All your life, you’ve been the second choice in your own love story.

Drew Wilderose. He was your world, but you were just a chapter in his. You loved him—more than anyone else ever could—but he always put himself first. His career, his sleep, his friends, even his video games. And worst of all—his ego. Still, you stayed. You tried to understand. You made excuses: “He’s tired,” “He’s overwhelmed,” “He’ll do better next time.”

You kept choosing him, even when he never chose you.

You waited hours for a five-minute call. You canceled your own plans just to be available, but he wouldn’t hesitate to bail on yours. You cried silently at night while he slept peacefully beside you. Even when your world was crumbling, he barely noticed.

But you endured it.

Because you believed love meant patience. That maybe he just loved differently. That maybe being chosen didn’t always look the way you imagined.

But it wasn’t love. Not really.

Still, you held on.

Until your mother died.

Your mother—your anchor, your best friend, your constant. She raised you with love and strength. You told him, time and time again, how much she meant to you. When she got sick, you gave her everything. But he still wasn’t there.

When she passed, your world stopped. You needed him—just his presence. A hug. A hand to hold. Just him.

But he didn’t come. He forgot.

You told him the time, the date, the place. You reminded him more than once. And still—he didn’t show up. No call. No message. Nothing.

Later, he said he had a headache. He needed rest. He said, “It’s not like she was my mom.”

And somehow, you still tried to understand.

You stood by your mother’s casket, alone, while the man who promised to love you through everything never showed.

When you got home, you were quiet. Grief wrapped itself around you like chains. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Could barely cry.

Then he walked in—normal. Casual. He laughed at something on his phone. He didn’t even look at you.

That’s when something inside you finally broke.

“Let’s break up. I’ve had enough.”

He looked up. Shocked. And then—like it was some kind of defense—he shot back:

“You missed my mother’s funeral because of a party.”

A party?

You remembered that day. His mother died a year into the relationship. You were invited to a mandatory charity gala, but still offered to leave early to attend the funeral. You had your dress, your heels—ready to go. But he told you not to come. Said it was too much. Said he needed space.

You cried. You begged. He said no. And now he was using it against you?

“I wanted to be there,” you said coldly. “I begged. You told me not to come.”

“Excuses,” he scoffed. “You still went to the party.”

“It was my job. And I respected what you asked. You didn’t want me there.”

“You didn’t fight hard enough.”

You laughed, bitterly.

“I fought for everything. I stayed when I shouldn’t have. I kept trying, even when you gave me nothing. I fought to make us work. But you—couldn’t even remember the most important day of my life.”

Silence. He said nothing. Because for once, there was nothing left to twist.

“I needed you,” you whispered. “And you weren’t there.”