Part 1
My name is Gina Schwagger, and I’m twenty-eight. For most of my adult life, I thought love meant sacrifice. I thought if I gave enough—time, money, patience, late nights, second chances—eventually the other person would notice and meet me halfway.
It took me years to learn the truth.
Some people don’t meet you halfway because they never intended to walk at all. They intended to be carried.
I met Dylan in college, during junior year, in the library on a night when the fluorescent lights made everyone look a little tired and a little unreal. I wasn’t having some cinematic moment, no butterflies. I was just trying to finish a research outline. Dylan was two tables away, sweating over a statistics assignment like it was a life-or-death situation.
He looked up, saw me, and said, “Hey—do you get this stuff? I’m completely lost.”
I did get it. I was the kind of student who color-coded notes and did practice problems for fun. So I slid my chair over and started explaining formulas. One explanation turned into an hour. An hour turned into the whole night.
By the time the campus went quiet and the cleaning crew started vacuuming the aisles, it was 3:00 a.m. Dylan’s eyes were red, but he was grinning like I’d performed magic.
“You’re amazing,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
And my heart did that stupid, hopeful thing. It didn’t matter that we’d just met. It didn’t matter that he was panicked and unprepared and I’d basically rescued him from his own procrastination.
It felt good to be needed.
That night set the tone for the next three years.
Dylan needed. I provided.
At first, it looked like love. It sounded like love. It even felt like love sometimes—when he squeezed my hand in public, when he told his friends I was the reason he passed, when he posted a smiling picture of us on Instagram with a caption like lucky man.
But the pattern underneath was always the same.
When his car battery died in the cold rain, it was me holding jumper cables while he sat in the driver’s seat, complaining about how unfair life was.
When he forgot his wallet at a restaurant, it was me slipping my debit card to the waiter with a forced smile.
When his rent was late because he “forgot” the due date again, I covered the shortfall because I didn’t want him to get a fee.
When his friends needed help moving, I borrowed my dad’s truck and showed up with gloves and boxes while Dylan wandered around giving instructions.
Every time, Dylan would kiss my forehead and say, “You’re a lifesaver, Mar.”
He called me Mar, like we had some private shorthand, like it made us closer.
I took it as affection.
Now I see it as branding. He labeled me as the dependable one, the rescuer, the person who would drop everything.
And I let him.
Because when you grow up being the reliable one, you get addicted to the feeling of being essential.
Here’s what I ignored: Dylan never did the same for me.
The weekend of my grandmother’s funeral, I asked him to come with me because I didn’t want to sit through grief alone. He said he’d already promised his buddies a camping trip and it would be “weird” to cancel.
When I caught the flu so badly I couldn’t stand without dizziness, I texted him: Can you bring me soup? I really need you.
He replied: Exhausted from basketball. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow never came.
When I brought it up later, he acted like I was asking for too much. Like I was demanding a performance he hadn’t auditioned for.
I kept making excuses for him.
He’s young. He’s stressed. He doesn’t know how to show up the way I do.
The truth was simpler: he didn’t want to.
Dylan treated relationships like vending machines. Put in the smallest possible effort, receive the maximum possible benefit. And if the machine didn’t dispense what he wanted, he shook it and blamed the manufacturer.
Six months ago, everything changed.
Dylan landed a job at a marketing firm. Suddenly he was busy-important. His calendar filled with happy hours, rooftop parties, networking brunches. He started talking about “brand strategy” like it was a sacred calling. He started wearing cologne to go to the grocery store.
And always—always—there was Samantha.
At first Samantha was just a name that popped up in stories.
“Samantha thinks we should pitch this idea.”
“Samantha got us into this invite-only thing.”
“Samantha knows the best bars downtown.”
Then Samantha became a presence. A shadow in every sentence.
I wasn’t in the frame anymore.
On his Instagram stories, Dylan looked like a man in a montage: neon lights, skyline views, plastic cups clinking, smiling faces. He posted photos with Samantha so often that people started assuming she was his girlfriend.
When I asked why I wasn’t invited, he laughed like I’d told a joke.
“Mar, don’t be insecure,” he said. “You should be proud I’m moving up.”
