their hand on the table, laughing. "Don't go yet, Miles! One last round!"

"Let's play something spicy. Let's see who has the most chat history with whom on WhatsApp."

Alan chuckled, sliding his unlocked phone onto the center of the table. "Sure, why not? I've got nothing to hide."

But when the data popped up on the screen, the room went dead silent.

The person Lyla messaged the most wasn't me, her fianc.

It was Alan.

Someone let out a forced, nervous laugh. "Well, look at that. Lyla and Alan sure talk a lot."

Alan blinked, his tone light and breezy. "Well, Miles is just so mature, you know? He handles everything on his own. Lyla gets stressed out sometimes and needs someone to talk to."

As he spoke, he carelessly scrolled through the screen, accidentally revealing a snippet of their chat history.

Lylas text popped up: Miles is nagging about the wedding schedule again. He's so rigid.

Alans reply: Hes just too uptight. Unlike me. I think a wedding should just be fun and relaxed.

Lyla: Thats why talking to you is so much easier.

My fingers tightened around my glass.

A second later, another exchange slid into view.

Lyla: Miles is wearing that white shirt again today. Does he really think he looks good in white?

Alan: Don't be mean. But yeah, it's not really his vibe. Too plain.

Lyla: Yeah, you'd look much better in it.

The room was completely silent now.

I stood there, feeling as though something were choking me. A sharp, stinging ache spread through my chest, making it hard to breathe.

All my quiet anticipation, all the nervousness I had felt while trying on my wedding suit, were nothing more than gossip for Lyla to mock with Alan.

Alan walked over, casually putting an arm around my shoulder. "Don't be mad, Miles."

"If Lyla were talking to anyone else like this, I'd yell at her for you. But I'm your best friend." He tilted his head, his expression completely innocent. "I'm just keeping an eye on her for you. Isn't that a good thing?"

I stared at Alan's hand resting on my shoulder.

On his wrist was a sleek, silver watch. A few days ago, Lyla had sent me a picture of that exact watch while she was away on a business trip, asking if I thought it looked nice.

I had stared at that photo for a long time, my heart bursting with joy as I typed back, It's beautiful.

I had assumed it was a surprise gift for our wedding. I had even planned to act surprised when she came home, pretending I didn't know anything about it.

I had waited days for that surprise. And now, there it was, sitting on Alan's wrist.

I slowly reached up and brushed his hand off my shoulder.

Alans eyes immediately turned red. "Miles, do you not even trust me anymore?"

Lyla finally frowned, her voice tight with irritation. "Miles, it's just a game. Don't be so sensitive."

When she said those words, any lingering sadness I had felt instantly vanished, replaced by a dull emptiness. I stood up, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm tired. I'm going home."

I made it all the way to the front door before realizing I had left my coat on the back of the sofa.

When I went back to get it, the door to the private room was cracked open.

"Lyla, are you seriously not going after him?" someone was asking in a hushed tone. "Miles looked incredibly pale."

Lyla was silent for a moment, but her voice was entirely dismissive when she spoke. "Miles won't actually stay mad."

"Hes too dependable. Give him a night of sleep, and he'll be fine."

My hand froze on the brass doorknob.

"Alan's the one who was embarrassed by the teasing," she added. "I need to comfort him first."

My fingers grew cold against the metal.

The word dependable felt like a blunt knife. It didn't draw blood, but it slowly carved away at my chest.

I didn't go back into the room.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from our wedding planner.

Mr. Barret, are you sure you want to cancel the wedding? You've spent over half a year preparing this. From the specific camellias to the soft lighting, the textured invitations, the seating cards... you personally approved every single detail. It would be such a shame to cancel now.

I stared at the rendering of the venue she had sent.

I remembered how, in the beginning, I had wanted a wedding filled with white camellias. But Lyla had taken one look at the design and sighed.

Alan says camellias are too plain. A wedding should be lively and bright.

So, the camellias were replaced with the red roses Alan preferred.

