Two more years passed, and nothing really changed, except the stakes got higher. We were both almost done with college. Anders had a better job now, something in sales. He dressed sharper, and his confidence had grown too big for our small world. The attention he got wasn't just in the classroom now; it was everywhere. He loved it.
For me, the struggle never ended. My mother was still working too hard, and I was still the main support. Anders and I had managed to rent a tiny place together. It felt like a small victory, but it meant our fights were no longer confined to hurried moments in hallways; they were constant, echoing in our shared apartment.
He still had his female "friends." Now, they were co-workers, or clients, or people from the company events he attended. And he was better at hiding the evidence. But I was no longer a naive girl; I had become an expert in reading the tiny lies: the late texts he quickly deleted, the expensive dinners he vaguely explained as "networking," the way he smelled like perfume that wasn't mine.
I was tired of the constant headache of doubt. I was tired of being the small, worrying woman while he acted like a king.
One afternoon, I came home early from my tutoring job. I was cold and exhausted. I needed to study for a big final, but the apartment was too quiet. Anders wasn't supposed to be home for hours.
I found him in the living room, asleep on the couch. Relief washed over me—at least he wasn't out. I walked over gently to cover him with a blanket. He looked so peaceful, so handsome, the sun catching the sharp line of his jaw. For a moment, he was the same protective boy who stood between me and the bullies.
As I bent down, I saw his phone tucked under his hand. It was open.
Usually, he kept it locked tight. But he must have fallen asleep while using it.
I told myself, Don't look, Nina. Don't start another fight.
But I couldn't stop. My heart was already pounding with the sick certainty of what I would find. I gently pulled the phone free.
It wasn't a text message that broke me. It was a picture.
It was a selfie of Anders, smiling and completely relaxed, but it wasn't his smile that mattered. It was the girl next to him. She was beautiful, dressed in expensive clothes, and had her arms wrapped around his neck. The setting was a lavish hotel room—the kind that cost more than my family made in a month.
But the real shock was the date and time stamp on the photo.
It was taken last weekend. A weekend Anders had told me he was out of town on a mandatory work conference with his all-male sales team. He had claimed he couldn't call much because of bad service.
The text below the photo wasn't an innocent thank you note; it was a conversation thread with the girl. It was casual, familiar, and deeply intimate.
Her: Miss you already, A. Thanks for the best weekend. Can't wait for next month.
Anders: Me too. You know the rules. Gotta keep the work/play separation clean. Text you later, gorgeous.
"The work/play separation." I felt the blood drain from my face. It wasn't just a kiss or a drunken mistake. It was a planned, regular affair. He had taken a whole weekend, a weekend I spent working double shifts to pay our bills, and spent it with another woman in luxury.
I dropped the phone. The sound was a small, sharp noise on the wooden floor.
Anders woke up instantly, his eyes shooting open. He saw the phone, then he saw my face.
"Nina! What did you do? Give me that!" He lunged for the phone.
I stood back, numb, the numbness slowly turning into white-hot, terrifying clarity. "A conference?" I asked, my voice flat and dead. "A mandatory work conference with your all-male team? This is what you call 'just a friend'?"
He knew he was caught. He didn't try to deny it. Not this time. Instead, he went straight to the most vicious kind of attack—the personal one.
"She understands my life, Nina! She doesn't cling to me, she doesn't cry about money all the time! You're suffocating me! You're a constant weight!"
The words were like stones, hitting me right in the fragile heart I had spent years trying to protect. All the love, the forgiveness, the sacrifice—it meant nothing. I was just a "constant weight."
He tried to grab me, to pull me into the usual frantic apology-sex routine. "Wait! I was stupid, okay? It means nothing! I love you! I'll break it off, I promise!"
But his hands didn't feel like protection anymore; they felt like ropes. I shoved him hard, backing away from him until I hit the wall. The despair was gone, replaced by a cold, quiet anger that felt incredibly strong.
"No," I said. It was the calmest word I had ever spoken. "We're done, Anders."
He stopped. He saw something in my eyes he had never seen before: not tears, not sadness, but emptiness. He started to scream, to rage, to beg, to smash things, but I didn't hear him. The emotional noise had stopped.
I walked to the closet and pulled out the old, worn backpack I used in high school. I started packing my few things—my books, my small box of family photos, my work uniforms.
He stood in the doorway, his handsome face red and wet with real tears this time. "You need me, Nina! You're nothing without me! You'll go back to being that ugly, poor girl everyone ignored!"
I zipped the backpack shut. I didn't look back at him, didn't answer his desperate insult. I walked toward the front door, leaving the apartment, leaving the man I had sacrificed everything for.
The cold air outside hit my face, but I barely noticed. I was already forming a new plan, one that didn't involve survival or love. It only involved a future where Anders would understand exactly what it meant to lose "the weight." He would regret leaving the poor, invisible girl, and he would pay dearly for making her finally see the truth.