I swallowed the hurt. I tried to be supportive.
Then I planned a camping trip for us. Just the two of us, like old times. A reset. A reminder that we were supposed to be a team, not a man and his backup system.
I circled the date. Bought supplies. Took a day off work. Packed the cooler. Cleaned the tent.
The night before we were supposed to leave, Dylan texted: Can’t go. Samantha scored us tickets to an exclusive music festival. Once-in-a-lifetime thing. You get it, right?
Something in me cracked open, quietly, like a bone under pressure.
I opened Instagram and watched the stories I’d been avoiding. Dylan and Samantha at the festival, close together, laughing like they were the only two people in the world. In one clip, Dylan’s voice floated above the music:
“Thank God I didn’t go on that boring camping trip.”
Boring.
The word burned like acid.
When he came home the next day, I confronted him. My hands shook, but my voice stayed calm.
“Dylan,” I said. “Do you even realize what you’re doing? I’ve spent years supporting you. You can’t keep one promise.”
He didn’t apologize. He didn’t look guilty. He sneered.
“God, Gina. You’re so dramatic. Just because you choose to do things for me doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. There wasn’t one.
He kept going, his voice rising with irritation, like my feelings were an inconvenience.
“I never needed you,” he snapped. “Samantha’s been offering to help me for months. My parents would cover my rent if I asked. I’ve always had better options!”
Better options.
The phrase hit me so hard I felt it in my ribs.
I thought about every late night, every dollar, every favor, every rescue. I thought about my grandmother’s funeral and his camping trip. My flu and his basketball.
And something inside me finally stood up.
I forced the words out, slow and steady.
“Then you won’t need my help either.”
The silence that followed felt thick. Dylan stared at me like I’d slapped him.
Then he laughed. Short. Bitter.
“Fine by me,” he said, brushing past me as if I was a stranger blocking his path.
That night, I packed a small bag. Clothes, laptop, journals. I left the camping gear behind. I left the shared blankets. I left the version of myself who believed endurance was love.
I texted my friend Clare: Can I crash at yours?
She replied instantly: Doors open. Finally.
Part 2
The first thing I did after moving into Clare’s guest room was separate my life from Dylan’s like I was peeling duct tape off skin.
It wasn’t dramatic. It was practical.
I canceled the streaming subscriptions tied to my card. I removed my payment info from his food delivery apps. I changed passwords for anything I’d ever shared. I blocked him from the accounts he’d been quietly using as if they were part of his paycheck.
For the first time in years, my bank balance felt like mine.
Dylan did not take that well.
The first text came the next day.
Why isn’t Netflix working?
Then: Did you change Spotify?
Then: Seriously?
I didn’t respond.
By day three, his tone shifted from confusion to anger.
Wow. Petty much. Grow up, Mar.
I still didn’t respond.
Silence felt like power, but my chest clenched every time my phone lit up. Clare watched me pace her living room and said, “You’re detoxing.”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
Then came the pizza incident.
I was out to lunch with Clare when my phone rang from an unknown number. I ignored it. It rang again. I answered on the third ring, annoyed.
“Hi, is this Gina Schwagger?” a polite male voice asked. “This is Tony from Primo’s Pizza. We tried to run your card, but it was declined for a delivery order to—” He read Dylan’s address.
My stomach dropped.
Dylan knew my card number by heart. Of course he did. I’d been paying for his late-night cravings for years.
“I didn’t authorize that purchase,” I said, voice tight. “Cancel the order. And please flag my number.”
Tony hesitated. “The driver is already on the way.”
“Cancel it,” I repeated, firm. “Fraud.”
Twenty minutes later, Dylan’s voicemails started.
The first was pure rage. “Do you have any idea how you humiliated me? My coworkers were waiting for that food during a meeting. You sabotaged me!”
The second was quieter, more dangerous. “You think you’re clever. Making me look like a fool. You’re ruining my career.”
I sat on Clare’s couch listening, hands trembling. For years, I’d carried Dylan like a fragile vase, terrified of letting him crack. Now I wasn’t cushioning him, and he was shattering anyway, because I refused to keep gluing him back together.
I should’ve say I felt guilty. I did. A part of me was trained to.
