“You didn’t tell me you were getting discharged!” Her tone carried a hint of reproach. “I’ve been busy with work and couldn’t pick you up. The house is a mess, so stay at a hotel for now. I’ll send someone to clean up before bringing you home.”
“Okay,” I replied, swallowing the bitter urge to confront her.
But her location betrayed her words. She was at home, and in the background, a man’s voice echoed.
“Why isn’t the hot water running?”
She quickly hung up. It wasn’t hard to guess why she didn’t want me back at the house.
Soon after, she texted me the details of the hotel she’d arranged.
When I arrived, a bouquet of 99 roses awaited me in the lobby. Passersby admired the grand gesture, oblivious to the irony. These were the same flowers Odessa had once forbidden me to give her, fearing they might expose our relationship. Now, when I was resolved to let her go, she was finally treating me like someone worth envying.
Unmoved, I hired a courier to deliver the roses back to her house.
Later, the courier messaged me, almost as if out of sympathy:
“She looked thrilled when she saw the flowers. But then she jumped into her boyfriend’s arms. You can imagine the rest.”