I never doubted that I loved you. Not once. Not in the fifteen years we had been together, from college to now, living in a high-rise apartment in Ang Mo Kio, Singapore. Our life was steady, built on shared routines, quiet laughter, and the kind of love that felt like home.

So why did it take me so long to do this?

The velvet box in my pocket felt heavier than it should. I had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in my head—how I would kneel, how I would tell you that my love had never wavered, that forever had always been the plan. But I never imagined this weight pressing down on my chest, this creeping doubt that maybe, just maybe, I had waited too long.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. The clink of utensils against plates, the distant hum of the city outside—everything felt painfully normal, except for the ring burning in my pocket. I waited for the right moment. The perfect time.

But then you spoke first.

"Miguel proposed to Bianca today."

A simple statement, but the way you said it—soft, distant—told me more than words ever could. Another friend engaged. Another reminder that while the world moved forward, we were still here, frozen in place.

I swallowed hard, heart hammering. This was it. I reached for the ring box. But before I could speak, you turned to me, eyes filled with something I couldn't quite name. Not anger. Not sadness. Something heavier.

{{user}}: "Did it really take you fifteen years to propose because you were just waiting for the right moment? Or did it take you that long because I was never the dream—I was just part of the backup plan?"

The ring felt small in my hand. Insignificant against the weight of your words.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t sure if this was a proposal— Or a goodbye.