But underneath the guilt was something stronger.
Relief.
Dylan escalated.
By Friday morning, he was texting: Mar, I need $200. Emergency. I’ll pay you back Monday.
Then: Stop ignoring me. This is serious.
Then: You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.
He called. I didn’t answer.
He called Clare. She blocked him without hesitation.
“You see?” she said, holding up her phone. “That’s what boundaries look like.”
Saturday night, my phone buzzed at 2:04 a.m.
I stared at it in the dark. It was Dylan.
My heart pounded like it still belonged to him.
I answered because some part of me still thought he could be in actual danger.
“Gina,” Dylan’s voice was shaky, laced with panic. “I need you. My car broke down. I’m on Highway 83 near exit 42. Please, I’m scared.”
Highway 83 was a sketchy stretch even during daylight. At night it could feel like the world narrowed down to headlights and emptiness.
For a moment, the old version of me grabbed my keys in my mind. The rescuer. The fixer. The girl who believed love was showing up no matter what.
Then I heard his other voice—the one from our apartment.
I’ve always had better options.
I swallowed hard. “Call Samantha.”
“I did,” he said quickly. “She’s not answering. I tried my parents too. No one is picking up. Please, Gina. I’m sorry, okay? I just need you right now.”
Guilt surged like hot water.
I almost caved.
Then I pictured three years of one-sided love. Three years of me as an ATM, a chauffeur, a planner, a cover story. Three years of being invisible until he needed something.
I forced my voice to stay steady. “Call a tow truck. Or 911 if you’re in danger.”
“My card’s maxed out,” he whispered. “I don’t have money.”
“Then figure it out,” I said, voice shaking. “You’re the man with plenty of options. Use them.”
And I hung up.
My hand was trembling so badly I dropped the phone onto the bed.
I wasn’t heartless. I texted him the number of a 24-hour towing service. Then I turned my phone face down and stared at the ceiling, listening to my heartbeat slam against my ribs.
By morning, I felt sick with guilt. The old programming kicked in: you abandoned him, you left him helpless, you’re cruel.
I checked my phone.
One message.
Don’t worry, someone else came. Forget I called.
Someone else.
Later, through mutual friends, I found out it was Becca—his old college roommate. She drove an hour in the middle of the night, waited with him, followed the tow truck, and paid the $150 bill he couldn’t cover.
The irony would’ve been funny if it didn’t hurt.
The first time I said no, Dylan reached for someone he hadn’t spoken to in months. And she came. Which meant Dylan would tell the story like this:
He was stranded. Gina abandoned him. Someone else saved him. Gina is heartless.
By Sunday, the messages started coming in—from people who believed his version.
Becca: How could you leave him on the side of the road? He could’ve been hurt.
Dylan’s coworker: Wow, didn’t know you were this toxic.
Even Dylan’s mother left a voicemail: “Gina, cutting him off is cruel. Family supports each other.”
Family.
I wasn’t family. Not anymore.
But Dylan knew guilt was my weak spot. He pressed it like a bruise.
Clare sat across from me, arms crossed. “He’s spinning a narrative because he’s losing control. Stop caring what they think.”
I tried. But knowing and feeling are different.
And Dylan wasn’t done.
Part 3
By Tuesday, Dylan’s texts shifted from desperation to threats.
Send me $200 or I’ll tell everyone what you did. How you abandoned me.
I didn’t respond.
That silence must have driven him crazy, because he started attacking the parts of my life he could reach.
Thursday afternoon, my landlord called.
“Ms. Schwagger,” he said carefully, “I got a request to break your lease. Caller claimed to be you. Said you were moving out for work.”
My stomach dropped. “That wasn’t me.”
“I figured,” he said. “But I’m putting a note on your account. In-person verification only.”
My hands trembled after I hung up.
That night, food delivery drivers started showing up at Clare’s apartment.
Three within an hour. All cash on delivery. All under my name.
By the fourth knock, Clare was furious. “This is harassment.”
I apologized to each driver, explained fraud, asked them to blacklist the address. The pitying looks they gave me made my skin crawl. I felt like a person in a story I hadn’t chosen.
