One Day, I'm Going to Marry You

I remember him as just a friend, someone I could talk to. He was always there, always at my beck and call, especially in times of misery.

By this time yesterday, Harold was just that: a friend who loved me from afar. He followed me through the school halls, ensuring my safety. Because of him, most guys were too scared to speak to me, assuming I was already taken. But no matter what they thought, I felt safe with him around.

"One day, I'm going to marry you," he would always say.

And I would laugh, teasing him, "You’re not okay." But one night, on Valentine’s Day, beneath a sky littered with stars, he pulled out a ring. My laughter died in my throat as he took my hand and slipped it onto my finger. I stood there, speechless, as he repeated the words:

"One day, I’m going to marry you."

And although it felt like a joke at the time, it remains the most unforgettable Valentine’s Day of my life.

Then I met Oliver, another man who never gave up on what he wanted, including me. Oliver was headstrong. My closeness with Harold never scared him off. While other men walked away, he stayed, proving his love in ways that were quiet yet undeniable. Despite their unspoken rivalry, Oliver never pushed Harold away. They respected each other. And because of that respect, I fell in love with Oliver and married him.

Yet, even after I became Oliver’s wife, Harold never stopped saying it.

"One day, I’m going to marry you."

It always felt like a joke, but deep down, a part of me wished it wasn’t. Maybe I believed him. Maybe I hoped fate had a twist in store. But fate had other plans.

I was at my desk, staring blankly at my computer when I received his call.

"Hey, Harold!" I greeted, my voice light with familiarity.

"Hi, Kanny," he replied, his tone cool, too cool. There was something different about it. Something final.

Concerned, I asked, "Harry, are you okay?"

He hesitated, inhaling sharply before finally saying, "Kanny… I’m getting married."

I knew it was inevitable. I knew, one day, another woman would take the place I had never truly occupied. But I wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t ready to share him. Then I realized, I had never had him to begin with.

"Congratulations!" I forced out, but the words felt foreign in my mouth. He must have heard the strain in my voice, but neither of us acknowledged it.

"Oh, I have to go. I think Oliver just walked in," I added quickly, an excuse, a way out.

As I lowered my phone, Oliver stood in the doorway, watching me. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His eyes, deep and knowing, searched mine, reading the emotions I was too proud to admit. Then, in that effortless way of his, he crossed the room and placed a cup of tea beside me, the way he always did when he knew I needed warmth. A silent comfort. A quiet love.

I waited, hoped, to hear the words Harold always said. But they never came. The call ended, but in my mind, I heard him say it, clear as day:

"One day, I’m going to marry you."

Had he meant it all these years? Or were they just words, something to fill the silence? I never got the chance to ask. But maybe I didn’t need to.

Two weeks later, the invitation arrived, simple, elegant, the gold lettering catching the light just right.

I read it once. Twice. Three times.

His name, then hers.

I wanted to feel something anger, jealousy, relief. But what I felt was nothing. A hollow emptiness, like I had finally seen something I’d always known but refused to admit: He had moved on. And so should I.

But still, it hurt. The ache I thought had faded came rushing back, like a tide I couldn’t outrun.

I didn’t go to the wedding, but I saw the pictures.

Harold stood tall, his smile brighter than I had ever seen. Not for me, but for her. He looked at peace, as if the love I thought was ours had never even been a possibility.

I’ve come to realize that sometimes, you can’t hold onto a love that was never yours to keep. And though a part of me will always wonder what might have been, I understand now, we were two people on two different paths.

On this Valentine’s night, I sit alone, fingers tracing the cold rim of my ring, Harold’s ring, which now rests on another’s hand.

He is probably sitting across from his wife, laughing, loving, moving forward. And for the first time, I accept it. Because I know that what we had wasn’t unfinished. It was never meant to be finished.

Even if it still hurts. Even if part of me will always wonder.

Lost in thought, the doorbell rang, pulling me back to the present.

Opening the door, I found a delivery man standing with several bunches of red flowers. After he left, I picked up the complimentary note tucked within the petals, the paper soft beneath my fingertips.

I read it slowly, my heart tightening:

"To my beautiful Kanny, I know what’s in your heart, and I love you. Always will—Oliver."

Tears welled in my eyes. He knew. He always knew.

I turned, and there he was, standing in the dim light of our home, watching me the way he always did, silently, patiently, lovingly.

I walked toward him, the note trembling in my fingers, and without a word, he pulled me into his arms.

And in his quiet, unwavering way, Oliver loved me more.