Marrying the Woman Who Sees Me

Eight years in the shadows, and Freda went Instagram official with someone else.

In the video, she was wrapping her arms around her handsome new designer, her smile warm and completely open. It was a look she had never given me.

The entire internet seemed to be shedding tears over their beautiful love story. Even a simple photo of them watching the sunset together had already gone viral, turning the location into the ultimate "relationship goals" travel spot.

Every top comment under the post felt like a eulogy for the eight years I had quietly given her:

I still remember when Damien lifted her up with one hand to let her make that shot on the court. Ive been dreaming of a love like that for years.

She loves him so much. Even when things were tough for her, she still made sure to set up a charity toy drive in his name.

A few friends who actually knew about us sent cautious texts, telling me to hang in there. I could only reply with a smiling emoji, just like I always did.

For an entire week, she ignored my messages.

As the sun was finally dipping below the horizon, she sent a single character back: K.

The delivery guy arrived with my dinner. My throat tightened, and I choked out over the phone to the restaurant, "You... you forgot the marinara sauce."

The guy on the line panicked. "Hey, man, don't cry. It's okay. I'll drive a new one over to you right now, okay?"

In that moment, I realized a total stranger was terrified of my tears.

Yet she had watched me suffer in the dark for eight years without a single shred of pity.

Eight years, and I still hadn't earned the right to stand beside her. So, I decided to stop trying.

Freda walked into the apartment carrying the crisp, sharp chill of early winter.

Seeing me packing my things, she didn't react. She simply held out a bundle of roses.

"Last ones at the florist," she said. "I remembered you liked roses, so I grabbed them."

The outer petals were already brown and curling at the edges. The thorns hadn't even been stripped, and they were wrapped carelessly in a few sheets of old newspaper.

I stared at the flowers for a long moment.

My mind drifted to the Instagram photos I had seen yesterday, posted by a mutual friend. Freda had been in Paris, accompanying Damien to a fashion show. At the auction, she had bid on every painting he wanted. At a Michelin-starred sushi bar, she had lovingly peeled his sweet shrimp for him.

That same day, I was at home fixing a burst pipe under our sink. I ended up spending six hours alone in the ER, hooked up to an IV.

She hadn't called. She hadn't texted.

Without a word, I tossed the roses into the trash can.

Fredas expression stiffened for a second, but she kept her voice gentle. "I really was busy this week, Jude. I didn't mean to make you wait."

"And those trending articles... you know how the tabloids love to twist things. It's not the first time. Don't be mad at me, okay?"

I looked at her face and suddenly let out a soft laugh. "Fine. Let's go public tonight. Post it on your feed right now."

She sighed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me. "Jude, don't do this. I told you, it's just not the right time."

I had heard that phrase for eight years.

When her company needed a plus-one for their gala, she chose someone elsebecause it wasn't the right time. When she was asked about her relationship status at the annual company party, she claimed she was singlebecause it wasn't the right time. Now, she was hard-launching another man with a radiant, shameless smile, and it still wasn't the right time for me.

When would it be the right time?

An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. "Give me your phone."

She hesitated, but handed it over anyway.

The lock screen was clean. On her messaging app, the only pinned chats were work groups and a few business partners.

I opened her contacts. My finger froze.

His contact name was My Boy.

My contact name was Jude.

Before I could even ask, she quickly explained, "We were playing a game at the afterparty. I lost a dare and had to change it."

I didn't say a word. I opened her cloud storage drive. There was a password-protected folder.

I tried my birthday. Access denied.

I tried hers. Access denied.

My mind went blank for a second. I typed in his birthday, and the folder opened.

Over ten thousand photos. All of him.

His profile as he bent over his sketchpad. A close-up of his fingers wrapping around a coffee mug. The way he squinted in the bright sunlight. Every single shot was taken with immense care, like a secret confession of devotion.

I looked up at her. "Is this for work, too?"

She stood frozen, completely silent. Then, she snatched the phone back and deleted the entire folder right in front of my face.

She stared at me, her expression hardening. "Are you happy now? Is that enough? What else do you want me to do?"

Her voice trembled at the end. I knew she was angry.

Before I could say anything, she turned and marched into the bathroom. When she came out, she was holding a spare duvet, heading straight for the guest bedroom.

"I'm sleeping in here tonight," she said coldly. "Your snoring is too loud. I can't get any rest."

Right before she closed the door, her phone rang. Even through the heavy wood, I could hear her voicesoft, sweet, cooing as she comforted whoever was on the other end.