Friday morning, I woke up to dozens of missed calls from random numbers.
I scrolled in horror until a message from a friend popped up: Did you post an ad for free puppies?
My throat went dry.
Craigslist: Free purebred puppies. First come, first serve. Call anytime.
My name. My number.
My phone rang again. And again. And again.
It wasn’t heartbreak anymore. It was war.
Clare found me sitting on the couch staring at my phone like it was radioactive.
“Enough,” she said. “Lawyer. Police. Now.”
I looked up, exhausted. “Do you really think it’s that serious?”
Clare didn’t blink. “It’s serious today. It’ll be worse tomorrow. He wants you scared. Don’t give him that.”
That sentence hit like a switch flipping.
I wasn’t going to be scared in silence while Dylan played games.
I filed reports. Harassment. Fraud. Identity misuse. I documented everything: screenshots, call logs, dates, delivery receipts, the landlord call.
Clare’s friend Aaron—an attorney—drafted a cease and desist letter that read like cold steel.
Then Dylan made a mistake that proved he wasn’t just petty.
He was reckless.
The next week, I got a notification that made my blood go cold.
An email had been sent from a professional domain—the one I’d set up for Dylan years ago because he begged me to make him look “legit” for job applications. The domain and hosting were in my name. He’d only ever borrowed the login.
The subject line: Confession: My partner sabotaged me.
He blasted it to his entire work network—boss, coworkers, clients.
I opened it, hands shaking.
It painted me as emotionally abusive, jealous, controlling. Said I sabotaged his career. Cut him off financially. Left him stranded in danger. That if his performance slipped, it was because of me.
It was venom dressed as vulnerability.
But Dylan forgot one crucial detail: all outgoing emails from that domain copied straight to my inbox.
I saw it in real time.
Something steadied inside me. Not guilt. Not fear.
Clarity.
I logged in, changed the password, and sent a follow-up to every recipient:
This account has been compromised. The previous message was unauthorized. The domain is owned and operated by me, Gina Schwagger. Any misuse will be reported to authorities. Please disregard.
Then I locked Dylan out completely.
Within an hour, my phone rang. Dylan’s boss.
“Ms. Schwagger,” his voice was clipped. “I received your correction. Thank you. Misusing company contacts for personal drama is a fireable offense. We’ll handle it.”
I hung up and laughed—one sharp, shaky laugh that sounded nothing like joy.
Dylan had tried to drag me down and only succeeded in tightening the net around his own neck.
Friday evening, Clare and I were at her apartment when the building buzzer went off.
We froze.
Then a familiar raw voice echoed up the stairwell.
“Gina! Get down here!”
My pulse roared in my ears.
Clare grabbed her phone and hit record before I could protest. We stepped into the hallway carefully.
Dylan stood at the bottom of the stairs, wild-eyed, shirt wrinkled, hair messy. He looked like a man who’d been running from consequences and finally hit a wall.
“You destroyed everything!” he shouted. “My job, my reputation—gone! Do you feel powerful now?”
Neighbors cracked their doors open.
I forced myself to stand tall. “I didn’t destroy anything,” I said evenly. “You did.”
He shook his head violently. “You pushed me. You cut me off. You left me stranded after everything I did for you!”
I laughed, bitter. “Everything you did for me? Dylan, I carried you for three years. I was your bank, your chauffeur, your excuse.”
His face twisted. Rage flashed. He took a step toward me, hand twitching like he wanted to hit.
Clare’s voice cut through the air, calm and deadly. “Don’t even try. You’re on video.”
Dylan froze, staring at her phone like it was a weapon.
He spat on the ground. “This isn’t over,” he hissed. “I’ll make sure you never work in this town again.”
“Threat noted,” I said, heart hammering. “Now leave before I call the police.”
For a moment I thought he would lunge anyway.
Instead he turned and stormed out, curses echoing down the street.
The second the door shut, my knees went weak. I sank onto the stairs, trembling.
Clare crouched beside me. “He’s finished,” she said. “You’ve got him on video.”
I nodded, trying to breathe.
This wasn’t heartbreak anymore.
It was survival.
Part 4
By Monday morning, the consequences Dylan tried to dodge finally caught him.
