I know he’s going to propose soon. I can feel it in the way he holds my hand a little longer. In the way he looks at me, like I’m already his forever. In the way he talks about kids—our kids—as if they’re already living, breathing people he’s dreaming of creating with me.
And here’s the truth: I can’t marry him.
Not because he’s twenty years older. Not because he’s less attractive or less kind. God, he’s everything. Charming. Patient. Protective. The kind of man who loves like it’s an art form. And yes, he’s… incredible in bed.
I love him. Madly, impossibly, fully.
But sometimes, love isn’t enough.
He earns less than I do. He’s content with life as it is—no promotions, no hunger, no ambition to climb. He has dreams, quiet ones, humble ones. Domestic ones. And I hate myself for saying this, but that terrifies me.
I grew up in a world where ambition is oxygen. Where love alone doesn’t pay the mortgage. Where partners chase careers, status, and purpose—not just comfort and coziness.
And me? I worked. I sacrificed. Five years of university, loans, nights of studying until my eyes burned, being the first woman in my family to hold a degree with distinction. I fought to carve a life for myself.
And I can’t marry him—not if it means becoming the primary earner for a man twenty years older than me.
I picture my life with him: cozy apartment, quiet evenings, modest vacations, little domestic joys. And then I picture my mother’s life: polished conversations over two cars in the driveway, dinners on the table, the soft luxury of predictability.
I see her life like a blueprint I was born holding. And no matter how much I love him… no matter how much he loves me… I can’t unsee it.
I’ve tried. I’ve lied to myself in the quiet moments—tangled in sheets, cooking dinner barefoot in his too-small kitchen—convincing myself I’m happy. This could be enough.
But it isn’t.
Reality isn’t fairy lights and soft laughter. Reality is bank statements, career trajectories, regrets waiting quietly in the corner. And I can feel it already—the whisper of resentment forming. The kind that starts small and grows into a storm that could tear us apart five years from now.
So here I am. Madly in love with a man I know is perfect. For someone else.
I’m not waiting for him to mess up. He won’t. He’s too good. I’m not waiting for a better man. There isn’t one. He is better—just not for the life I want.
I keep rehearsing it in my head. The proposal. The way he’ll get down on one knee, eyes bright with hope. The words he’ll say, the promise of forever. And me, smiling so wide it cracks my heart, whispering: “I’m sorry.”
And in that moment… I’ll watch the man who gave me nothing but love shatter.
And I’ll become the villain in the only love story that ever made me feel safe.
I’ll walk away from him. Because sometimes, the hardest thing in life is loving someone enough to let them go.
Because I want a middle-class life. And he wants a simple, quiet love. And both of us will be destroyed if we try to merge the two.
I’ll carry the guilt. I’ll carry the memory of the life we almost had. And he’ll carry the heartbreak of a love that was perfect—but couldn’t survive reality.
And maybe someday, I’ll forgive myself. But not yet.
Not yet.
