I slide into the cool leather of the booth. Evan sits opposite me. His phone stays out, screen glowing in the darkness between us.

This is fine. Totally fine. I love dating a man whose most stable relationship is with his notifications.

"So," I start, trying to salvage this evening before I lose my will to live. "I had my first meeting with corporate today. They went over the hiring budget for the new location⁠—"

"Huh?" Evan doesn't look up. He's scrolling, thumb moving with practiced efficiency.

I take a deep breath, and try again. "The hiring budget. For my new position."

"Oh. Right." He finally glances up, just long enough to give me the most half-assed, patronizing smile I've ever seen. "That's cute, babe. Store manager, huh? Next stop, CEO?"

That's cute, babe? I'm twenty-eight years old and just got a huge promotion I worked my ass off for, and the best he can do is “that's cute, babe?” As if I don't spend fifty hours weekly managing a multimillion-dollar retail floor, handling hiring decisions, dealing with vendors, overseeing loss prevention strategies, and balancing corporate's absurd expectations with store reality.

My grip tightens around my water glass, the condensation wetting my fingers. I'm one condescending remark away from drowning myself in this overpriced sparkling water.

Our waiter arrives—a tall guy with a perfectly symmetrical face and a smile that suggests he gets paid extra to flirt.

"What can I get for you tonight?" he asks, directing the question at me because, unlike Evan, he actually acknowledges my presence.

I open my mouth, the smell of a passing steak making my stomach growl⁠—

"She'll have the filet," Evan says, handing the menu over. "Medium well." His eyes focus on me, taking in the slight roundness of my arms exposed by my dress, before adding, "And just the salad for the side. No potato."

The message is clear as the crystal wine glasses on our table. I don't miss how he orders for me now, how my food choices have become specimens he monitors like my personal nutritionist-slash-warden.

Medium well with no potato. Evan just sentenced a perfectly good cut of steak to a slow, tragic death, and I'm being forced to witness it—and go hungry. I stare at the waiter, silently begging him to tackle my boyfriend to the ground and make me single. He hesitates, his pen hovering over his notepad, probably waiting for me to protest, but I just plaster on a smile and nod. Because, what's the fucking point?

The waiter disappears, leaving Evan and me alone, though I might as well be dining solo for all the attention he gives me. His phone is practically fused to his hand, the screen casting a dull blue glow over his features as he gets back to scrolling.

I take a sip of water, the ice clinking against the glass, trying to summon the energy to care. This is how our dinners go now—we sit together without actually sitting together. He's always half-distracted, half-busy, half-anywhere but here.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Evan looked at me like he actually saw me, laughed at my jokes instead of just exhaling through his nose, and pulled me into his lap instead of leaning away when I tried to touch him in public. Back when I was lighter, when stress hadn’t driven me to late-night ice cream binges and comfort pasta. Back before his expectations and the relentless pressure of my job started carving themselves into my body—softening my once-flat stomach, rounding my cheeks.

I tell myself this is just a rough patch, that he still loves me, that he's just stressed—even though deep down, I know this is just who he is now.

I watch as he thumbs through Instagram, pausing briefly on a post before tilting his screen toward me.

"Damn, look at her," he says, showing me a photo of some influencer posing in front of a gym mirror, abs flexed, a slick sheen of sweat on her impossibly toned stomach. "She's been absolutely killing it lately."

His voice holds a hint of admiration he hasn't used for me in quite some time. I turn away from his phone, my appetite shrinking into a hard knot. He doesn't say “you should look like this”—he doesn't have to. The subtext is clear.

I glance down at myself, at my dress clinging too snugly to my middle, at how my thighs spread wide. I can feel the seam of my dress digging into my waist, a constant reminder of the body I now inhabit. Evan doesn't think I'm sexy, not the way I am now. I already knew this—he's been dropping hints for months, like casually mentioning an article about intermittent fasting or nudging a gym membership flyer toward me on the counter. Or now, showing me a woman he actually finds attractive and hoping I take the hint.

I set my water glass down too hard on the starched white tablecloth. Evan doesn't notice. He just keeps scrolling.

I watch his perfectly manicured fingers swipe at his screen, his Rolex glinting under the restaurant's lighting. He's the picture of finance bro elegance—Met Gala-level suit, slicked-back blond hair with not a strand out of place, sharp jawline that could probably get him a modeling contract if he ever decided to retire from emotionally neglecting his girlfriend.

Once upon a time, this was exactly the type of guy I wanted. When I was younger, I had a very specific idea of what my dream man looked like. And sure, it may be oddly similar to a specific Tiktok song, but I maintain I had the vision first: works in finance (with opinions about the stock market but doesn't make it his whole personality), trust fund baby (but one of the humble ones), over six feet tall (because obviously), and blue eyes (because I was shallow). Somehow, against all odds, I actually got him—the New York finance guy of my teenage dreams who quickly turned into a bit of a nightmare.

I should have known better. My mother tried to warn me, though not for the right reasons. If she'd told me he was emotionally unavailable, condescending, and about as warm as a marble countertop, maybe I would have listened. But her problem with Evan had nothing to do with who he was as a person and everything to do with the fact that after three years of dating, he still hadn't proposed.

Three years of fielding the same conversation at every family gathering with the same pointed questions: So, when are you getting married? Do you think maybe he's just waiting for you to say something? You're not getting any younger, Isabella.

My mother makes these digs sound casual, but I hear the real message underneath and feel it when she looks at me with concern, like I'm running out of time and should be worried too. I see how her eyes linger on my fuller figure, how she frowns slightly when I reach for seconds at Sunday dinner. She’s never said it, but I can feel it in her eyes: maybe if you lost the weight, he'd finally commit.

My three older brothers—Matteo, Luca, and Nico—have their own opinions about Evan. Nico, the youngest and most reckless, doesn't try to be subtle: "I could take him," he once said, straight-faced, over my mother's lasagna. "Just let me know when."

Matteo, the oldest who pretends to be above it all, just shakes his head when Evan's name comes up, like my entire relationship is some deeply unfortunate life decision that he's quietly choosing not to acknowledge. And Luca flat-out doesn't speak to Evan when they're in the same room, which would probably bother Evan if he weren't too busy being smug about "intimidating" my brothers.

I pretend not to care what they think, but I know they're right. This relationship isn't going anywhere. Evan doesn't love me the way I want to be loved. But I stay because the alternative means admitting I wasted three years of my life and facing the battle that would follow. Breaking up with Evan wouldn't just be breaking up—it would mean explaining myself to my family, dealing with my mother's worried sighs, my father's quiet disappointment, and my brothers' smug "I told you so" looks. It would mean proving them right.