I used to actually believe I snored. I used to feel so guilty about it. For an entire month, I recorded my sleep every night, desperate to find the cause so I could see a doctor.

There was no snoring on those tapes.

Only the occasional rustle of me turning over in bed. And her, murmuring in her sleep: "I miss you so much, Damien."

What was the exact moment things had started to change?

Maybe it was when she began coming home later and later, staring at her phone with a lingering smile. Or when she stopped drinking the herbal tea I brewed for her, switching instead to a sweet, cloying perfume I didn't recognize. Maybe it was when she stopped sharing her day with me, reducing our conversations to cold, one-word replies.

Or perhaps it was that one night when she stared at me for a long, quiet moment, and said, "Why don't you have any ambition? You're so ordinary. You're nothing like..."

She never finished that sentence.

To say it didn't hurt would be a lie. But as I packed, I realized how little of myself actually existed in this apartment. Everything I owned barely filled a single suitcase.

As I stood in the entryway, she walked out of the study to grab a glass of water. She glanced at me. "Going somewhere?"

"Yeah."

She nodded slowly, then turned and went back to her office.

In the back of the Uber, I opened our chat history. I scrolled up. It was a graveyard of one-sided effort:

"It's getting cold today. Wrap up warm."

"What do you want for dinner?"

"When will you be home?"

Her replies never exceeded three words.

I typed out a final text: It's over. I hope you get everything you ever wanted.

The moment I got out of the car, my best friend, Zack, threw his arms around me. I couldn't speak. My eyes burned with a fierce, hot pressure.

Once we settled into his apartment, we sat across from each other. He started counting on his fingers, his anger boiling over.

"I haven't forgotten how toxic she is," Zack said. "How many fires did you put out for her? And what did you get? She literally stood in front of a crowd of people and pretended she didn't even know you."

"Or what about that time you spent an entire month pulling all-nighters for that design proposal? She handed it over to someone else because she claimed your degree 'wasn't prestigious enough.'"

"And the most ridiculous part? You brewed custom remedies for her insomnia every single day, and she had the nerve to complain that you were 'lazy' and 'had too much free time' just because you took care of the house."

He grew red-faced, finally looking at me with a heavy sigh. "For years, every time you brought up marriage, she dodged. Jude, she was never your person."

"It's over, and that's a good thing. Cut your losses. I just... I genuinely don't get what you ever saw in her."

I forced a small, tired smile.

The truth was, I had fallen first.

Back then, I saw her kneeling on a rainy sidewalk to feed a stray dog, always willing to give her last dollar to help a friend. When I finally confessed my feelings, she stayed up all night thinking about it. I want to try, she had told me. Give me a chance, and Ill build a better life for us.

I knew there was someone else in her heart, but neither of us ever spoke his name. Maybe she wasn't a good partner, but there was a time when her love felt real.

Zack pulled out his phone, scrolling through Damiens social media. Damien's posts were mundane: what he ate, a sketch he drew, a cute florist shop he passed. And under every single post, Fredas handle sat at the very top of the likes.

"He's a master manipulator," Zack muttered. "Who can compete with that kind of calculated innocence?"

Seeing the look on my face, he softened. "You know what? Forget it. Let's get out of here. I'm taking you out."

The bar was dark, the bass vibrating deep in my chest. I looked up, and my heart seized.

Freda was walking in from the VIP entrance, guiding Damien through the crowd with her hand resting lightly on the small of his back, shielding him from the drunken patrons.

As they reached their booth, their circle of friends erupted:

"Look at that! Freda finally grew up!"

"I knew you two would end up together. Congrats, guys!"

Freda, unusually, remained quiet. But Damien offered a shy, modest smile. "Stop teasing us. She just saw I was bored and brought me out to clear my head."

I watched them, feeling an odd, hollow calm.

All night, Freda sat close to him. When he lost a drinking game, she immediately reached over and downed his shot without a second thought. When people joked about them, she didn't get defensive; she just laughed along.

I remembered a night when I had worked late, past eleven. I had texted her, keeping my tone as polite and small as possible: Do you think you could pick me up?

I waited an hour in the cold before she showed up. Her face was tight with irritation. "Can't you just call an Uber next time? I'm incredibly busy, Jude. I don't have time to be your personal chauffeur."

Just then, my coworker walked out of the office lobby, spotting her and asking with a warm smile if this was my girlfriend.