Aaron called me first. “Your cease and desist landed Friday,” she said briskly. “The video gives us solid evidence for a temporary restraining order. Police are processing your report.”
Relief flickered inside me, but it was fragile. My body had been living on adrenaline for weeks. It didn’t trust calm.
Later that day, another unfamiliar number called. A clipped voice introduced himself as Dylan’s HR director.
“I wanted to inform you personally,” he said, “Dylan has been terminated. Misuse of company contacts and threatening behavior crossed too many lines.”
For a moment I couldn’t speak. Not because I felt sorry for Dylan—at least not in the way I used to. But because it was surreal to hear the end of something that had dominated my life.
Dylan’s house of cards collapsed fast.
The car he’d abandoned on the highway still sat at the mechanic’s shop. Repairs: $2,400. Unpaid.
His parents—his supposed safety net—were furious when they found out he’d been lying. They didn’t hand him money. They demanded he move back home two hours away.
And Samantha, his glamorous coworker “option,” vanished. Later I heard she realized Dylan had been leveraging her connections and speaking badly about her behind her back.
The better options he bragged about dissolved overnight.
After the restraining order was granted, the harassment stopped. Not because Dylan suddenly grew a conscience, but because the cost finally outweighed the satisfaction.
For days, I still flinched at every buzz. Every knock. Every unknown number.
Then slowly, like a room airing out after smoke, my life began to feel breathable again.
At work, my boss called me into her office.
“I heard there’s been chaos,” she said carefully. “If you need time off, take it.”
I expected sympathy. I didn’t expect respect.
She leaned forward. “I also want to say something. You handled this professionally. You didn’t bring drama into the workplace. You protected yourself. That matters.”
A week later, I was promoted. Higher pay. More responsibility. A clean slate.
It was the strangest thing: the moment I stopped spending my energy rescuing Dylan, I had energy to invest in myself. And people noticed.
Outside work, the quiet felt unfamiliar. Like stepping off a boat and realizing the ground wasn’t moving anymore. I didn’t have a daily crisis to solve. I didn’t have someone texting me for money or food or fixes.
I began to rediscover small joys: cooking dinner without anyone complaining, going to bed without dread, opening my banking app and seeing my balance untouched.
Then there was Adrien.
He wasn’t a whirlwind. He didn’t sweep me off my feet. He appeared the way stable things often do—quietly, consistently.
I’d seen him around my rock-climbing gym for months. We’d nodded hello. Nothing more.
One evening my usual belay partner canceled. Adrien offered without making it a big deal.
“I can belay if you want,” he said.
No flirting. No performance. Just straightforward.
He held the rope steady, watched me climb, and when I hesitated near the top, he looked up and said, “I’ve got you.”
The words were so simple they almost made me cry.
Because I’d spent years being the person who said that to someone else while no one ever meant it for me.
Weeks passed. We talked between climbs. Traded music. Laughed about dumb memes. He never asked for favors. Never hinted that I owed him anything.
One night after a long session, he walked me to my car.
“Would you like to grab dinner sometime?” he asked, almost shy.
It was ordinary. And after Dylan, ordinary felt like a miracle.
I smiled. Really smiled. “Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”
Sitting across from Adrien at dinner, I realized I wasn’t bracing for anything. With Dylan, every dinner had been a test: would he forget his wallet, insult my choices, make me feel small?
With Adrien, there was only ease. He listened. He asked questions and waited for answers. He split the bill without fuss. When he walked me home, he didn’t push.
He just said, “Good night, Gina. See you soon.”
I went inside and leaned against the door, exhaling like my body had finally unclenched.
Love, I realized, was never about being someone’s endless option.
It was about loyalty. Reciprocity. Choosing each other even when it wasn’t convenient.
Dylan had options. But options didn’t mean people would show up at 2:00 a.m. Options didn’t mean people would stand by him when he burned bridges.
The last time I saw Dylan was through a phone screen. Clare sent me a video someone posted online: Dylan sitting on a barstool in his parents’ small-town pub, head in his hands, muttering about fake women and betrayal.
The same man who once bragged about endless options was now reduced to a cautionary tale in his hometown.
And me?
