Roses everywhere. Soft music. Couples locked in intense eye contact. The waiter even called us “lovebirds,” and I nearly dissolved on the spot.
Jace was smiling too much. He downed half his wine in ten minutes. Meanwhile, I just poked at my pasta because my stomach felt like it was tumbling down a flight of stairs.
Halfway through dinner, he set his fork down.
“Briar… I don’t think I’m in this the way you are.”
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
He nodded calmly. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel excited anymore.”
Four years. Reduced to “not excited.”
“Not excited,” I repeated.
He sighed. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.”
He glanced around, like other couples might overhear. “I just don’t see a future. I thought I did. I don’t.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You told me to quit my job.”
“I didn’t force you.”
My hands started trembling. “You begged me to focus. You said you’d support me until I finished.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not saying I regret supporting you. I’m saying I can’t do it anymore.”
“So you waited until Valentine’s Day, in public, to tell me you’re done.”
“It’s not like that.”
“What is it, then?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel it.”
And just like that… something inside me gave up.
If he wanted out, I couldn’t force him to stay.
“Okay,” I said.
He looked relieved. “Okay?”
“Okay. Then we’re done.”
“Briar—”
