Sweet Romance11 min read
"I Posted The Breakup — Then He Watched Me Walk Away"
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01
"I blocked him," I said out loud even though my dorm was quiet. "I deleted everything."
Avery looked at me from her lower bunk like I had announced the end of the world.
"You're serious?" she asked.
"Completely," I answered. "No contact."
I tapped the final confirmation on my phone. Isaac's number, his WeChat — gone. Then I posted exactly what I'd written in the draft folder for months.
"Every girl deserves to be given flowers. Every girl deserves to be chosen. No one is born liking to wait."
I put my phone face down and lay back. The room hummed with the low noise of other students. Avery whispered, "That's so dramatic."
"Good," I said. "Let them watch."
02
My inbox exploded the next morning.
"Are you okay?" "What happened?" "Did Isaac…?" People assumed heartbreak. People liked drama.
Then a message came from someone anonymous. I knew the typing style. "Eloise, Isaac and I haven't done anything. Please stop being mad."
A clumsy, syrupy apology. The same voice that laced around Isaac all the time in public.
"Marilyn," I muttered and swiped left.
"Don't let them drag you down," Avery said. "Come eat with me. The canteen has sweet-and-sour ribs."
I slipped on my shoes. Life continues.
03
The canteen was packed. We got a plate of ribs and scanned for seats. Then I saw them.
Isaac sat with Marilyn across from him, Zack by his side, and a man I hadn't met. Of course.
"Great," Avery sighed. "Worst table ever."
"Sit with us," Marilyn called before I could decide.
She hugged my shoulders like we were old friends.
"Hi, Eloise," she purred.
I folded my napkin and sat down. Isaac looked at me without smiling. The man across from me had a strong back, a good bearing, and eyes that made me think, briefly, of other possibilities.
04
"Can I take some ribs?" Marilyn asked, inching closer.
"Sure," I said.
She tried to lean on me like a vine. Isaac watched, lips pressed in a line.
"I think you misunderstand," I said plainly. "You're with Isaac."
Marilyn blinked, surprised. "Eloise, no. He's my friend."
"Friends who dine in dim light with candles and a watch on his wrist that looks familiar? Cute."
She stuttered and laughed and glanced at Isaac. He looked away.
05
That night I went to the student council meeting early. I wanted to hand in my resignation.
"You're really leaving?" Kate asked.
"Yes," I said. "I need distance."
Isaac followed me into the storage room. "Eloise, why did you block me? Why are you leaving the council?"
I held a printed screenshot of a post from months ago — a dinner photo Isaac had posted with someone whose nails were too polished.
"You don't understand," he said. "She and I..."
"Save it," I interrupted. "I'm done explaining."
He tried to take my hand. I slipped it away. "I'm quitting the council. It's final."
06
I should be honest. This split wasn't sudden. Half a year before, in the snow, I had seen Isaac clinging to Marilyn outside the boys' dorm. My mother's calls that day had been about my grandmother's death. I rushed home and back. That night, I couldn't sleep. I realized I had been waiting for a person who didn't wait for me.
I smiled now because I had finally chosen myself.
07
A week later, I met the exchange student.
"Excuse me, can you tell me where the stationery shop is?" he asked, voice soft.
"Right that way," I said, and then we walked together. His name was Enrique Chase. He had quiet manners, a clear voice, and those brown eyes that made people listen.
Later, Alejandro — sorry, I won't invent names. He told me he was at our school for a semester. He wasn't flashy. He wasn't trying to steal anyone. He stood like someone who knew who he was.
08
We bumped into each other again in the library.
"Is this seat taken?" he asked.
"No," I said.
He sat down and we started talking about nothing important — rain, exams, the best noodle stall. He lent me an umbrella one stormy day. Little things that felt like a hand offered.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" I asked him suddenly one afternoon.
"No," he replied. "And I don't like people who try to be everything."
He shrugged. "I like honesty."
He said this with every silence filled with the kind of warmth that makes you pause. That warmth pulled at some small part of me.
09
"I need your help," Kash — sorry, not his name — Enrique said one evening. "Could you show me around campus?"
"Sure," I said.
We spent that Saturday walking: water refill stations, the announcement board, the practice rooms. I showed him the posters for our biggest event — the campus singing contest. I told him I was leaving the student council after it finished.
"Will you come?" I asked.
He looked at a poster and then at me. "I might," he said.
10
Rehearsal was chaos. The new teacher changed plans and we had to redo everything. Marilyn, who had been chosen as a contestant, didn't show up for morning rehearsal. We waited. The teacher was furious.
"Who notified her?" the teacher demanded.
"I did," I said.
Marilyn opened her mouth. "Maybe I didn't get the message," she said, voice soft.
Enrique stepped forward. He had screenshots on his phone.
"She asked me last night whether she should come. She told me she would be here."
The teacher's face fell. Marilyn's face drained of color. I watched the lie crumble. It felt good. It felt fair.
11
The finals went smoothly. Enrique sang well and placed second. He was voted "most popular." Marilyn floundered.
