Love stories aren't supposed to end the night before the wedding.
Love stories aren't supposed to end the night before the wedding. But mine did. My fiancé ended our engagement with four crushing words: “I can’t marry you.” Days later, I found out the real reason...
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Eli and I had known each other nearly our entire lives. We met when I was six and he was eight—mud-streaked knees, wild ideas, and summer afternoons that stretched forever. What began as a childhood friendship slowly evolved into something deeper, though we never said it out loud.
That changed our senior year of high school. I still remember him offering his hand during the homecoming dance.
“Dance with me, Lila?”
Under the faded lights and glittery decorations, I realized I’d been in love with him all along.
We stayed close through college. I supported him through law school applications, he edited my design portfolio late into the night. When I landed my first big job at an architecture firm, he brought takeout and flowers to my tiny studio.
The proposal came on an ordinary Thursday. No grand gesture, no Instagram-worthy scene—just Eli, down on one knee in our kitchen while I stood there in his hoodie and mismatched socks.
“I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you,” he said, voice shaking. “Will you marry me?”
I said yes before he even finished the sentence.
Eight months later, we were a week from the wedding. My dress was perfect, the venue was booked, and my parents were busy organizing every last detail. My dad cried when he practiced walking me down the aisle. My mom wouldn’t stop showing off the RSVP list.
The night before the big day, I was at my parents’ house—an old tradition, staying apart before the wedding. My bridesmaids had just left, and I was hanging up my going-away dress when my phone rang.
“Eli?” I answered, smiling.
There was a pause. A long one.
“I… I can’t do this,” he said.
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t marry you.”
“What are you talking about? If you're panicking, that’s normal. Let’s talk about it.”
“It’s not nerves, Lila. I’m… I’m sorry.”
And then he hung up.
I called back. No answer. I called again. Nothing. I reached out to his parents. No response. His best friend didn’t pick up. My mom found me curled up on the floor, phone still in my hand, shaking.
“Sweetheart…” she said softly, hugging me as I crumbled.
“What kind of person does this the night before the wedding?”
She didn’t have an answer.
The next three days were a fog of canceled bookings, returned gifts, and awkward sympathy from people I barely knew. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think.
Then came a text from my best friend, Nadia:
“Call me. It’s important.”
I called, and her voice cracked.
“Have you seen the pictures?”
“What pictures?”
A long pause. Then, “Eli got married.”
My blood ran cold. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking. He got married. Same day, same tux. Different bride.”
I ran to my laptop, numb. A few clicks on social media, and there it was. Eli, smiling under an arch of white roses—my arch—with a woman I didn’t recognize in a dress that wasn’t mine.
I barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.
Hours later, I called him. I didn’t expect him to answer.
But he did.
“Lila…”
“Who is she?” I whispered. “Tell me the truth.”
“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“You could’ve told me before you married someone else, Eli. Why didn’t you?”
He exhaled. “Can we meet?”
“Where?”
“Riverside Park.”
The same place we had our first kiss.
I showed up, furious and ice-cold. He looked like hell—eyes red, jaw tight, like he hadn’t slept.
“Talk,” I said, arms crossed.... (continue reading in the 1st comment)
