I Am Actually Already Getting Married

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My aggressively commitment-phobic boyfriend dropped a bombshell on the eve of April Fools Day.

He looked me dead in the eye, his expression completely earnest, and told me he wanted to get married.

I froze for a fraction of a second. Then, I gave a soft, almost imperceptible shake of my head and told him there was no need for all that.

A wave of palpable relief washed over him. He actually patted his chest, letting out a breath, and promised that whenever I was ready, all I had to do was say the word.

I couldn't help the small smile that broke across my face. I looked right into his eyes, my voice dead calm, and told him that I was, in fact, already getting married.

1.

"What did you just say?"

Barons face darkened instantly.

A long, suffocating silence stretched between us before he let out a scoff. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray with deliberate slowness and sank back into the leather sofa.

"Sophie, it's not April Fool's yet. Don't play these kinds of games."

"I get it. You want a ring. But cut the crap with these ultimatums, or I'm actually going to get pissed."

He narrowed his eyes, crossing one leg over the other, studying me from beneath heavy lids.

Then, as if tossing a bone to a stray, he offered his compromise. "A couple more years, and well tie the knot. Its just too early right now. I just want a few more years of peace and quiet."

"Just give me a little more time."

Peace and quiet?

I lowered my eyelashes, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my throat.

It was the exact same script he had used since the day we got together. The words never changed, but the delivery certainly had.

The first time he said it, he had pulled me into his chest, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, whispering that he didn't want me to suffer, that he needed to be financially secure enough to give me the world.

I believed him. I believed him with every fiber of my being.

Later, when his startup took off and the money started rolling in, his tone shifted to impatience. He said he was exhausted, that he needed a few years to just breathe and enjoy his success.

I believed him then, too. I made excuses for him. I acted as his human shield against my parents' gentle but persistent questions about our future.

And now, sprawling on the couch like a bored king, he casually demanded a few more years.

I couldn't believe him anymore. I didn't want to believe him.

Recently, when my mother had tentatively questioned Barons true intentions, I hadn't rushed to defend him like I usually did. Instead, a quiet, terrifying hesitation had taken root in my chest.

My mother was right.

He had probably gotten bored of me a long time ago.

I shook my head, keeping my voice terrifyingly light. "No, really, it's fine! I'm already getting married."

With a fluid motion, I reached into my purse and placed the thick, cream-colored wedding invitation on the coffee table.

2.

"Wow, you really went all out, didn't you? Even got props for the performance?"

He laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound. He picked up the envelope and tossed it back onto the glass table without even glancing at the elegant calligraphy. He looked up at me, his gaze dripping with condescension.

It was the look of a man granting a pardon.

"Alright, fine. Next year. We'll get married next year. So stop throwing a tantrum."

Stop throwing a tantrum. Stop throwing a tantrum...

The words acted like a match to gasoline.

Why did he always frame my needs as hysterical demands? Why did he constantly assume I was trying to manipulate him? I had never played games with him. Not once.

Was this just his own narcissistic projection? Or had he simply never respected me enough to see me as a person?

But this wasn't the time to lose my temper.

I took a slow, deep breath, forcing my heart rate down. I stepped forward, picked up the invitation, broke the wax seal, and pointed directly to the ink on the heavy cardstock.

"I'm not playing games with you. I am getting married."

His eyes tracked the movement of my finger, finally landing on the text.

Sophie.

It was right there in black and white. Unmistakable. Undeniable.

"Who are you seeing?"

A microscopic fracture of panic cracked through his voice, but he patched it up instantly. He still thought he held all the cards. He still thought I was bluffing.

"You're with me every single day. When the hell would you even have time to meet another guy?"

He leaned forward, snatching the invitation from my hands. He stared at it. He stared at it for a very long time.

So long that my feet began to go numb against the hardwood floor.

"We had that massive fight a few weeks ago," I reminded him quietly. "I went to stay with my parents. My mom set me up on a date."

He froze. He had actually forgotten.

"A few weeks ago? We had a fight? When did that happen? Why didn't I know about this?"

When did that happen?

I honestly didn't know how to answer that.

Should I call it his unilateral stonewalling? That didn't feel accurate enough. Should I remind him that I had hinted at marriage, he had shut me down coldly, and we had a blowout argument? There was no point anymore.

In that single, quiet moment, whatever lingering resentment I had completely evaporated.

Cutting my losses now was the smartest thing I could do. It was better than waking up ten years from now with absolutely nothing to show for my youth, humiliated and broken.

3.

"Well? Go on! Haven't figured out the rest of the lie yet?"

He let out a low chuckle, his long fingers deliberately tearing the thick cardstock of the invitation into tiny, jagged pieces.

Once again, he was trying to sweep my reality under the rug.

"Alright, that's enough. Stop being crazy."

He glanced at his Rolex, then stretched his arms above his head.

"It's getting late anyway. Let's go to bed. A little physical exertion will get all these wild ideas out of your head."

As he said it, his eyes raked over my body with a heavy, predatory heat, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.

For the very first time in our relationship, it hit me with blinding clarity: he had absolutely zero respect for me.

