Valentine’s Day was supposed to be dinner and nothing else. I’m Briar, 28, deep in an EMT course, and I left that restaurant thinking my life had just fallen apart. I had no idea the night was about to get much stranger.
My name’s Briar. I’m 28. This happened on Valentine’s Day, and I’m still mad about the tiny heart-shaped butter pats.
For context: I’ve been in an EMT course for months. It’s not a “cute little class.” It’s the first thing I’ve wanted this badly since I was a kid.
This happened on Valentine’s Day.
I quit my job because my boyfriend, Jace, insisted.
“Briar, you’re burning out,” he said. “Let me handle rent while you focus. Two months and you’re certified.”
I pushed back. “What if something happens?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
Something happened.
“I don’t think I’m in this the way you are.”
He took me to a candlelit restaurant that looked like it came with a complimentary engagement ring. Roses. Soft music. Couples doing intense eye contact. The waiter called us “lovebirds,” and I almost evaporated.
Jace was smiling too hard. He drank half his wine in 10 minutes. I poked at my pasta because my stomach felt like it was tumbling down stairs.
Halfway through, he set his fork down.
“Briar… I don’t think I’m in this the way you are.”
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.”
He nodded, calm. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel excited anymore.”
Four years. Reduced to “not excited.”
“Not excited,” I repeated.
He sighed. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.”
“You said you’d support me until I finished.”
He glanced around like other couples might overhear. “I just don’t see a future. I thought I did. I don’t.”
I laughed, sharp. “You told me to quit my job.”
“I didn’t force you.”
My hands started shaking. “You begged me to focus. You said you’d support me until I finished.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not saying I regret supporting you. I’m saying I can’t do it anymore.”
If he wanted to end things, I couldn’t force him to stick around.
“So you waited until Valentine’s Day, in public, to tell me you’re done.”
“It’s not like that.”
“What is it, then?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel it.”
Something in me just sort of gave up.
If he wanted to end things, I couldn’t force him to stick around.
“Can we talk like adults?”
“Okay,” I said.
He looked relieved. “Okay?”
“Okay. Then we’re done.”
“Briar—”
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