Escaping The Script To Love You Again

Greg Elliot’s first birthday was a spectacle of polished family wealth. I remember him, a plump toddler in a tiny suit, ignoring the silver rattle and the stock certificate, crawling straight for me, a bright-eyed two-year-old in pigtails. We grew up intertwined—childhood sweethearts who became each other’s whole world for twenty years. Our wedding was less a surprise and more a quiet certainty finally realized. The minister smiled down at us, his voice a gentle benediction. Greg opened his mouth. It was four syllables, delivered without preamble, without warning, and without reason: “I do not.” The sound cracked the air. Greg’s mother, Mrs. Elliot, surged onto the platform, her hand flashing out to deliver a stinging slap across his cheek. “You have waited year after year to marry Laney, Greg. You spent three years planning this. What utter nonsense are you talking about?” I looked at the man before me, handsome and formidable in his tailored tuxedo. This was the boy who defended me in the third grade playground. This was the man who confessed his love over the college radio station. In the midst of the escalating chaos, I met his dark, unyielding gaze. My voice was steady, impossibly calm. “Greg,” I said. “I will give you one week. If you come back in seven days and tell me you still want this, I will pretend today never happened.” “If you still refuse, then we will pretend we never knew each other at all.” “You know me. I never look back.”

1 It was almost impossible to reconcile. Just last night, the man who kissed me goodnight, bubbling with excitement, was now looking at me with cold, surgical indifference. “I don’t think we’re right for each other, Laney.” “It’s better for both of us to end this now.” But yesterday, Greg sounded nothing like this. “Laney, I’m so excited I can’t sleep.” “I’m finally going to marry you.” I looked around the enormous ballroom. I had personally chosen the blood-red roses that smothered every surface—a symbol of the vibrant, scorching love we shared. Greg had overseen the entire setup himself. Yet his gaze was frozen, detached. He looked like he was watching a stranger on a screen. “Delaney Brooks, don’t drag this out.” “Maintain some dignity. Don’t make me look down on you.” A paralyzing chill swept over me. The single word why lodged in my throat, a painful, unaskable question. I took a deep breath, snatched the microphone from the stunned officiant, and addressed the cavernous room of gasping guests with a tone far cooler than his. “My apologies, everyone.” “The wedding is canceled.” Amidst the sudden, deafening clamor, I gathered the train of my dress and began walking, leaving Greg behind me, step by agonizing step. The memories of a lifetime scrolled before my eyes. We had walked through so many seasons together. Every stage of my life had his imprint, his presence. Even our parents were lifelong friends. Whatever his reason, this time, Greg had gone too far. He needed to grovel. He needed to beg. He needed to say all the right, soft words before I would even consider forgiving him. I clung to that thought. But over the next several hours, I checked my phone, again and again. I compulsively scrolled through his social media accounts. Like a private investigator, I analyzed every post, every like, every blurry comment, searching for a single clue, a single frame that explained this sudden, devastating pivot. There was nothing. Greg’s world was terribly, profoundly silent. No explanation, not even a single, desperate apology. The most chilling revelation came when I clicked on his profile again— I was completely blocked. All access to his life was gone. That night, my dream was a replay. The magnificent hall, covered in red roses. Greg smiling, saying, “I do.” He lifted my hand, the ring sliding gently onto my finger. Later, on the silk-embroidered sheets, he held me close, his breath warm against my ear. “Laney, you are finally my wife.” I woke with a gasp, my fingers instinctively reaching for the space beside me. Empty. Ice cold. It took a beat too long to remember. Yesterday, in front of everyone, Greg had said: “I do not.” I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to go to him and demand the truth. The front door to the Elliot house was ajar. Through the crack, I saw him. Greg was sitting on the floor in the living room, gripping the hand of a girl I didn’t know. His back was to me, his shoulders rigid. He looked up at his parents on the sofa and spoke, slow and definite. “Mom. Dad. She is the woman I want to marry.” 