I had wanted soft, golden lighting. Lyla had countered, Alan says warm orange makes for better photos.

I had wanted simple, elegant invitations. Lyla had insisted, Let's go with Alan's idea. He has better taste.

Eventually, the wedding I had spent six months planning had been systematically stripped away, replaced with everything Alan liked. And I, the groom, was reduced to nothing more than a name on the invitation.

The planner sent another message: Are you absolutely certain about the cancellation?

I looked at the unrecognizable rendering of the venue and let out a quiet laugh.

Yes, I am certain, I replied. I will cover all the cancellation fees.

When I returned to our apartment, I began packing my things.

Lyla and I had chosen this place together. She had promised me that after a long day of work, the porch light would always be on, a pot of warm soup would be waiting in the kitchen, and the balcony would be lined with my favorite camellias.

It had sounded like a dream.

But looking around now, the apartment was filled with Alan's presence. The fridge was stocked with his favorite peach soda, his jacket was draped over the back of our sofa, and the groomsman's suit hanging next to mine looked far more tailored and exquisite than my own wedding attire.

I stood in the closet, staring at the two suits.

A bitter ache rose in my chest. Even before the ceremony had begun, the space that was supposed to belong to me had already been claimed by Alan.

I didn't cry.

I simply packed my passport, my documents, and a few change of clothes into a small suitcase.

Halfway through packing, the front door unlocked. Lyla was home.

She carried a small designer bag, her tone carrying a hint of performative warmth. "Honey, don't be mad anymore."

"I was walking past the store and saw these obsidian cufflinks. I remembered you saying you liked obsidian."

She opened the box, revealing a pair of dark, polished cufflinks.

I did like obsidian.

Years ago, I had stared at a pair through a shop window for a long time, but I couldn't bring myself to buy them because of the price. Lyla had held my hand then, whispering, When we get married, I'll buy you the best pair in the world.

Now she had finally bought them. But they were cufflinks.

And I never wore French cuff shirts. The only person who wore them was Alan.

Lyla wrapped her arms around my waist from behind. "Let's just put tonight behind us, okay?"

I looked down at the box. Before I could speak, a paper receipt slipped from the designer bag, fluttering onto the floor.

The amount listed was staggering.

It was for a silk tie, costing ten times the price of the cufflinks.

I recognized the brand instantly. Thirty minutes ago, Alan had posted a picture of that exact tie on social media.

His caption had been: Groom's gift from a certain someone. I'm going to be the most handsome groomsman next week.

I stared at the receipt, and a hot tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the paper.

The warmth in Lylas face vanished, replaced by irritation. "Why are you crying again?"

"Miles, honestly, this is exhausting."

Her words hit me like a physical blow.

I remembered how she used to react when I cried. She used to panic, clumsily wiping my tears away as she held me close, whispering, Miles, please don't cry. My heart breaks whenever you do.

Once, after a nightmare woke me up in tears, she had driven across three neighborhoods in the middle of the night just to buy me a bowl of hot soup.

She had told me, You didn't have anyone to comfort you when you were little. From now on, every time you cry, I'll be here to hold you.

Back then, she truly cared.

But now, my tears were only met with a sigh of exhaustion.

When your tears no longer touch a person's heart, it's time to dry your eyes.

I wiped my face and said quietly, "I'm fine."

Lyla looked relieved. She leaned in to kiss me, but I instinctively turned my head away.

Her expression turned completely cold, and she ran a frustrated hand through her hair. "Fine. Get some space and calm down."

With that, she turned and locked herself in the study.

Later that night, as I was preparing to turn off the lights, the iPad on my nightstand lit up. Lylas accounts were still synced to it.

I had only intended to turn the screen off, but the notification banner that popped up caught my eye. Alan's name on the screen sent a dull ache through my chest.

Alan: Did you make up with him?

Lyla: No. He's getting harder and harder to deal with lately.

Alan: Did you give him a proper makeup session tonight?

A few seconds passed before Lyla's reply appeared.

