The message arrived like a physical blow: she is getting married. For a moment, the world narrowed to the three words, and nothing else existed. That shouldn’t be true, right? My rose would wait for me. She would only want me. So why is she marrying another man? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She’s mine, and I won’t let anyone take her away from me. The very thought sends a chill down my spine, a cold realization that I might lose you. My beautiful rise, so delicate and perfect, has always been meant for me. The room tilted, the light went thin, and the air felt as if it had been siphoned out of my lungs. I stood frozen with the rumor lodged in my throat, tasting it as if it were a bitter pill I could not spit out. Everything I had been quietly building in my head shivered and colpsed into fragments. The certainty I had worn like armor dissolved into a cold, raw exposure.

  Every gnce, every smile you gave to someone else was not just a betrayal; it was a wound that refused to heal, a reminder that you were not yet bound to me as you should be. Each time your eyes lingered on another, it felt like you were tearing away pieces of what I had so carefully built between us. How could you even entertain the thought of another man when you know the depth of my devotion, the way I have carried you in silence, the way I have sacrificed pieces of myself just to keep you safe, even when you never asked?

  Do you not remember the nights I stayed awake, watching, protecting, ensuring that nothing could harm you? Do you not feel the weight of the promises I made, the future I have already carved out for us in my mind? I have seen it so clearly: your hand in mine, your ughter filling the spaces that would otherwise be empty, your presence anchoring me to this world. Every scenario I imagine ends the same: you beside me, where you belong. And yet, there is him. This man who dares to stand in the shadow of what I have cimed, who dares to believe he can take what is mine. Who is he to think he can touch you, speak to you, share in moments that should be ours alone? Does he not understand that your heart has already spoken its truth, that it beats in rhythm with mine, that it was never meant to belong to anyone else? His very existence in your orbit is an insult, a challenge, a provocation that burns through me like fire.

  The thought of you with him, ughing, smiling, letting him see sides of you that I have guarded so fiercely, is unbearable. Each imagined moment is theft, a desecration of the bond I have already written into existence. It is rage, yes, but it is also desperation. Because beneath the fury lies the ache of knowing that you are slipping, that you are forgetting, that you are allowing yourself to be distracted from the truth of us. I cannot accept it. I will not accept it. You are mine, not as possession, but as destiny. Every breath you take, every word you speak, every step you take should lead you back to me. And if you falter, if you forget, I will remind you. I will remind you of the nights I stood guard, of the future I have built, of the love that consumes me so completely that there is no room for anyone else.

  Jealousy is a heat that rises without warning. My palms go slick, my jaw tightens, and a low, animal pressure gathers behind my ribs. It is a physical thing, an ache that makes my hands clench, and my breath come shallow. I find myself watching for signs, scanning faces in crowds, reading tones and gestures as if they were evidence in a trial I cannot stop conducting. Each imagined ugh shared between them is a small, hot coal pressed against the soft pces inside me. The rage is not a single, clean fme but a heavy, complicated thing, part grief, part fury, part frantic pleading. It sits in my throat and makes my voice rough when I think of speaking, and it makes my hands want to reach for something to steady myself against the vertigo of it all. I am terrified not only of losing her but of what losing her will do to me: how it will hollow out the small rituals and pns that have kept me steady.

  My body betrayed me in ways that felt both ridiculous and terrifying. Sleep became a fragile, perforated thing; when I did sleep, I dreamed in shards, her ugh, a hand I could not reach, a wedding dress I had never seen. I woke with my heart pounding as if I had run a long, useless race. My appetite vanished and then returned in odd, compulsive bursts; I ate not from hunger but to fill a hollow that had opened inside me. My hands trembled at the smallest tasks: pouring tea, folding a shirt, trying to steady a pen to write the words I could not say aloud. The tremor was a physical echo of the panic that lived behind my ribs.

  Sound became treacherous. A ugh in the street could be hers; a passing voice might carry the cadence of a sentence she had once said to me. The city itself seemed to conspire in my disquiet, mps flickered like questions, buses sighed like exhations of things I could not control. Even silence felt loud, pressing against my ears until memories were amplified into accusations. I found myself listening for her in every quiet pce, as if the world might betray the truth by giving up her name.

  My thoughts are consumed by you, my beautiful rose, the one who should never stray from my side. The idea of you being with someone else, giving you love to another, fills me with a darkness that I can’t ignore. The very notion twists my heart into a knot of rage. You have been mine in every sense that matters. I have watched you, cherished you from afar, and built our future in my mind. Every gnce you gave, every smile, was meant for me. How could you betray me like this? How could you not see that we are destined to be together? I won’t accept this. I won’t let this other man take what is rightfully mine. My rose, my precious one, you will see that you belong to me, and me alone. If I have to remind you, to make you understand... so be it. I will do whatever it takes. The thought of you slipping away, of your heart beating for someone else, ignites a fire within me. You need to be reminded of our bond, of the promises she made to me with every unspoken word. You are mine. You have always been mine.