We all went for food afterward, and the table arrangement was the kind of trap that would have made a novelist proud. Isaac sat opposite me, Marilyn at his left, Enrique beside me.
People drank. I kept my distance. Isaac's eyes found me several times, and I looked away each time.
12
Later that night, at the KTV, I drank and laughed and then escaped to the lobby. Enrique followed.
"You're okay?" he asked, touching my forehead with the back of his hand.
"I'm leaving the council," I said, voice raw.
"You can keep some friends," he said. "You don't have to do it alone."
I laughed at his stubborn kindness. "Do you like me?" I blurted.
He looked at me. The room blurred. "Yes," he said after a beat. "I've liked you since I first saw you on stage a year ago. You were like light."
13
"Did you two…?" A dormmate later accused me of moving too fast. Photos leaked on the campus forum of Enrique and me together. Rumors grow like weeds.
Avery teased me, and then she dialed Enrique by way of mischief. "Eloise says she likes you," she sang into the phone.
"Shut up, Avery," I hissed and snatched the phone.
A knock came at the door. Isaac stood there, voice hoarse.
"Eloise," he said. "I heard about you and Enrique."
"What about it?" I asked.
"We're not over," he pleaded. "Please don't leave me."
I felt no rush of pity. I had rehearsed this moment. "We were over long before you realized, Isaac," I said. "I wanted to stop wasting time."
I walked past him.
14
Isaac wasn't the only one who looked bruised. Marilyn's face held a new fear. She had been used to saying whatever she liked, stepping in like she owned the air. Now cameras and whispers lingered on her. Enrique had shown the rehearsal messages to the teacher. The contest judges had not liked her performance. People began to watch her with a new coolness.
What she didn't know was that I had one more card to play.
15
The day of the awards banquet, the room buzzed. My phone buzzed in my pocket — an anonymous message: "Don't do it." I straightened my back.
I had prepared a box of things to give Isaac months ago — scarves, mugs, small souvenirs and a letter. But this time, I did something different. I arranged to hand them to him in public.
I stood up at the table as dessert arrived. The room quieted when I spoke.
"Isaac," I said, voice steady. "I made something for you."
16
I walked to his table and set the box down. Cameras flicked. People leaned in. Isaac looked confused, then curious. I opened the lid so everyone could see.
Inside were postcards, a hand-knitted scarf, a small wallet I had made. A pile of 'us' made mostly from my trying.
"I tried to hold on," I told the whole room. "Half a year ago I chose to pretend I didn't see what was happening. I pretended ignorance because I wanted to stay with you."
Isaac swallowed. People murmured.
"You have to understand what it's like to wait for someone who doesn't wait for you," I continued. "I deserve someone who shows up for me."
He reached for my hand in front of everyone.
"No," I said. "Not here."
He staggered, like he'd been punched. Eyes met mine. Then he slid down into his chair. The room hummed. Isaac's face went from shock to pleading.
"Eloise, please," he started.
"No," I repeated. I turned and walked away.
17
Punishment scene — Marilyn Ferrell (public exposure, 500+ words)
I had planned the last move for weeks. Not to destroy, but to show truth under light.
The banquet hall had a low ceiling. After my walk across the room, people returned to their conversations. The band played low jazz. Waiters moved between tables.
I asked the host for a moment on the microphone.
"May I?" I said into the mic. "There's something I need to say."
The room quieted. The glow from chandeliers painted faces warm. Marilyn's eyes narrowed.
"You all know Marilyn as sweet and kind," I began. "She is friendly, and she plays that role well. But I think you should hear something else—directly."
I held up my phone and connected to the projector. A screenshot slid onto the big screen. An exchange between Marilyn and Isaac. Candles in the background, a photo of Marilyn leaning close to Isaac, a message from Marilyn that read, "I didn't think you'd be so careless." Then another from Marilyn to a friend: "He'll never know, he thinks I'm innocent."
A hum rose.
Marilyn's face changed from composed to pale. She blinked. "That's not—" she started.
"Let her finish," someone called.
I tapped another file. A chat log between Marilyn and a hostelmate: "Be at the dorm tonight, I'll come by. I need you to look like my grief partner." She had requested an alibi before. The messages were meticulous: the times she claimed to be studying, the locations she pretended to be.
"You're lying to everyone," I said. "You told Isaac you were 'just friends.' You told me 'I didn't know.' The truth is here."
Marilyn's forehead creased. Her voice, when she found it, shook. "Eloise, you can't—"
"Watch," I said.
I opened a few more images. A stalls-and-strings photo of Marilyn at a candlelight dinner the same night Isaac had posted. A screenshot where Marilyn praises the romance publicly and, privately, says, "He looks good when he buys flowers." Another where she writes to a girl: "If Isaac doesn't commit, I can move on; I'm used to being wanted."
The room had stopped breathing. People leaned forward. Phones came out. Someone filmed. Murmurs turned to whispers, then to outright gasps.