I had looked at her, hoping.

She had offered a polite, distant smile. "No, just a friend."

When the night ended, Zacks girlfriend came to pick him up. I sat alone on a bench, waiting for my ride.

A few minutes later, Freda walked out, supporting a tipsy Damien. She didn't notice me at first. She leaned down to button his overcoat, her movements so tender she might have been handling glass.

Then, as if remembering something, she pulled out her phone to call someone. She turned, and our eyes met.

Her brow instantly furrowed. "Going out to bars to find a replacement the very night we split? Is that why you wanted to break up, Jude?"

So that was how she saw me.

I didn't answer. I just sat there.

My Uber pulled up. Freda carefully tucked Damien into the backseat of her car, then marched over and grabbed my arm. "Get in. We'll drop you off."

I pulled my arm back. "No thanks. My ride is here. Go ahead."

Her impatience flared. "Just get in, Jude. I'm not leaving you out here."

The Uber driver honked, and to avoid a scene, I finally got into her passenger seat.

The ride was agonizing. She asked the driver to adjust the AC, then reached into the back to drape a soft throw blanket over Damien.

Damien stirred, blinking sleepily. "Freda... do you remember that Italian place near campus? You saved up for six months just to take me there."

Freda murmured softly in response.

They talked about their shared past the entire ride. I watched the neon lights of the city blur against the window, hearing nothing.

When we reached my complex, I got out. Freda followed me onto the sidewalk. Under the dim yellow streetlamp, she looked slightly uncomfortable.

"I know I've been distant lately. But Damien and I... it's not what you think."

"Throw a tantrum if you need to. But when you're done acting out, you can come home. I won't pressure you."

I let out a soft laugh. "There's no need. Do whatever makes you happy, Freda. Goodbye."

As I turned away, her voice cut through the cold air. "Don't regret this, Jude. Because when you come crawling back crying for me to take you back, I won't."

I didn't look back.

Inside my new apartment, I pulled out my phone and found my dad's contact. I hesitated for three seconds.

I typed: That blind date you mentioned... I'll go.

Two weeks later, I met Ella Crawford.

My father had described her as stiff and overly analytical, but she was the exact opposite. She was incredibly warm and attentive. She arrived twenty minutes early, and throughout dinner, she never asked a single invasive or awkward question. Every topic she brought up was tailored to my interests.

As we were talking, I caught a movement at the edge of my vision. Freda and Damien were walking toward our table.

Freda froze, her gaze darting between me and Ella. Before she could speak, Damien smiled and gently pulled her arm.

"Oh, is this your little brother? Looks like he's finally moving on."

Little brother. So that was the story she told the world.

I expected them to leave, but Freda kept her eyes locked on me. "Mind if we join you?"

I looked at Ella. She gave me a reassuring nod, so I agreed.

The moment they sat down, Freda flagged the waiter down, rattling off a list of demands:

"No onions, no garlic, no spicy elements in any of his dishes. And please make sure his water is room temperature. He has a sensitive stomach."

The waiter blinked, taking down the notes.

The rest of the meal passed in excruciating silence. Freda kept piling food onto Damiens plate. "Eat up. You've been working late on those designs, you're practically skin and bones. Your health comes first."

Damien chuckled, patting her hand. "Alright, alright, I get it. We have company, Freda."

Freda seemed to suddenly remember I was there. Her smile faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up a piece of shrimp with her chopsticks and placed it on my plate.

"You should eat more, too. You look thin."

Before I could say a word, a hand reached across the table and pulled my plate away.

Ella spoke, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Jude can't eat shellfish. It's a shame that after living with your 'little brother' for so long, you didn't even know he has a severe allergy. I suppose you must have been terribly busy, Ms. Heather."

Freda's face turned white.

Just as she opened her mouth to argue, Damien's eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways, sliding out of his chair.

"Damien!"

Freda practically threw herself onto the floor to catch him, lifting him in her arms and rushing out of the restaurant without casting a single glance back at me.

I stared at the empty plate where the shrimp had been, then looked up to meet Ella's worried eyes.

"You look pale. Do you need me to take you to the hospital?"

I shook my head.

After dinner, I declined Ellas sweet offer to drive me home. I took a cab to the local clinic myselfmy stomach had been acting up from stress.

As I walked through the lobby, I overheard a couple of nurses gossiping, their voices thick with envy.

"I'm serious! It was just a minor blood sugar drop, but his girlfriend was practically screaming at the attending doctor. She was so frantic!"