I took two steps back, my thumb subconsciously tracing the spot on my finger where a ring should have been.

"I'm not joking. Drop the fantasy. If you want someone in your bed, go find someone else."

"What the hell is your problem today?!" he snapped, his faux-patience finally snapping. His Adam's apple bobbed as his chest heaved. He was genuinely furious. "I don't get it! I made one tiny joke!"

He paused, glaring at me as if I were a stranger.

"Are you seriously going to blow everything out of proportion over a joke? Are you really this petty? I feel like I'm seeing the real you for the first time."

The first time.

Wasn't this the second time?

The first time had been over the holidays. We had traveled back to my hometown, and a friend from high school had invited me to her winter wedding. Baron had been spending the holidays alone in the city, so I, being the devoted girlfriend, had brought him along.

During the reception, my friends had clustered around our table, nudging me playfully, asking when Baron and I were going to make it official. They joked about wanting to drink champagne at our wedding.

I had looked at Baron, my heart in my throat, desperate for him to say somethinganythingto validate us.

Baron didn't even flinch. He just kept his head down, scrolling through his phone.

When the silence stretched so long that he finally realized everyone was waiting for him to speak, he didn't even bother to look up.

"We're way too young," he said casually. "We've got a few more years to go before we start thinking about tying ourselves down like that."

In a split second, the eyes of every guest, every friend at that table, shifted to me.

There was a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

My mind went entirely blank. I didn't know how to move. I just sat there, frozen under the blinding spotlight of their collective pity, letting their gazes flay me alive.

4.

It wasn't until the reception ended and we were walking to the car that the numbness began to wear off.

I stayed completely silent on the drive home. I wanted to give him the space to realize what he had done. I wanted him to apologize. To explain.

He didn't.

He drove with one hand on the steering wheel, his expression as relaxed as if we were coming back from a trip to the grocery store. It was as if my profound public humiliation had never even registered on his radar.

We hit a red light, and I couldn't hold it in anymore.

I tried so hard to keep my voice steady, but my hands were shaking in my lap, and the words came out thick with unshed tears.

"Baron... what did you mean back there? What you said to my friends?"

Even theneven in that moment of absolute devastationI was still making excuses for him.

I thought, Maybe he's just clueless. Maybe he's planning a surprise and trying to throw me off.

I was a woman who survived on emotional scraps. All I needed was an explanation. Even a lie would have sufficed. I could have convinced myself it was the truth.

"Sophie."

Baron turned his head, using my actual name instead of a pet name. His voice was ice.

"I know exactly what you were doing tonight. You set that up to ambush me into a proposal. I'm letting it slide this time, but you know the rule. Three strikes, Sophie."

Before I could even process the accusation, the light turned green. He faced forward and hit the gas.

Starting that night, Baron initiated a unilateral cold war.

He told me I needed to "think long and hard" about our dynamic and stop embarrassing both of us.

And as his ultimate punishment, he changed the passcode on our apartment's smart lock.

It was pouring rain the day I found out. I had parked blocks away because the lot was full, and by the time I reached our door, my trench coat was soaked through.

Shivering violently, I punched in our anniversary.

Error.

I tried his birthday. My birthday.

Error.

Panic rising in my throat, I pulled out my phone and called him.

It went straight to voicemail.

I called a second time. A third. A fourth.

Nothing.

Thinking he might be stuck in a board meeting, I texted him: The door code isn't working. I'm soaking wet. I'm going to call a locksmith.

The moment the text said Delivered, the typing bubble appeared.

5.

I changed the code. Consider this a timeout for trying to manipulate me.

If you call a locksmith, I will call the cops and have you arrested for breaking and entering.

I'd hate for a school teacher to get a criminal record.

Reading those messages, the cold of the rain seeped past my skin and straight into my bones. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

I stared at the glowing screen, unable to comprehend the sheer, calculated cruelty of the man I loved.

My hands trembled so violently I almost dropped the phone. Fighting the overwhelming urge to smash the device against the hallway wall, I called the locksmith and canceled.

My phone died seconds later.

I had nowhere to go.

I wandered back out into the downpour, walking aimlessly down the slick city pavements.

As I was crossing a major intersection, a figure emerged from the gray mist on the opposite side. It was my mother, balancing a large umbrella in one hand and a canvas grocery bag in the other.

When our eyes met, my first, irrational instinct was to run.

I just wanted to disappear. I didn't want her to see me like this. I didn't want to be the source of her worry anymore.

But the rain had turned the asphalt into an oil slick. I turned too fast, my heel caught on a storm drain, and the stiletto snapped. My ankle twisted violently beneath me, and I collapsed onto the wet concrete.

My mother dropped her groceries and ran.

"Sophie? Is that you?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She fell to her knees in puddles, her gentle hands pulling me upright.

"You foolish girl, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Why were you running away? I'm your mother, not a monster."

She scolded me softly, but her hands were already moving, stripping off her warm, dry wool coat and wrapping it tightly around my trembling shoulders.

"What on earth are you doing wandering around in this weather? Where is Baron?"

She looked around the empty, rain-swept street, reaching into her purse for her phone.

