"A Love That Lasts"

Hi. I'm Zayra.

Long, straight dark brown hair. Morena skin—smooth, sun-warmed from years spent outdoors, years spent working outdoors. My build? Slim, athletic, not too sharp at the edges. There's a softness to me, too. The kind that takes years to build and seconds to bruise.

It's a lovely morning—clear sky, soft breeze—and I'm rifling through my small closet, humming quietly to myself. I'm deciding between two dresses for tonight.

Because tonight is special.

Tonight, Mark and I are celebrating our one-year anniversary.

I still remember the first time I saw him. Back in college. He was a year ahead—popular, confident, part of that med student circle that practically radiated ambition and wealth. His family owned a hospital. Everyone knew his last name.

Me? I was invisible to him then. Just a nursing student. Just someone passing him in the hallways.

But somehow, I got lucky.

During my internship, I got assigned to his hospital. After graduation, they hired me full-time. And that's when we started seeing each other more. Through his sister—Mila—we grew closer. Mila was my partner in caring for a long-term patient. We bonded quickly, over shifts that stretched into the night and quiet conversations in the staff pantry. Eventually, she started inviting me to their home for dinner.

That's how I met her brother again. Mark.

He was different, then. Or maybe he just let me see a different side of him—softer, sincere, interested.

At first, I was hesitant. I didn't know if I could open up to someone like him, someone whose world was so clean, so perfect. After what happened to my parents, trust was something I gave away piece by piece, carefully, cautiously.

But Mark was patient. Steady. He made me believe I didn't need to be afraid. And with Mila in the picture—someone I already trusted—it became easier to believe in him.

And when I finally did… I fell hard.

Back to the present.....

It's 8:00 p.m. now. My shift has just ended.

I step outside the hospital, still in uniform, the city buzzing with weekend energy. I pull out my phone and call him, smiling to myself as it rings.

Ring… ring…

Zayra: "Hello, babe! Ready to go?"

Mark: "Hey, babe. Sorry—I'm still busy. I'll be home late. You go ahead without me."

Zayra: "Oh really? What time will you be done?"

Mark: "I'm not sure yet. That's why it's better if you just go ahead."

Zayra: "…Alright. Take care, okay? Bye. Love you!"

Mark: "You too. Take care. Bye."

The call ends.

I stare at the phone for a second, my thumb still hovering over the screen. Busy, I repeat to myself. That's all it is. The reservation isn't until ten anyway… maybe he's planning something? A surprise?

I blush. I let the thought lift me a little.

At home, I take my time getting ready. I choose the light purple, wavy, knee-length dress I'd picked out just for tonight. It fits like it was made for me—soft, romantic, hopeful.

I curl my hair slightly. Add a touch of gloss.

He always said I looked beautiful when I didn't try too hard.

And tonight, I want to believe in that version of us again.

The restaurant is warm, golden-lit, romantic. The kind of place you book weeks in advance.

I give them Mark's name. They smile and show me to a small table for two near the window.

I sit.

And wait.

Ten o'clock comes. Then ten-thirty.

I text him. "I'm here. Table by the window."

No reply.

An hour passes.

Then two.

Then three.

The waiter comes by with increasing awkwardness, asking if I want water, dessert, anything at all. I shake my head. Smile politely. The restaurant begins to clear out. The music fades.

At midnight, they announce closing time.

The table's still set. But he never came.

I call him again. No answer.

I call Mila. I call his parents. They don't know where he is.

Something's wrong, I think. He's never done this. Maybe something happened.

I drive to the hospital. My heart pounding—not with anger, not yet. With worry.

I head toward his office.

The hallway is quiet, only the hum of lights above.

Then I hear it—muffled laughter. A woman's voice. Mark's voice.

I push the door open.

And I see them.

Half-dressed. Tangled in each other. Her uniform shirt unbuttoned. His hands still on her waist.

Their laughter dies the moment they see me.

I stand frozen in the doorway.

Everything I felt—every hopeful thought, every memory, every promise—detonates inside me in a single instant.

"Mark?" My voice is barely above a whisper. But it hits like a thunderclap.

He stumbles back. His eyes go wide. The nurse scrambles to adjust her clothes, face pale. Mark opens his mouth.

"Zayra—wait, I can explain—"

I step forward. My hands are shaking, but I raise one anyway.

And I slap him.

The sound is sharp. Final.

"Explain?" I say, my voice cracking. "It's our anniversary, Mark. I waited three hours at the restaurant while you were here doing this?"

He looks stricken. Guilty. Small.

"It… it just happened. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't," I cut him off. "Don't insult me. You ignored my calls, my messages. You lied. And for what? For her?"

Tears prick at my eyes, but I don't let them fall. Not yet.

I take a breath. My voice turns cold.

"We're done. Don't ever call me again."

I turn on my heel and walk out. My heels strike the floor with hard, echoing clicks—louder than any scream, louder than any heartbreak.

He calls after me. I don't turn back.

Outside, the night is dark and endless. The air is cold against my skin. My dress clings to me, the one I picked just for him. Just for tonight.

I stand under the streetlamp, chest heaving. My throat burns.

One tear slides down my cheek.

Then another.

But no sobs.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I'm done crying for men who treat love like a choice they can walk away from.