Lyla: Don't ask. He rejected me. Honestly, we've been together for seven years. I've lost any physical spark with him anyway. I'm actually glad he turned me down, otherwise I would have had to force myself to touch him.

I stared at the screen.

My eyes burned, but no tears came.

Even showing me affection had become a chore she had to force herself to perform.

I shut down the iPad.

I placed the obsidian cufflinks back into the designer bag, setting them next to my engagement ring on the entryway table. It felt like returning a dream that had finally ended.

Right then, my phone buzzed with a confirmation email.

My ticket was booked. Tomorrow at 3:00 AM, a one-way flight to Iceland.

From this moment on, wherever I flew in the world, I would never land by her side again.

The next morning, as I dragged my suitcase past the study, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.

Lylas soft laughter drifted out.

She was on a video call. On the screen, Alan was lounging in bed, holding a sheet of paper.

"Lyla, this part of your wedding vows is way too formal," he teased, reading aloud. "Miles, thank you for seven years of companionship..."

He let out a scoff. "It sounds like a corporate speech."

Lyla laughed. "I'm just not good at writing that kind of stuff."

Alan propped his chin on his hand, looking at her through the screen. "You could say something like, 'You are my spring, the only person who makes me feel truly light and alive.' Doesn't that sound more romantic?"

Lyla was quiet for a moment, her voice dropping. "That sounds more like you."

The call fell silent.

Alan asked softly, "Are you sure you want to say that to Miles?"

Lyla didn't answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. "It doesn't matter who I read it to at the altar."

"Just pretend I'm secretly saying it to you."

I stood outside the door, my chest feeling as though it were being slowly torn open.

For my vows, I had filled three entire pages, editing them over and over to find the perfect balance between sincerity and love. I had asked Lyla if we could write them together, but she had dismissed it, saying, There's no need for that kind of performance.

It wasn't that she didn't care about vows. She just didn't care about writing them for me.

Alan leaned closer to his camera, his voice a whisper. "Then come closer."

Lyla didn't turn away. She simply stared at the screen and let out a soft sigh. "Alan, stop. I'm getting married next week."

Alan looked down, his voice laced with artificial sorrow. "I know. That's why I wanted to be selfish one last time before you belong to someone else."

Lyla didn't scold him. Her silence was a quiet indulgence.

My fingers turned numb. If she truly felt he was crossing a line, why hadn't she hung up the phone?

Alan quickly shifted to the designs for the wedding venue. "Do we have to display all your old relationship photos? It makes me sad to see how happy you two used to be."

Lyla looked at the screen and replied quietly, "Let's just take them down then. Miles is dependable, he won't mind."

I felt a sudden, sharp sting in my eyes.

That photo wall was the only part of the wedding I had fought to keep.

Photos of the first snow we watched together, of our very first vacation where she held my hand tightly, of the birthday cake she had baked for me... I had curated those memories so carefully because I believed they were proof of our love.

But with a single complain from Alan, Lyla dismissed them entirely.

When your heart is broken completely, the pain fades into a dull, hollow numbness.

I quietly turned and dragged my suitcase toward the front door.

My phone buzzed. It was the wedding planner.

Mr. Barret, Ms. Barlow just confirmed that the photo wall is canceled and the vows have been updated by Mr. Ward. Are you absolutely certain you want to cancel the wedding?

I stared at the text and typed a final reply.

Yes. Cancel it.

The cold morning air rushed into the hallway as I opened the door. I pulled my suitcase behind me, stepping out into the dawn.

Lyla had deleted seven years of our memories with a single sentence. And now, I was leaving her behind.

As I stood at the gate, waiting to board my flight, the official cancellation notice finally reached Lylas phone.

She immediately called the planner, her voice trembling. "What is the meaning of this?"

The planner sounded more shocked than she was. "Mr. Barret canceled the wedding himself. He said he accepted a job in Iceland and won't be coming back."

"Ms. Barlow... did you not know?"