"Mom, please, don't call him," I sobbed, shaking my head frantically. "We... we got into a fight."

"Okay. Okay, honey."

She didn't interrogate me. She didn't ask for details. She just fell silent, wrapping one arm tightly around my waist and tipping the umbrella entirely over my head, letting the rain soak her own blouse.

My mind was a tangled, exhausted mess. I didn't know what to say.

Leaning entirely on my mother's strength, I limped the remaining blocks to my childhood home.

6.

At the dinner table that evening, my parents performed a flawless, synchronized ballet of avoidance.

They didn't mention Baron. They didn't ask about the fight. They just talked about the neighbor's overgrown hedges and the new bakery downtown, constantly passing serving dishes and piling food onto my plate.

Within minutes, my bowl was an overflowing mountain of roast chicken and vegetables.

I tried to push the bowl back. "Mom, Dad, that's enough. If I eat another bite, I'm going to be sick."

My mother waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine, whatever you don't finish, your father will eat. The man has a stomach like a bottomless pit."

"Hey, don't make me sound like a garbage disposal," my dad laughed, slipping another piece of chicken onto my plate. "But your mom's right. Eat what you want. I'll take care of the rest."

His smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "I haven't seen you in a few weeks. You've lost so much weight, sweetie."

Terrified the dam was about to break, I kept my head down, staring intensely at the porcelain bowl.

But the tears came anyway. They fell silently, stubbornly, blurring the food into a colorful smear.

I scrubbed at my face, but they just kept falling. I put my chopsticks down and pushed my chair back.

"I'm full. I'm going up to my room to lie down."

As my foot hit the first step of the staircase, my parents' voices drifted from the dining room, soft but utterly resolute.

"Sophie. If he's hurting you, you come home."

"We didn't raise our daughter to be treated like an afterthought. You don't have to put up with this just to keep the peace. Not for us. Not for anyone."

I turned around, meeting their eyes. They were brimming with such fierce, protective love that it physically ached.

In that moment, an undeniable truth settled over me: Baron's half-hearted, conditional love meant absolutely nothing. I wasn't broken. I wasn't a failure.

A lump the size of a golf ball formed in my throat, rendering me entirely mute.

All I could do was nod.

And just like that, I moved back in.

Terrified I would sink into a depression, my mother dragged me everywhere. She took me to family luncheons, charity dinners, any social event she could find to keep my mind occupied.

When the local aunties and family friends found out I was single, the matchmaking brigade mobilized immediately.

One night, after lying awake staring at my childhood ceiling, I made a decision.

I would go on one of the dates.

Meeting him. Getting to know him. The proposal...

It was a whirlwind. From our first coffee to the ring on my finger, less than a week had passed.

When I held the mock-up of our engagement party invitations in my hands, a profound sense of vertigo washed over me.

It was supposed to be this simple.

When a man actually wanted you, it was simple. Baron had just made it feel like moving mountains.

7.

My thoughts snapped back to the present, Baron's harsh voice pulling me back to the sterile air of the apartment.

The emotional grip he used to have on me was gone. My heart felt nothing but a quiet, hollow pity.

"Let me correct you," I said smoothly. "This is the second time you claim to have seen my true colors."

"And don't flatter yourself. The invitation was my fianc's idea. He thought it was the polite thing to do."

I glanced at the shredded paper resting in the trash can.

"If you don't want to come, don't. Nobody is forcing you."

"Nobody is forcing me?"

He ground the words out between clenched teeth, turning the phrase into something ugly and mocking.

But my fianc was a real person, an entirely separate life. What did this have to do with Baron? Ever since that night in the rain, I hadn't breathed a single syllable about marriage to him.

Frowning, I asked, "When have I ever forced you to do anything?"

"If you don't want to be there, don't be there."

"Honestly, me getting married should be a relief for you. You can do whatever you want now. You can sleep with whoever you want, date whoever you want. I won't be around to bother you"

"Shut the hell up!"

A wave of absolute exhaustion washed over me. "Can you just listen to me for one second?"

"I said shut up!"

Baron erupted. With a violent sweep of his arm, he sent everything on the coffee tableglass coasters, magazines, a heavy ceramic vaseshattering onto the hardwood floor.

"Do you speak English, Sophie?! No wonder your birth parents threw you out like trash!"

I froze.

The air in the room vanished.

We had fought hundreds of times over the years. But he had nevernot oncecrossed that line.

He knew my adoption was the one wound that had never fully healed. He knew exactly where the knife would cut the deepest.

And he twisted it anyway.

I stumbled backward, desperate to put physical distance between us.

But it wasn't enough.

Blinded by his own rage, Baron lunged. His hands clamped around my throat, slamming my back violently against the drywall. The veins in his neck bulged. His eyes were completely black.

"Let me go!"

8.

The oxygen was cut off instantly. Panic clawed at my chest as I grabbed his wrists, desperately trying to pry his fingers apart, but he was built like stone.

Adrenaline and pure survival instinct took over.

I swung my arm in a wide arc and slapped him across the face with everything I had.

"I said, let me go!"

The sharp, explosive crack of my palm against his cheek finally shattered his psychotic break.