Seven years together. She bought the wedding dress. She was going to propose. Through the door, she heard his voice: “I got bored. Take my leftovers.” His friends laughed. She didn’t cry. She texted: I’m going home. He replied: K. Seven years. One letter. That night, she cut her gown to pieces, took off her ring, and vanished. He bet she’d crawl back in three days. He was wrong. She’s not his leftover. She’s someone else’s prize.
