Caitlin and I had been a "we" for eight years. Three days before we were supposed to say "I do," I found a hidden folder on her laptop. It contained over ten thousand photos of the same man. I didn't confront her. Instead, I quietly booked a one-way ticket out of the country for the morning of our wedding. I watched her spend those final seventy-two hours performing the role of the blushing bride, all while I prepared my disappearance. The day of the wedding, the groom went missing. And that was the day she finally lost her mind. … "Mr. Henderson, does that opening at the London branch still exist? I’ve thought about it. I want in." My boss’s voice crackled through the line, sounding immensely relieved. "Really? That’s fantastic news, Miles! I’ll get your paperwork submitted immediately. I’ve always said a man with your talent belongs on the global stage, but I heard you were getting married..." "It’s off," I said, my voice catching slightly. "Don't worry about it. It’s not happening." A bitter smile ghosted across my lips, my hand trembling as I gripped the phone. Before he could ask anything else, I hung up. I turned back to the glowing screen of Caitlin’s laptop. Ten thousand photos. A digital shrine to a man who wasn't me. We had started at the same architectural firm right after graduation, working in different departments. Tonight, she was at a bachelorette party her bridesmaids had thrown for her. Her phone was off. My director had called me, frantic for a file she’d been working on, so I’d opened her laptop for the first time in nearly a decade. And there he was. Eight years of memories hit me like a physical blow. Caitlin wasn't like other women. In all the time we’d been together, she’d never posted a photo of us. Not on Instagram, not on Facebook. No digital footprint of our life together. No matter how much I’d swallowed my pride and asked her to share just one moment of us with the world, she’d always dismiss it. "We see each other every day, Miles," she’d say. "Why do we need to prove it to strangers?" I realized then that it wasn't that she didn't believe in "proving it." It was just that I wasn't the one worth proving. For eight years, I had built a cathedral of excuses for her indifference. I used to stay late at the office, hoping she’d call to ask when I was coming home. I’d wait until two in the morning, only to walk through the door and find her sleeping back turned toward me. My own persistence felt like a punchline to a joke I wasn't in on. I remembered something her maid of honor, Sophie, had let slip when we announced the engagement. "Wow, Caitlin. I really thought you were going to be the martyr for Beck forever. You’re actually doing it? This isn't just... you know, a spite thing?" At the time, I hadn't noticed the way Caitlin’s eyes darted away, or the way her posture crumbled for a split second. I had just puffed out my chest and said, "It’s about love, Sophie." I didn't have the heart to say those words now. I took a shaky breath and closed the laptop. I opened my phone to text her that it was over, but then I saw our message thread. She hadn't even replied to the photo of the tuxedo I’d sent her twenty-four hours ago. I clicked on her Instagram. Her profile was a void—no posts, a black profile picture. But her bio had changed to a single word. Waiting. I sank onto the sofa, the air leaving my lungs. I used to think she was just reserved, a woman of few words and deep, quiet thoughts. How naive. How pathetic. I’d asked her about that "Waiting" status a dozen times, and she’d never given me an answer. Now, the answer was staring me in the face. The countdown to our wedding—three days away—was set as my live wallpaper. I watched the seconds tick down, my eyes stinging. Just as I was about to book my flight, Sophie called me. "Miles? Caitlin’s trashed. You need to come get her. I’ll send you the address." In the background, I heard Caitlin’s voice, slurred and raw, calling out a name. Beck. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. Sophie hung up immediately, clearly trying to hide the sound. I shook myself, trying to numb the sensation. I grabbed my coat and headed for the door. On the console table by the entrance, I saw the matching leather keychains I’d had custom-made for us—embossed with the coordinates of where we first met. Every "romance guide" online said women loved meaningful gifts like that. She’d called it "juvenile" and never put it on her keys. I picked hers up and dropped it into the trash can. Then I saw the "Mr. and Mrs." mugs sitting unopened under the coffee table. They felt like tiny porcelain monuments to my own delusion. A wave of cold, sharp clarity washed over me. I grabbed a trash bag and began sweeping everything "couple-y" into it. Once the house was scrubbed of my sentimentality, I caught a cab to the bar Sophie had mentioned. As I reached the door of the private lounge, a burst of laughter drifted out. "So, Beck’s back in town today? Does he know Caitlin’s getting married in three days? Talk about bad timing." I leaned against the doorframe, forced a smile onto my face, and pushed it open. The room went dead silent. The atmosphere turned curdled and awkward. There she was—the woman I was supposed to marry in seventy-two hours—leaning her head with soft, drunken vulnerability on the shoulder of another man. The man from the photos. Beck. Sophie looked panicked. She tried to pull Caitlin away from him, but Caitlin was too far gone. She swiped Sophie’s hand away. "Stop it! Leave me alone!" I had never seen her this drunk. Sophie whispered urgently in her ear, "Miles is here! Caitlin, wake up! You’re getting married..." A few others jumped in, finally prying her hand off Beck’s arm. She slumped back into the velvet sofa, her face flushed crimson. Sophie rushed over to me, her voice a frantic whisper. "This is Beck, an old high school friend. He’s been living in London since sophomore year of college. He just landed today and surprised us. Caitlin just had one too many... don't read into it." A year ago, I would have lost it. I would have