I wasn’t an option anymore.
I was the choice I made for myself.
Part 5
Six months after the restraining order, I received a letter in the mail. No return address. My stomach tightened before I even opened it.
It wasn’t Dylan.
It was the mechanic’s shop.
Apparently Dylan’s car—still unpaid—had been processed for a lien sale, and my name had been listed as an “associated contact” because Dylan had once used my number as his emergency backup on paperwork. The shop wanted to notify “all parties.”
It was such a Dylan thing to do: leave behind a mess with my name attached like a sticky note.
I called the shop. “I’m not responsible,” I said. “I’m not associated with him.”
The manager sounded tired. “You’re the fifth person to say that about this guy.”
I almost laughed.
After I hung up, I stared at my phone for a long time. Not because I wanted to call Dylan. Because I realized something: even when he wasn’t in my life, he still tried to make me carry him.
So I took the final step.
Aaron helped me file paperwork to remove any lingering associations: old shared accounts, emergency contacts, anything legal that might loop me back into his chaos. It felt like cutting the last thread tying a balloon to my wrist.
That night, I went climbing with Adrien. At the top of a route, my arms shook, and fear crept in—old fear, the kind that whispers you’ll fall, you’ll fail, you’ll need someone and they’ll leave.
Adrien’s voice came from below, steady. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
And I believed him.
Because he’d never once used me as a tool.
He’d never once demanded proof of devotion.
He just showed up.
When I lowered back down, I sat on the mat and laughed softly, overwhelmed by the contrast.
Adrien offered me his water bottle. “Good climb,” he said.
I took a sip and said, “You know what’s weird? I used to think love was being needed.”
Adrien tilted his head. “What do you think it is now?”
I looked around the gym—people climbing, falling, laughing, trying again. “I think love is being chosen,” I said. “And choosing back.”
Adrien nodded like that made sense to him. “That sounds right.”
Later that evening, I drove home alone, windows down, feeling something I hadn’t felt in years.
Peace.
Not the fragile kind that depends on someone else’s mood.
The sturdy kind that comes from finally standing on your own ground.
And in that peace, I knew the real ending of my story wasn’t Dylan getting fired or losing his friends or running out of options.
The real ending was this:
I stopped confusing sacrifice with love.
I stopped treating my loyalty like a currency someone could spend.
I stopped being an option.
I became my own choice.
Part 6
A quiet life doesn’t feel dramatic when you’re living it, but after years of chaos, quiet can feel like a miracle you don’t fully trust.
For a while, I kept waiting for Dylan to reappear in some new form—an email from a new address, a friend telling me he “just wanted closure,” a surprise encounter in a grocery store aisle where he’d try to look wounded and misunderstood.
But weeks passed. Then months. The restraining order did what it was supposed to do: it drew a line sharp enough that even Dylan’s ego didn’t want to bleed across it.
That didn’t mean the aftermath stopped.
It just changed shape.
My phone buzzed one afternoon with a message from Becca, Dylan’s old roommate—the same Becca who’d driven out at 2:00 a.m. and then blamed me for not doing it.
I hadn’t heard from her since her angry texts. Her name on my screen made my stomach tighten, but curiosity won.
Becca: Can we talk? Not to fight. I just… I need to say something.
I stared at it, thumb hovering. Clare would’ve told me to ignore it. Aaron would’ve told me to document it. Adrien would’ve told me to do what felt safest.
I chose a middle path.
Me: You can say it here.
Becca: Dylan lied to me. About everything. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.
I read the words twice, letting them settle.
Me: What changed?
Becca: He asked me for money again. Then he screamed at me when I said no. Same thing he did to you. I finally realized you weren’t the villain. You were the exit.
The phrase hit me harder than I expected.
You were the exit.
Me: Thank you for apologizing.
Becca: I wish I’d believed you sooner. I was mad because I thought you were punishing him. But now I see… he punishes people for not saving him.
I didn’t respond for a minute. Then I typed:
Me: I hope you’re safe. Don’t let him pull you in.
Becca: I won’t. I blocked him. Just wanted you to know you weren’t crazy.
When I set my phone down, I realized my shoulders had been tense the whole time. I let them drop.
