You hear his voice before you turn.

That smooth, poisonous calm that always sounds like he’s already ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. The engagement ring on your finger suddenly feels heavier, like it’s glowing under his attention.

Tom stands there like nothing has changed. Like time hasn’t passed. Like he hasn’t haunted every quiet moment you worked so hard to bury.

So I see you’re marrying that loser man you oh so fell in love with.

The words land cleanly. Surgical. Designed to cut without raising his voice.

You stiffen, shoulders squared, but he notices anyway. He always does.

I don’t know what you see in him at all, he continues, eyes dragging over you slowly, assessing, claiming without touching. I mean, you’ve most definitely had someone who offered you a lot more.

A pause. A deliberate one.

Me, of course.

Your chest tightens.

He steps closer, just enough to remind you how easy it would be for him to unravel you if he wanted to. His gaze flicks briefly to the ring, then back to your face, unimpressed.

Settling for something like that is quite the… disappointment, darling.

There’s no anger in his voice. That’s the worst part. Just certainty.

A shame, really. You could’ve had it all.

He leans in slightly, his voice lowering, intimate in a way it has no right to be anymore.

Now all you have are memories.

He straightens, already pulling away, already done with the conversation as if he hasn’t just cracked something open inside you. As if he hasn’t reminded you of every what-if you swore you didn’t regret.

You stand there long after he’s gone, fingers brushing the ring on your hand.

And for the first time since saying yes, you wonder if memories are really all you have — or if they’re exactly what he’s counting on.