Goodbye, Mr. Perfect

My boyfriend of ten years, Ethan Carter, was perfect.

He was handsome, brilliant, and successful. His only flaw? He loved tearing me down.

If I got an A- instead of an A+, he'd tell me I wasn't trying hard enough.

When I finally made my first dollar writing online, he told me my stories were utter trash.

Later, at the bridal boutique, when Ethan stared at me and sneered that my body wasn't good enough to look like a real bride...

I finally snapped. For the first time in a decade, I screamed at him: "If you think I'm so terrible, why the hell are you marrying me?"

At the bridal boutique, when I stepped out of the fitting room, even the strangers nearby gasped.

The stylist smiled warmly. "Miss Miller, you're so tall and elegant. This dress looks absolutely stunning on you."

"Go show your fianc. He's going to fall in love with you all over again."

I smiled back nervously. "Maybe. He's... a bit of a perfectionist."

After ten years with Ethan, I knew his standards. He had never complimented me. Not once.

But today, looking at myself in the mirror, with my defined waist and glowing skin perfectly framing the delicate lace of the gown, I couldn't help but hope.

Surely, Ethan would like this.

Right?

Would he finally call me beautiful? Would his jaw drop like the other grooms in the shop?

My heart pounded with nervous anticipation as I walked over and gently tugged on Ethan's sleeve.

But a second later, my hope was brutally crushed.

Ethan turned around. He looked me up and down with cold, calculating eyes.

The first words out of his mouth were: "Maya, you're still too fat."

My smile froze. The stylist beside us went completely stiff.

"Your face looks bloated, your arms look thick, and your shoulders look way too broad. It's totally unflattering."

Ethan sighed, sounding deeply disappointed. "Maya, you don't look like a bride at all in that."

His voice wasn't incredibly loud, but it was clear enough for everyone in the boutique to hear.

Dozens of eyes locked onto mesome pitying, some mocking, some just watching the drama unfold.

In that moment, I didn't feel like a human being. I felt like a piece of cheap merchandise Ethan was inspecting and rejecting.

Tears welled up in my eyes, choking the breath right out of my throat.

To fit into this dress, I had done exactly what he wanted. I ran every single day.

For three months, I starved myself, living on tiny portions, losing twenty pounds just so I could look perfect on our wedding day.

Why was he still doing this to me?

Maybe it was the months of hunger, or maybe it was the agonizing weight of shattered expectations.

Whatever it was, the girl who had endured his insults for ten years was gone.

I ripped the veil off my head. For the first time in my life, I screamed at him.

"Ethan! If you think I'm so terrible, then don't marry me!"

"You're right, I don't look like a bride. So we're not doing this. The wedding is off!"

While Ethan stared at me in absolute shock, I took a deep breath, finally saying the words that had haunted my mind for years:

"Ethan, we're over. I'm leaving you."

By the time my best friend, Chloe, came to pick me up, I still couldn't stop crying.

The moment I posted on my Snapchat that the wedding was canceled, my phone blew up.

Most of the messages were variations of: "Maya, are you crazy? What did Ethan do?"

"He's such a great guy. If you let him go, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Even my mom took his side. "I talked to Ethan. It was just a stupid dress, Maya. You're overreacting. Don't throw away a good man over nothing."

Meanwhile, Ethan sent me a text with just three words: *Stop being dramatic.*

Staring at my phone, a profound sense of helplessness washed over me.

No one understood.

To the rest of the world, Ethan was the perfect catch.

He was drop-dead gorgeous, highly successful, made bank, and had been loyal to me for ten years.

His only "quirk" was that he liked to "motivate" me by pointing out my flaws.

We were childhood sweethearts. We grew up on the same block.

He had always been the golden boythe straight-A student, the star athlete, the one who excelled at everything while I struggled to keep up.

But life has a way of balancing things out. In exchange for his genius, he had a miserable home life.

His mother passed away when he was young, and his father was a workaholic who barely noticed him unless Ethan brought home a trophy or an Ivy League acceptance.

Because of that, Ethan grew up fast.

While other kids were playing tag in the yard, Ethan was winning state math championships.

That cold, lonely upbringing turned him into a reserved, distant man. But with me, he showed his sharp, critical tongue.

If I got a B instead of an A, he would tap my head and tell me I "wasn't smart enough." He'd point at my wrong answers and demand to know how I could make "such stupid mistakes."

If I got third place in a writing competition, he'd roll his eyes, completely disappointed, and call me a "slacker."

Growing up, my mom's favorite phrase was, "Look at Ethan. He's so brilliant, always top of his class, winning every award. Why can't you be more like him?"

I spent my entire youth living in Ethan's shadow.

I hated how he made me feel worthless, and I hated how my mom constantly compared us.

But when our teenage hormones kicked in, our friends called us "enemies to lovers."

They told me that the way Ethan treated me was just his way of showing he cared.

Even when Ethan asked me out, he said: "Maya, if I didn't love you, do you really think I'd care enough to push you this hard?"

That was the first time he had ever spoken to me so softly. His eyes were warm, filled with a rare, gentle smile.

With everyone around us cheering, I ignored the quiet warning bells ringing in my heart.

I foolishly said yes.

And that foolishness lasted ten years.

Chloe was my best friend from college, and she was the only one who supported my decision to walk away.

Back in college, Ethan once asked me to meet him at the library to study.

Waking up at 7 AM on a Saturday wasn't easy. Even though I practically sprinted across campus, I was two minutes late.

Ethan sat there, arms crossed, his face dark with annoyance. "Maya, why do you have zero sense of time?"

"If you're like this at a job, are you going to keep clients waiting too? What if a million-dollar contract is on the line?"

