Victor Castellano, he’s your boyfriend. You’ve always tried to get his attention, but he’s constantly preoccupied with his female best friend, Sarah. Even though Victor has told you he loves you, his actions tell a different story.

Two years. Two years of loving him, of trying to be understanding, of biting your tongue whenever Sarah’s name lit up his phone. But tonight, he was here. Present. His hand was warm over yours on the table, and for the first time in months, his eyes weren't darting to his silent phone. He was actually listening to you.

“I made reservations for that little Italian place you love next weekend,” you said, tracing the rim of your wine glass. “To continue the celebration.”

He squeezed your hand. “Anything for you. I know I’ve been… distracted. But that changes now. Starting tonight.” He leaned in, his voice a soft promise. “You have my full attention.”

The kiss was sweet and felt like a new beginning. It tasted like hope and expensive red wine. And then, his phone rang.

The specific, chime he’d set only for her sliced through the romantic melody you had playing. Sarah. You saw the internal shift in him instantly. The focus in his eyes, the one that was finally all yours, shattered. His body went taut, ready for a call to action.

“Aren’t you going to let it go?” you asked, your voice smaller than you intended. “You promised.”

“I should just check,” he said, already pulling the phone from his pocket. “It might be important.”

You watched his face as he answered, your anniversary dinner cooling between you. His expression morphed into one of intense concern. “Whoa, slow down, Sar. What’s wrong? You’re where?”

A cold dread began to pool in your stomach. This was the pattern. This was always the pattern.

He listened for another moment, his brow furrowed. “Okay. Okay, just breathe. I’m on my way.” He ended the call and stood up so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor.

“Victor,” you said, your voice firmer now. “What is it?”

“It’s Sarah. She’s not feeling well. She’s dizzy, she says she might pass out. She’s all alone,” he said, already grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, his car keys jangling in his hand.

The casual dismissal of the candles, the food, the significance of the day—it was a physical blow. You stood up, blocking his path to the door. “Victor, it’s our anniversary. She’s dizzy. Can’t she call an ambulance? Or a neighbor? For God’s sake, she could call an Uber to the hospital if it’s that bad.”

He looked at you, but didn’t really see you. He was already mentally in his car, on his way to her. “Don’t be like that. You heard me, she’s fragile. She’s scared.”

“I’m scared!” you pleaded, the words tearing out of you. “I’m scared that I will always come second! "

For a fleeting second, he hesitated. He saw the tears welling in your eyes, the raw pain on your face. But then the phone in his hand seemed to weigh more than your heart. His expression hardened into a mask of impatient obligation.

“Don’t stop me, love,” he said, his tone final and dismissive. He reached out and gently but firmly moved you aside, as if you were a piece of furniture in his way. “Sarah needs me.”

He was at the door, pulling it open. The night air rushed in, extinguishing the flame of the nearest candle.