  I began to inventory everything she had ever given me, even the things she never meant as gifts. A stray ugh at a market stall; the way she tucked hair behind her ear when she was thinking; the precise tilt of her head when she listened. I repyed conversations until the words were worn smooth, searching for a crack where something might have slipped through. Photographs became evidence: a picture of her at a café with friends, a group shot where she leaned toward someone else, each image felt like a theft, a small theft that accumuted into a robbery of the future I had rehearsed.

  I mapped our history obsessively. Dates and pces were catalogued in my head like entries in a ledger: the bench by the river where we had shared a silence that felt like a promise; the bakery where she had once bought two croissants and given me the smaller one with a conspiratorial smile; the exact phrasing of a text she had sent at midnight that had made me feel, for a moment, as if the world had tilted toward me. I clung to these details as if they were anchors, convinced that if I could memorize the geography of us, I could find my way back into her orbit.

  I will make sure you remember. I will show you that our story is far from over. My beautiful rose, you will not marry another man. No, I cannot let this happen. I will remind you of our bond, make you see that we are meant to be together. I will erase any doubts from your mind, show you that no one else can love you as I do. You are mine, and you will understand that you cannot escape from this truth.

  I invented rituals to keep her close. I reread old messages until the ink of memory blurred; I traced the handwriting of a single note until the paper softened under my fingers. I folded unsent letters into envelopes and hid them in drawers, as if the paper could hold her there. I walked the route we once took together at dusk, timing my steps to the rhythm of the past, pausing at the bench where we had once shared a silence that felt like a promise. I kept a pylist of songs that smelled like her, melodies that made my throat ache, and my eyes sting, and I listened to them until the music became a kind of prayer.

  I checked for signs with a compulsive, almost scientific rigor. I scanned social feeds for a hint, a photograph, a caption that might prove the rumor false. I read comments with the intensity of someone decoding a cipher, looking for a slip, a mention, anything that might be misread into hope. Each silence became a wound; each absence of news was a new reason to panic. I found myself inventing expnations for the smallest things: a deyed reply meant she was thinking of me; a vague post meant she was distracted by wedding pnning; a smile in a group photo meant nothing, or everything.

  My fantasies of confrontation were eborate and contradictory. In one version, I arrived at her door with a confession so raw it would cut through whatever had led her away, stumbling words, apologies, the small humiliations of admitting how long I had watched and waited. I rehearsed the speech until it was ragged: how I had built a life for us in secret, how I had imagined mornings with her, how I had hoarded kindnesses to give her when the time was right. I pictured myself standing before her, voice breaking, offering everything I had: time, patience, the quiet constancy of someone who would not demand but would not let go of what mattered.

  In another version, I imagined a quieter, more desperate plea: a letter left on her doorstep, folded and refolded until the creases memorized my shame. I pictured the words spilling out, the truth of how she had become the axis of my days. I would tell her about the small, private ways she fit into me: the way her ugh rearranged my priorities, the way her silence could be a map I learned to read. I would ask her to remember the private nguage we had invented, the jokes that needed no expnation, the way our silences had once felt like a promise. I rehearsed these scenes until they blurred into one another, until the difference between fantasy and pn was indistinguishable. I told myself I would be honest to the point of embarrassment, that I would show her the depth of what I felt.

  I’ll go to you, because I cannot sit in silence while this absurd idea of you marrying someone else lingers in the air. I’ll confront it, tear it apart, make you see how foolish it is to even imagine a life with another man. I’ll make you remember the promises we never needed to speak aloud, the vows that lived in the spaces between our words, in the way our eyes met and held each other longer than they should have. You belong with me, and I will not allow anyone, least of all him, to stand in the way of what we both know is meant to be.

  This marriage, this other man, they are nothing but obstacles, fragile illusions that will crumble under the weight of what we share. He is a shadow, a distraction, a mistake you will one day look back on with regret. But me, I am the constant, the one who has always been there, the one who has carried you in silence, who has built our future in my mind brick by brick, moment by moment. My beautiful rose, you will return to me, because you cannot deny the truth forever. You will come back to where you truly belong, by my side, in my arms, in the life I have already carved out for us. And nothing, no one, will silence that truth. I will not be moved, I will not be broken, I will not let the world rewrite what I have already written in my heart.

  I will have you in my arms because there is no other ending to this story. And if not…well…let’s not think about that. The thought itself is unbearable, a darkness I refuse to let take shape. I will not allow it. I cannot. Because you are mine, and I am yours, and nothing else will ever be enough.