I wasn’t crazy.
I never was.
I’d just been trained to doubt myself by someone who needed me uncertain so I’d keep folding.
That evening, I told Clare and watched her face shift from suspicion to satisfaction.
“Good,” she said. “Even his backup options are realizing what you knew.”
I laughed softly. “Options didn’t mean loyalty.”
Clare pointed at me. “Say it again. Tattoo it on your soul.”
I didn’t need a tattoo. I needed to live it.
Work took off in ways I hadn’t predicted. The promotion wasn’t just a title—my new role put me in charge of a major client project, the kind that required steady nerves and sharper boundaries. I thought Dylan had drained those qualities out of me, but he’d only buried them.
In meetings, I spoke with more confidence. I stopped apologizing for taking up space. I started trusting my own judgment.
And people listened.
One Friday afternoon, my boss called me into her office and closed the door.
“I’m putting you up for the leadership program,” she said.
I blinked. “Me?”
“Yes,” she replied like it was obvious. “You’re reliable without being a doormat. That’s rare.”
The words warmed something deep in me because for years, I’d been reliable in the worst way—reliable to someone who used it as a leash.
Now my reliability belonged to me.
Adrien and I kept things slow, which turned out to be exactly what my nervous system needed. He didn’t rush emotional intimacy like it was a trophy. He didn’t act like my boundaries were personal insults. He didn’t demand “proof” I cared.
He just… stayed consistent.
One night, we were eating takeout on my couch, and my phone buzzed with an unknown number. My whole body jolted.
Adrien noticed immediately. “You don’t have to answer,” he said quietly.
I stared at the screen, heart racing. I didn’t answer. The call stopped. Then came a second call. Then a third.
My hands started to shake. I hated that they did. I hated how quickly my body remembered fear.
Adrien didn’t touch me without asking. He just said, “Want me to sit closer?”
I nodded.
He moved next to me, shoulder against mine, solid and warm. The phone rang again. I let it go to voicemail.
A minute later, a text came through.
Unknown: Gina. It’s me.
My throat tightened.
Adrien leaned in slightly, voice calm. “You want to forward that to Aaron?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
I forwarded it. Then I blocked the number.
It might not have been Dylan. It could’ve been anyone. But my body didn’t care about logic in that moment.
Adrien watched me breathe through it, like he was anchoring me without trying to control me.
After a few minutes, the shaking eased.
“That was really scary,” I admitted, embarrassed.
Adrien’s expression didn’t change. “That makes sense,” he said. “You went through something scary.”
No minimizing.
No jokes.
No impatience.
Just validation.
The next morning, Aaron called. “Good job forwarding,” she said. “If it was Dylan, it’s a violation. If it wasn’t, it’s still a pattern we document.”
“What if it keeps happening?” I asked.
“Then we escalate,” Aaron said. “But you’re doing exactly what you should. You’re not engaging.”
After we hung up, I sat on my balcony with coffee and watched the city wake up. People walked dogs. A bus hissed to a stop. Someone laughed loudly on the sidewalk below.
Life was moving forward, indifferent to my old drama.
And for the first time, I was moving with it.
Part 7
A year after the breakup, I got an email from an address I didn’t recognize.
Subject: Request for reference
My stomach dropped before I opened it.
It was from Dylan.
Not directly—he’d used some new “professional” email, probably because he’d lost access to the old domain. The message was short, unnervingly polite.
Hi Gina,
I’m applying for a new position and they asked for references. You know my work ethic and character better than most. Would you be willing to provide a brief reference? It would mean a lot.
Dylan
I stared at the screen, stunned by the audacity.
Character.
The man who used my identity for fake ads. The man who screamed in a stairwell. The man who tried to sabotage my lease and my career.
I didn’t reply.
Instead, I forwarded it to Aaron.
Within an hour, Aaron replied: Do not respond. We’ll add it to the file. If he contacts you again, we can file a violation depending on how the restraining order is worded.
I leaned back in my chair, exhaling.
Dylan wasn’t asking for a reference because he respected me. He was asking because he still believed I existed as a tool he could use.
And that belief was the last thing I needed to bury.
