Patrick always told me we needed more time before moving in together. More time before getting engaged. More time before making any real commitment. But the second I inherited a fully paid-off apartment? He couldn’t wait a second longer. And that’s when I knew—I was never his first choice.
For years, I watched my friends fall in love, get engaged, and start their lives with partners who adored them. Meanwhile, I was the one always third-wheeling, the one asked to take cute couple photos, the one joking about how I’d probably end up a crazy cat lady—even though I didn’t even own a cat.
He had this effortless charm and when he looked at me like I was the most interesting person in the room, I fell for it. Hard.
For two years, I ignored the little things. The way he never really gave—not gifts, not time, not effort. The way he still lived with his mom and had no plans to change that. The way he dodged every single conversation about moving in together or, marriage.
“We don’t know each other well enough yet,” he always said, usually while scrolling through his phone.