I automatically started to apologize, but Chloe, who was just returning from a morning run, pulled me behind her.

"Waking up early on a Saturday just to study with you is torture enough. Maya is amazing for even showing up," Chloe snapped.

"And she was literally two minutes late. Do you really need to make a federal case out of it?"

From that day on, Ethan and Chloe hated each other.

But Chloe loved to praise me. If I got a B+, she cheered. If I passed my finals, she threw a mini-celebration. Even if I just managed to drag myself to an 8 AM lecture, she'd tell me I was doing great.

She'd say, "Don't listen to Ethan. Our Maya is the absolute best!"

That kind of validation was something I had never experienced in my twenty-something years of life.

Naturally, I loved spending time with her.

But Ethan despised her. "She only praises you to make you complacent. She's keeping you blind to your own flaws."

"Constructive criticism is the only way to grow. Pointing out your weaknesses is how I show I actually care about your future."

Whenever Chloe's name came up, Ethan's jaw would clench, and his lips would press into a thin, tight line.

I knew that look. It meant he was angry, and whenever he got angry, I was the one who got lectured.

I wanted to defend Chloe. I wanted to tell him she wasn't like that. But a familiar, paralyzing fear would creep over me, keeping me rooted to the spot.

I was terrified.

I was terrified of his anger, terrified of his disappointment.

When Chloe heard about it later, she just sighed. "Maya, when someone spends years chipping away at your self-esteem, it's incredibly hard to break free."

"Take your time."

So today, when I finally told her I had dumped him, Chloe was ecstatic.

She hugged me tightly and whispered, "Congratulations, babe. You're finally free."

Chloe took me to her apartment and let me move into her spare bedroom.

When she showed me the room, her eyes were shining. "Maya, look! I decorated it just for you!"

I stared at the pastel pink walls, the cute Disney desk, and the plush doll resting on the bed. For a moment, I was completely dazed.

Since moving in with Ethan, how long had it been since I'd owned anything like this?

Ethan was a strict minimalist. Our apartment was a sterile void of black, white, and gray.

Whenever I brought home anything pink or cute, he would sneer, calling my taste "utterly tacky and childish."

The memory hit me, and tears began to stream down my face again. I hugged Chloe, sobbing into her shoulder.

If Ethan was a ten-year nightmare I couldn't wake up from...

Then Chloe was the universe's way of healing me.

A few days later, I went back to the apartment to pack my things.

I didn't expect Ethan to be there, but when I opened the door, he was sitting on the couch.

He lazily looked up at me. "Are you done throwing your tantrum? Are you ready to come home?"

I forced myself to keep my voice steady. "I'm not throwing a tantrum, Ethan. I meant what I said. We are over."

"I'm only here to pack my things."

To my surprise, Ethan didn't yell. He just sat there, legs crossed, hands folded, watching me with a smug, knowing smirk.

I swallowed the knot in my throat and started packing.

Truthfully, I didn't have much.

Most of the things in the apartment were bought by Ethan after we moved in together.

When we first started living together, he saw my colorful coffee mugs and patterned towels and frowned.

"Maya, your things look so cheap. They're an eyesore."

The next day, he threw them all in the trash and replaced them with gray ones.

When I tried to confront him, he just shrugged. "Your things were embarrassing. They didn't fit the aesthetic, so I upgraded them."

That was the first time I actually wanted to break up.

I couldn't understand why a simple personal preference had to be treated like a crime.

But my mom talked me out of it. "He bought you nicer things, Maya. Let it go. You guys have been together for so long, don't throw it away over some mugs."

So, I compromised.

Only years later did I realize: it wasn't a small thing.

Nothing that makes you feel small is ever a small thing.

The only part of that apartment I actually loved was my writing corner.

A simple desk, a lamp, and my laptop. That was where I had written countless stories.

I had loved writing since I was a kid, but Ethan always scolded me for "wasting my time on useless fantasies," so I had put my dream on hold.

In college, with more free time, I started writing online again. Ethan was my very first reader.

I had eagerly shown him my draft, hoping for a shred of encouragement. But after skimming it, he cold-boiled me with a glare. "This is absolute garbage, Maya. It makes no sense."

"You have zero talent for writing. Give it up."

But for once in my life, I loved something too much to listen to him.

I kept writing. And to my surprise, my stories started getting popular.

When I received my first payment from the platform, I proudly showed him my dashboard. "Look! I made three hundred dollars from my writing!"

I wanted to prove to him that people liked my work. That they were willing to pay for it.

I wanted to prove that I wasn't as useless as he said.

But how did Ethan react?

He glanced at the screen for a split second, then looked up with utter disdain. "Useless trash."

He looked down at me like I was a charity case. "There are a lot of gullible people on the internet who probably felt sorry for a newbie. You actually think this means you're a good writer?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

Every single word was a dagger, popping the tiny bubble of hope in my chest and leaving a bleeding, aching wound.

After that day, no matter how much money I made from my books, I never mentioned my writing to Ethan again.

Now, standing in my old writing corner, I took a deep breath and prepared to pack my laptop.

But when I touched the trackpad, the screen lit up.

My heart stopped.

The folder containing my latest manuscript was gone.

It was a 100,000-word draft. Every single sentence had been carefully crafted, representing months of sleepless nights and absolute devotion.

I frantically checked the recycle bin. I searched the temporary Word files.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

There was only one person who could have done this.

"I deleted it," Ethan's voice echoed from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, looking at me with dark, unreadable eyes. "I realized this useless trash was giving you delusions of grandeur."

"Did you honestly think you could support yourself and leave me with some silly internet stories?"