demanded to know why they invited him, why they were letting this happen. But now? I just gave a hollow, easy smile. Beck was watching me with a look of bored curiosity. When Sophie finally stammered out the word "fiancé," Caitlin, who had been silent, suddenly snapped: "He's a friend!" My hands balled into fists inside my pockets. My fingernails bit into my palms so hard it drew blood. The room turned even colder. This wasn't the first time she’d denied me. She’d refused to post us, refused to let us walk into the office together, refused to even invite our extended families to the "small ceremony" she insisted on. I’d known the truth for a long time; I was just trying to win a bet I’d placed eight years ago. I’d bet my life that I could make her love me. I lost. "Hey," I said, nodding at Beck, my voice steady. "I’m Miles, Caitlin’s 'friend.' You look a lot more mature than you do in your old photos." The silence in the room became absolute. People traded horrified glances. Beck didn't seem bothered. He smirked, tucked an unlit cigarette behind his ear, and reached for the fruit platter on the table. My pulse spiked. Caitlin had always forbidden me from smoking. As his hand moved toward the bowl, Caitlin suddenly sat bolt upright, her eyes wide. "Beck, no! You’re allergic to mangoes!" Beck’s hand froze. He looked at her, a slow, amused grin spreading across his face. "You still remember that? You idiot, these are watermelon slices. You’re wasted." Something inside me shattered. The shards felt like they were lacerating my lungs. It wasn't that she had a bad memory. She just didn't care about mine. For eight years, I had reminded her that I was deathly allergic to shellfish and ragweed. Yet, her first choice for every anniversary was a seafood grill. She insisted on fresh lilies in the house every spring. I’d gone from being angry to being compliant, carrying an EpiPen and Benadryl everywhere, telling myself she was just "overwhelmed with work." But here she was, in a drunken stupor, remembering a high school boyfriend’s fruit allergy. I stepped forward, my face a mask of indifference, and hoisted her up from the sofa. As I led her out to the street, Beck followed us. He stood on the sidewalk, his eyes twinkling with a mix of warmth for her and provocation for me. "Caitlin’s a light sleeper when she’s had this much," he said, his voice dripping with faux-concern. "And she’s sensitive to the chemicals in Advil. Make her some honey water—make sure it’s not hotter than 140 degrees, or she’ll complain it's burnt. If she kicks the covers off tonight, put them back immediately, or she’ll have a fever by morning." Things Caitlin had never told me. I ground my teeth, said nothing, and opened the car door. "Wait," Beck said, pulling out his phone. "Let me get your number. In case she’s feeling rough in the morning, you can check in with me. I know her rhythm better than anyone." I looked into his squinted, arrogant eyes and nodded. We swapped contacts. The moment the notification popped up, I saw his wallpaper. It was a photo of him and Caitlin from a decade ago—young, raw, their fingers intertwined with a grip that looked like it would never let go. I got into the car and closed the door. As we pulled away, a single tear tracked down my face. People always talked about the power of a "first love," and I’d always scoffed at it. I believed that consistency and devotion would always win. I was wrong. Caitlin’s phone buzzed in her purse. It was a text from Beck: Did you make it home safe, Moon? I unlocked her phone—her password was still the date they’d met, I realized now—and saw a chat with her best friend. The wedding is my last move. If he doesn't come back for me after this, I’m finally done. Post the announcement in the alumni group. Make sure he sees it. My finger hovered over the screen. I locked the phone and stared out the window. I couldn't breathe. It felt like the oxygen in the car had turned into lead. So that was it. The sudden proposal three weeks ago, the rush to have a "simple" ceremony, the refusal to let me buy her a real diamond because it was "too much trouble." I thought I had finally earned her heart. In reality, I was just the bait. The last flicker of love I had for her went out like a candle in a storm. If I was leaving, then whatever happened between them was no longer my concern. When we got home, she had sobered up enough to stumble into the bathroom to wash her face. I made the honey water, exactly 140 degrees. I wanted these last three days to be a clean break—no regrets, no "what ifs." As I sat on the sofa, Mr. Henderson called to discuss my handover. When I hung up, Caitlin was standing in the doorway, drying her hair with a towel. Her voice was sharp. "Handover? Where are you going?" I handed her the mug. "Just a business trip," I said quietly. She didn't push. She didn't care enough to. She took a sip of the water and her brow furrowed. She slammed the mug down on the table. "Who taught you to make it like this? Don't look up 'hangover cures' on TikTok, Miles. It doesn't work for everyone." She turned and marched into the bedroom. I looked at the mug. Even when I did exactly what her "ghost" wanted, I was still the wrong man. The next day was supposed to be our wedding photoshoot. She woke up as if nothing had happened, her usual cold self. But now that I’d seen her look at Beck, I knew "cold" wasn't her nature. It was just her treatment of me. As we were about to head out, she checked her phone. "Let’s change the location," she said. "Not the park. Let's go to the old high school campus. I saw a trend online—it looks more 'authentic'." My hand stopped as I was clearing the breakfast plates. "Sure. Whatever you want." I knew why she changed it. Beck had posted a photo of the campus gates that morning, saying he was visiting his old stomping grounds. I didn't call her out. I didn't want to spend my final thirty-six hours in this country arguing. I wanted to leave with some dignity. I didn't even pack my tuxedo. She never noticed.
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