"God, they look like a movie couple. I need a girlfriend who cares about me like that."

I followed their gaze down the corridor. At the end of the hall, Freda was standing by Damien's hospital bed. She was a woman of few words, but right now, she was talking animatedly, her face flushed with concern.

Damien suddenly reached up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She let out a helpless, affectionate laugh, running her fingers through his hair.

I looked down, letting the scene fade.

The nurse at the desk asked, "Are you here alone? What seems to be the problem?"

"Nothing. I was just... checking on a friend."

For years, I had held onto the foolish hope that maybe Freda would turn around, that she would finally claim me in front of the world. But seeing her like that, the last embers of hope died.

It was okay. I still had time to save myself.

The next morning, I packed my resignation letter into my briefcase and went into the office. The elevator doors opened to a burst of laughter from the creative department.

"Damien, man! Hard work pays off! I knew that design award had your name on it!"

"You're on a roll lately, man. Career, love... you've got it all."

"Are those flowers from Freda? Oh, look at that ring! Congratulations!"

I walked straight past them and into Fredas office, laying the letter on her desk.

She pushed it back toward me. "You're doing fine here. Even if you're just an administrative assistant, it beats grinding it out in the cold."

I slid the letter back to her side.

She let out a dry, mocking laugh. "What? Found a new sugar mama? You can't wait to throw me away now?"

"Freda, be reasonable. You're the one who crossed the line. We broke up. What I do is none of your business."

She sneered. "Who am I to say anything? Before, you'd start a fight over going public, throw a tantrum and threaten to leave whenever you were unhappy. And now you don't even have the decency to ask before you quit?"

The office door suddenly burst open. Damien stood there, his eyes rimmed with red.

"Jude, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you and Freda used to be together... Please don't fight because of me."

In that split second, the blood rushed to my head. Before I could stop myself, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face.

Fredas reflexes were instantaneous. She shoved herself in front of him, shielding him with her body. She stared at me, cold and mechanical, as she threw my resignation letter back at my chest.

"Get out. You're fired. And before you leave, you will apologize to him."

I looked at her one last time, turned, and walked away. I stood outside the building I had worked in for five years, unable to believe this was how it ended.

I walked aimlessly down the street, my mind spinning. Suddenly, a car swerved around the corner, heading straight for me. I tried to jump back, but the bumper clipped my leg. A sharp, white-hot agony flared up my right shin.

I collapsed onto the cold pavement, my body shaking violently. With trembling fingers, I dialed Freda's number.

No answer.

Just as I was about to give up, the call connected. Her voice was ice-cold. "Are you ready to admit you were wrong? Apologize to Damien, and you can have your job back."

The world turned black, and I passed out.

When I opened my eyes, the doctor was standing over me, explaining the situation. "A fractured right tibia. You'll need to rest and undergo physical therapy. Don't take your youth for granted, young man."

I barely heard him.

My eyes drifted through the half-open door of my hospital room. Freda was standing in the corridor, cradling Damien in her arms. Between them, Damien was holding a golden retriever puppya breed she had always refused to let me have.

I had asked her a hundred times if we could get a dog. Every time, she told me they were too much work, too messy, that we didn't have the time. Yet there she was, holding the puppy as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

I stared at the display and let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

Just then, a crowd of reporters flooded the hallway, their cameras flashing.

"Mr. Enoch, is it true that you tried to insert yourself into Ms. Heather's relationship?"

"Freda Heather's partner is Damien Ward. Were you aware of that?"

"We heard you've been trying to sabotage their engagement. Is this a pattern of behavior for you?"

I forced myself up, clutching the side of the bed, and limped toward the exit. As I brushed past Freda, her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something.

But in the end, she turned to the cameras and said, "He and I have absolutely no connection."

After that, Freda never saw Jude again.

She convinced herself he was just throwing a tantrum. He had done this before, she reasoned. Hed always come back in a few days.

She called her housekeeper. "Make some of that restorative soup for Jude. Hes been looking pale lately."

The housekeeper paused on the other end. "Ms. Heather... Jude packed up everything and threw away the rest two days ago. He's not coming back."

Fredas fingers went cold.

At that moment, a notification popped up on her phone. Jude had posted on social media. It was a single photo of us from the early days, when we were happy, his smile bright and unburdened.

The caption read:

[Eight years in the dark. In the end, her heart belonged to someone else, and I was nothing but a ghost in her story.]