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The seventh time Claire Fisher bailed on our marriage license appointment, I finally cut her out of my life—for good.

From then on, if she was at a party, I wasn't.

When she was scheduled to perform at our college's anniversary celebration, I made sure to leave early.

The moment my company announced a collaboration with hers, I resigned without a second thought.

Even on Christmas Eve, when she showed up at my parents' house with gifts, I slipped out with a half-hearted excuse about "visiting a friend."

I blocked her number. Deleted her from my contacts. Burned every bridge and salted the earth behind me. No calls. No texts. No social media.

I didn't reach out. She couldn't reach me.

Simple as that.

For the better part of my life, I was hopelessly in love with her—waiting on her, caring for her, putting her first in every way that mattered. I gave her all of me without ever holding back.

But after the seventh time she left me sitting alone at the City Hall, something inside me broke.

I was done.

If that meant spending the rest of my life alone, so be it.

Better that than sitting in an empty apartment, listening to the silence, holding on to hope for someone who never planned to show up.