That night, I told Adrien, expecting anger or protective outrage. Adrien listened quietly, then asked, “How do you feel?”
“I feel… offended,” I said honestly. “Like he thinks I’m still his resource.”
Adrien nodded. “That makes sense.”
I waited for him to say what I should do.
He didn’t.
Instead he asked, “What do you want to do?”
The question made me blink, because Dylan never asked what I wanted. He only asked what I could provide.
“I want to keep my life quiet,” I said.
Adrien smiled softly. “Then that’s what we do.”
We.
The word landed gently.
Not ownership.
Not dependence.
Partnership.
Two weeks later, I found out from a mutual friend that Dylan had been turned down for the job. Not because of me—I’d stayed silent. Because background checks don’t care about your excuses. HR departments don’t love drama. And reputations, once burned, don’t rebuild overnight.
Apparently, Dylan told people the world was unfair. That “women ruin men.” That I’d “destroyed his life.”
I didn’t feel triumph. I felt distance.
His story no longer had a role for me.
That summer, I completed the leadership program at work and got another raise. I moved into my own apartment—one I chose because I loved the light in the mornings, not because it was close to Dylan’s job or cheap enough to cover his half.
Clare helped me unpack and danced around my kitchen like it was a celebration.
“You did it,” she said, hands on her hips. “You’re officially living in the life you were supposed to have.”
I laughed. “I’m just paying rent.”
Clare pointed at me. “Exactly. You’re paying your rent. Not his.”
That night, I hung a small framed print above my desk. It said, simply: Loyalty is a verb.
Because it is.
Love is not a speech. It’s not a promise made when it’s easy. It’s the action of showing up when it’s inconvenient.
Dylan had plenty of options.
But when his car broke down at 2:00 a.m., his options didn’t answer.
Not because they were evil. Not because they owed him. But because people don’t show up for someone who treats them like replaceable parts.
That was the lesson Dylan learned too late.
And it was the lesson I learned in time.
Part 8
The last time Dylan tried to reach me, it wasn’t with threats or manipulation.
It was with silence.
I ran into him by accident at a grocery store near my new apartment. I didn’t expect it. I hadn’t rehearsed it. I was just holding a basket of fruit, trying to decide whether raspberries were worth the price.
Then I heard my name behind me.
“Gina.”
I turned slowly.
Dylan looked thinner. Older. Not in a tragic, romantic way—just in the way someone looks when life has finally stopped cushioning them. His clothes were plain. No cologne cloud. No confident swagger. His eyes flicked over me like he was searching for the girl who used to run toward his emergencies.
He didn’t find her.
“I’m not here to fight,” he said quickly, like he’d practiced.
“I’m not here to talk,” I replied.
He flinched. “I just… I wanted to say you were right.”
I studied him, wary.
He swallowed. “I thought having options meant I couldn’t lose. Like if one person left, someone else would fill the space. But… they didn’t.”
I said nothing.
Dylan’s voice got rough. “When my car broke down, I called everyone. Nobody answered. Becca did, but she blocked me after. Samantha never cared. My parents are tired of me. I… I didn’t realize loyalty was something you earn.”
I felt a tightness in my chest—not pity, exactly. Not anger either. More like closure arriving late to a house that had already been rebuilt.
“You didn’t lose loyalty,” I said quietly. “You burned it.”
Dylan’s eyes glistened. “I’m trying to be better.”
“Good,” I said, and meant it. “Do it for you.”
He nodded, as if that was harder than he wanted.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
I held his gaze. “I believe you’re sorry,” I said. “But sorry doesn’t change what you did.”
He nodded again.
I stepped back. “Take care of yourself,” I said, and turned away.
I didn’t feel triumphant walking down that aisle. I didn’t feel like I’d won.
I felt free.
Because the ending of my story was never going to be Dylan finally understanding.
The ending was me no longer needing him to.
Options didn’t mean loyalty.
And loyalty wasn’t something I would ever hand out like spare change again.
I left the grocery store with my basket, sunlight on my face, and my life intact.
Not because someone saved me.
Because I finally chose myself.
THE END!
Disclaimer: Our stories are inspired by real-life events but are carefully rewritten for entertainment. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidental.