2 A savage blow struck my chest. The sound of a sharp, high-pitched ringing exploded inside my skull. A different memory, one I couldn’t control, surfaced: Nineteen-year-old Greg, sitting next to me, leaning in to place a feather-light kiss on my cheek. “Laney, let’s get married right after college, okay?” … “Laney!” I snapped awake from the memory, my head jerking up. It wasn’t Greg. It was Mrs. Elliot, her eyes full of horrified pity, rushing toward me. “Laney, darling, this is all on us. The Elliot family owes you everything.” “That idiot is out of his mind. Don’t take him seriously. Once he snaps out of it, I’ll make him crawl to you and apologize!” Greg remained seated on the floor. He didn’t turn around. His back was slowly straightening, his hands at his sides clenched into tight fists—a posture of absolute, unyielding resolve. The last of the light in my eyes dimmed. I looked down, defeated. “Mrs. Elliot, I’m tired. I should go home.” “Wait!” Greg’s voice stopped me. “Delaney Brooks, you should take that off.” He pointed to the braided red cord on my wrist. “My Juno will feel uncomfortable seeing it.” Juno? I stared blankly at the girl. It registered with a sickening jolt. She was his Juno. And I was merely Delaney Brooks, full name and all. The cord was just a bit of rough braiding. Greg had bought it impulsively from a street vendor because the old woman swore it was blessed by fate and would guarantee a century of love. When he tied it on, he’d mumbled a prayer to the Fates under his breath. I lowered my eyes to his left wrist. Empty. He’d taken his off long ago. Seeing me frozen, Greg rose and stepped toward me, reaching out. With a practiced, ruthless motion, he untied the knot. His fingertips deliberately hovered an inch above my skin, never making contact. As I watched the red cord of destiny flutter from his hand and vanish into the recycling bin, the pain, the humiliation, and the confusion all crystallized into a burning, cold hatred. “If you want to be this meticulous—” “Then I’ll take everything I ever gave you, too.” I forced a faint, cynical smile. “Wouldn’t want your new fiancée to be annoyed by my leftovers!” I walked straight toward his bedroom. His door had a biometric keypad, a system that had only recognized his and my prints for years. I pressed my finger to the familiar sensor. Zzzzzzt— An irritating, high-pitched beep. Access denied. The girl, Juno, followed me. She reached out and placed her finger on the handle. Click. The lock opened. That was the door that, moments ago, only I could open besides him. They say men are rational and women are emotional. From the age of two to twenty-three, every significant, glittering, mundane, or painful moment of my life was braided with Greg. If I pulled him out, my entire world would collapse. But Greg? The day after breaking up, he could dismantle our life with surgical precision—locking down social media, changing the access code, tossing a sacred promise into the trash. Precise. Clean. Leaving no room for doubt. And I, like an absolute fool, was still waiting for his apology. 3 I stepped inside the room. In the corner cupboard, the snow-globe he gave me still sat on the shelf. The glass jar of nine hundred and ninety-nine paper stars I folded was still by the window. On his desk, our latest photograph smiled up at the ceiling. Then there were the matching rings, the necklaces, the coordinating jackets… They sat innocently in their accustomed places, silent, damning witnesses to our shared history. I filled three large canvas bags. It took that much to deny and erase the history of our shared years. When I was finished, the room felt sterile, alien. Greg gently closed the door behind me. I looked back at him one last time. For a flash, I thought I saw a flicker of panic or concern in his eyes. “Greg, what in the hell—” “Are you done? Make sure you didn’t forget anything.” He cut me off with a cold voice. “Don’t use this as an excuse to come back.” “I worry that Juno will mind.” I bit down on my tongue until I tasted blood, swallowing the flood of questions and grief. My eyes were burning hot. I strained my neck and shouted: “Don’t you dare come looking for me either, Greg Elliot.” “I’ll pack up your things from my house and ship them to you.” At this moment, I didn’t care about the reason. I just wanted to be sharper, more final than he was. “Don’t bother.” “Throw it out. I don’t want any of it.” Greg’s voice was utterly devoid of warmth. The bags were heavy, cutting red marks into my palms. But inside, I felt an agonizing emptiness. I had lost. I was not as ruthless as he was. Yet, not long after I returned home, Greg was pounding on my door. “Delaney Brooks, give the pendant back!” It was the first time I’d ever heard him speak to me with such raw fury. I was stunned. “What pendant?” “Juno’s heirloom. You took it.” Greg’s statement was absolute. “It was her grandmother’s, passed down from her mother. It means everything to her. Hand it over.” “I never saw it.” My chest was tight with indignation. “Greg, look somewhere else! Don’t come near me.” “Don’t play innocent, Laney!” “No one else has been in my house. No one but you would make things this difficult for her.” He shoved past me, marching to the front hall where my bags were still sitting, unopened. I didn’t stop him. I let him rip open the canvas