Jon came that night.
He didn't shout. He didn't demand. He arrived calm, carrying flowers, wearing concern like a second skin. Anyone watching would have thought he was the injured party.
"Meenah," he said softly at the gate. "Why are you doing this?"
I stood across from him, my parents behind me, the space between us heavy with unspoken history.
"I don't want to marry you," I said again.
He smiled slightly, like one does with a stubborn child.
"You're scared," he replied. "That's normal."
Something cold settled in my stomach.
"I'm not scared," I said. "I'm done."
His eyes flickered just briefly but I saw it. The irritation. The loss of control.
He stepped closer. "Let's talk privately."
"No."
That single word made his jaw tighten.
"You're embarrassing yourself," he said quietly. "People will think something is wrong with you."
In my past life, those words would have broken me. I would have apologized. Begged him to stay.
Now, they sounded empty.
"I don't care what people think," I said.
Jon laughed softly, shaking his head. "You'll come back. You always do."
I felt the weight of his certainty then and it frightened me more than his anger ever had. He believed he owned me. That no matter how far I ran, I would return.
When he left, messages followed.
Apologies. Accusations. Threats disguised as concern.
You're not well.
You're making a mistake.
You'll regret humiliating me.
And the worst part?
People believed him.
They called to convince me to reconsider. They told me Jon was a good man. That grief had made him sensitive. That I was overreacting.
I listened quietly.
Inside, memories whispered the truth.
And for the first time, I trusted myself more than the world.