Marilyn's smile was gone. Her lashes trembled. For a moment she tried to regain the script — wide eyes, innocent voice. "That's not fair," she wailed. "You can't show these — they're out of context!"
A thousand little phones were context now. The projector showed a video of her and Isaac on a balcony leaning close, her hand resting on his arm. Close-ups of timestamps proved she had been physically intimate with him at times Isaac claimed were alone.
She went from denial to anger. "You made this up! You edited things!" she accused, voice sharp now, glaring at me. People turned to her, skeptical.
"Is this edited?" someone asked aloud.
"No," Enrique said quietly from his seat. "I saw some of these messages on her phone months ago. She asked me to confirm rehearsal times when she wanted Isaac to be there. She lied to the teacher, too."
Marilyn's face crumpled. She shifted from angry to frantic. "Isaac!" she screamed. "Tell them it's not true!"
Isaac sat stony, his face drifted through denial. "I… I don't—" he started.
Marilyn lunged to the table as if physically grabbing at narrative control. "You all know me!" she cried. The room responded with a shiver, not sympathy.
People around us murmured. A girl touched her chin. A boy whispered into a phone. The waiter paused mid-step. The dean at the head table frowned. Someone took a photo and posted it to the campus feed before she had finished speaking.
Her voice became thin. "You can't—" she sobbed. Her breathing shortened. Her bravado evaporated in front of wards of witnesses. Her eyes bulged, searching for an ally, for someone to stand and say, "She's been hurt." Nobody did. The closest were the students who had just watched messages prove her duplicity.
"Marilyn," Isaac said quietly, finally, almost as if speaking to himself more than her, "why didn't you tell me?"
She collapsed into the chair at her table. Denial gave way to pleading. "It wasn't like that! I didn't mean—"
Someone from the next table stood. "You told him you were 'only friends.' You told us you 'didn't get the message.' You left the rehearsal. We waited. Enrique showed the teacher you had asked him whether to come. He had your messages."
Her hands covered her face. Cameras didn't stop. Some students clucked, some whispered aloud. A couple of girls, once rivals, simply shook their heads.
Marilyn looked up, eyes rimmed red. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Your apologies are late," a voice said. People laughed at the cruelty, and then looked ashamed. The dean cleared his throat. "This isn't for us to mete out," he said. "This is a matter of personal responsibility."
But the public had already done its work. The posts had been shared. Comments stacked like verdicts. A student said, "I used to like her, but now…"
Marilyn's composure collapsed into sobs. She tried to stand, to plead with Isaac directly, to make it right in front of everyone, but each movement became smaller and more desperate.
At the end she whispered, "Please," and for a while the room was only the sound of her crying. Cell phones flashed like distant stars. The humiliation had weight; it landed on her shoulders and sat there heavy and real.
She had been practiced at playing the innocent girl. On that stage, with projections and texts and witnesses, she had no script left. She moved from smug to shocked to denial to collapse to begging. The crowd shifted, recorded, and moved on.
18
After that night, Marilyn's cheer faded. People who had once flocked to her now crossed streets to avoid her. Her followers thinned. Rumors fed on her mistakes.
Enrique walked me home that night without saying much. He held my umbrella over both of us. At the door, he said, "You did what you had to do."
19
I looked at Isaac after that. He saw what the room saw. He had been proud of things I had made for him; that pride curdled into shame.
"You don't have to apologise," I told him once, when we were alone. "But understand this: I stopped waiting."
He tried to speak and the words came as small, useless things.
20
Enrique and I grew closer properly, without the frantic rush of secrecy. We had small, tender things. He bought me a plastic bag of street breakfast once. He texted to tell me he had seen my post and that he thought the words were brave.
"Can I be the one who waits for you?" he asked one morning in May, as we sat under the old plane tree.
"You already did," I said.
He smiled like it was the first truth he'd ever heard.
21
People asked me later whether I'd planned all of it. "No," I told them. "I planned leaving. I didn't plan who would come along."
Avery laughed. "You wanted him to hurt, didn't you?"
"I wanted him to notice that someone had stopped waiting," I said.
22
At graduation, Isaac came briefly. He stood in the crowd with a face like a weathered wall. I gave him my last postcard and then put my hand up in goodbye.
Enrique stood behind me. "Do you regret it?" he asked softly.
"No," I said. "I am tired of waiting. I choose to walk."
He offered his arm. I took it.
23
There are still nights I remember the snow, the call about my grandma, the feel of waiting for a person who wouldn't wait back.
"I used to think I'd be small without him," I told Enrique once.
"You aren't small," he said. "You're honest."
24
Someone once wrote that every girl wants flowers. That night, months later, he brought me eleven red roses.
"Every girl should be chosen," he whispered. "May I be the one?"
I laughed and then took his hand.
25
We found each other not by accident but by leaving room to be found. The lights were brighter after the truth. The hurt had been public, but so was the healing.
I still have the postcards in a box. I keep them not because they mark an era of sorrow, but because they mark a time I finally stopped waiting.
The End
— Thank you for reading —