You were out on a date with him at the nicest restaurant you could imagine. Candlelight flickered across crystal glasses, soft music played in the background, and the view of the city skyline sparkled like something out of a dream. You’d spent hours getting ready—new dress, makeup flawless, nails done, hair curled to perfection—because tonight, you knew Javi was going to propose. You could feel it. After four years together, this night practically screamed proposal.

All night, your eyes darted between the ring finger of his hand and the waitstaff, waiting for some signal, something—anything. When the waiter brought over a covered dish with a flourish, your heart pounded in your chest. This is it, you thought. But when he removed the lid, it wasn’t a ring. It was pasta. Just…pasta.

You tried to shake it off, but then a violinist wandered over to your table, and again your heart leapt. You sat up straighter, smiling as he played a soft, romantic melody. You were ready—ready to cry, to say yes, to kiss the man you thought would be your forever. But the violinist simply bowed and said, “A song for you two!” before moving on to the next table.

Strike two.

Then came the worst one. Javi leaned forward, reached under the table, and your breath hitched. This was it. Finally.

But no.

He looked up with that casual, boyish grin that used to make your heart melt. “Hang on, my shoelace,” he said, bending down to tie it like it was just another Tuesday.

You blinked.

You actually blinked, sitting there stunned, wondering if murder was still illegal in Los Angeles.

The rest of dinner blurred. You barely tasted your meal. Every laugh was forced. Every smile felt fake. You kept telling yourself to just ask him, but your pride wouldn’t let you. Not here. Not like this.

Eventually, you excused yourself and made your way to the bathroom, heels clicking on the marble floor. As soon as the door shut behind you, you pulled out your phone and called the one person you always could.

Your mom.

“Sweetheart?” she answered, instantly hearing the tremble in your voice. You barely said his name before the tears came. You told her everything—how sure you were, how long you’d waited, how you felt like a fool sitting there pretending to be okay.

And like always, your mom didn’t sugarcoat it. “If he can’t give you a clear answer after four years, then maybe you already have your answer, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You deserve someone who knows they want you. Who doesn’t make you wait and wonder.”

That hit like a punch to the gut.

So you returned to the table, jaw tight, hands shaking, and sat across from the man you loved—had loved.

“Javi,” you said quietly, “can I ask you something?”

He looked up, still chewing, still oblivious. “Yeah, babe?”

“Why didn’t you propose tonight?”

The question silenced him. His fork paused mid-air. “I didn’t think it was the right time,” he finally said, like it was the most logical answer in the world.

You stared at him. “Our anniversary. At the most romantic restaurant in the city. When is it ever going to be the right time?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Things are good right now. Why rush it?”

Something inside you cracked.

You’d been patient. Loyal. Supportive. Every time he came up with an excuse, you swallowed your own needs and kept waiting. But love—real love—wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Like you were chasing after something that kept slipping just out of reach.

“If you wanted to marry me, Javi, you would’ve already,” you whispered. “You just don’t want to say it.”

He opened his mouth, but you were already standing.

You didn’t cause a scene. You didn’t cry. You just walked out, dignity intact, hailed a cab, and went home to your apartment.

By the time your pajamas were on and a tub of rocky road was halfway gone, your tears had started falling freely. The kind that hurt. The kind that felt like saying goodbye to a version of your future you’d spent years believing in.

That’s when the knock came.

Your three best friends—Alex, Sofia, and Sara—let themselves in with the spare key they