The bus hums along, my ex’s grin unwavering as he holds up the ring, oblivious to my discomfort. “It’s for her,” he says, eyes gleaming with pride. “A year together, can you believe it?” My stomach twists—anger, not jealousy. His audacity to flaunt this after our messy breakup stings. I snap, “You know, I always liked you better with your mouth shut.” His smile falters, but only for a second.
He leans closer, undeterred. “Come on, don’t be like that. I thought you’d be happy for me.” Happy? After he left me picking up the pieces? I clench my fists, the ring glinting mockingly. “I’m not,” I say, voice cold. “Good luck with her.” I turn to the window, but he keeps talking—about her, their plans, the proposal. Each word grates, a reminder of promises he never kept with me.
The bus stops. I grab my bag, ready to bolt, but he grabs my wrist. “Wait, can’t we be friends?” I yank free, glaring. “No. We can’t.” I step off, heart pounding, leaving him and his ring behind. The doors close, and for the first time in months, I feel lighter, like I’ve finally let go.