sacks. And there it was. A small, intricately engraved silver pendant. And it was broken. Juno, who had followed him, cupped the fragments in her hands. Tears instantly streamed down her face. “Delaney Brooks!” Greg’s face twisted with rage. He roared at me. “You are truly malicious!” “I didn’t know.” “I swear, I didn’t take it.” “Greg, you know me. I would never—” The word “never” was violently cut short by the sharp, concussive force of a slap. Time warped backward in the wake of the blow. The memory of lost class funds in middle school flashed before my eyes. Everyone’s gaze was a condemnation. I saw thirteen-year-old Greg stepping in front of me without hesitation. “I trust Laney.” “She didn’t take it.” Tears blurred my vision, but the world snapped back into focus. Now, it was twenty-three-year-old Greg, his hand clenched, visibly fighting the impulse to hit me again. 4 “Delaney Brooks.” Greg stood like a shield in front of another woman. “How did you become so insidious, so cruel?” “Being with you feels like the biggest, most regrettable mistake of my life.” He seemed choked by his own anger, his voice shaking. He violently turned his head away, as if looking at me was physically unbearable. The throbbing pain under my skin was clear and hot. Greg. He actually hit me. And he used such icy words to reduce our entire history to dust. Was this the nature of men—to be so utterly heartless? How could he change on a dime when I was still incandescent with love for him? I stared hard at Greg. I used every ounce of strength I had left and slapped him back, hard. For a split second, I thought I saw a shimmer of tears in his eyes. But it must have been a trick of the light. Because the very next moment, a surge of raw force hit me, and he brutally shoved me to the floor. “Delaney Brooks, I don’t expect you to apologize to Juno.” “We’re done. This is the end.” “Don’t let me see you again.” My parents opened the door and found me sitting exactly where I’d fallen, my face buried deep in my knees. “Mom, Dad… send back the gifts.” My voice was hoarse. “I’m not waiting seven days. I want this to be over. Now.” “The gifts? He already sent them back!” My mother’s voice was choked with suppressed fury. “He sent ours back too, said it was compensation for breaking the engagement. He made it look like you were clinging to him, Laney!” “How could he do this? Why couldn’t he have talked to us privately? After being such a kind, honorable boy all this time, how could he become… this?” She trailed off, her long sigh heavy with pain and regret. “We simply didn’t know him at all…” Didn’t know him? I slowly lifted my head, running those words through my mind. Twenty-two years of life. Had I really failed to see the truth of the person I loved? A few days later, Mr. and Mrs. Elliot showed up with more gifts, formal apologies for a formal closure. Both families had initially held onto everything, believing Greg was just having a temporary lapse. But now, they were here to admit defeat. “His father took a belt to him, but he still insisted on the breakup. He must marry that girl.” “We… we truly don’t know what to do anymore.” “Parents can only fight their children so much.” The two older people, both well past fifty, bowed low to my parents. “We’re so sorry… We are truly sorry for this.” My father sighed heavily. “We understand. We’re not the kind of people who cling to what’s gone.” “I hope our families… can still remain friends.” A deep silence fell. Everyone knew the truth. It was over. The decades of friendship, just like my bond with Greg, were irrevocably broken. In that hollow moment, a shameful thought pierced my heart. My hope had evaporated. I had lost the support of both our families. 5 I said I wouldn’t wait for Greg, but I was counting the milliseconds. Every moment that passed, my heart tightened. What if? What if he turned back? If he regretted it, maybe we could return to what we had, and our families wouldn’t have to suffer anymore… Every second was a spike of hope. Every second, that hope shattered. Six days. I watched 518,400 moments of hope dissolve. On the seventh day, I quit waiting. I pulled on a sports bra and yoga pants and headed for the indoor rock climbing gym. I desperately needed the sensation of my body suspended in the air. The tiny handholds, the precarious toe placement, the absolute focus required to face the fear of a plummeting fall. Only that raw, physical terror could blot out the overwhelming sadness and panic in my soul. But I never expected to find him there. Greg and his Juno. While I was being sliced up by sorrow and emotional agony, he was acting like a carefree man, teaching another woman how to climb. The gentle, focused smile on his lips was beautiful—and utterly blinding. Then, his peripheral vision caught me. The smile vanished as if it had never existed. “Delaney Brooks, are you stalking me?” Greg’s brow furrowed, his voice laced with undisguised disgust. “You are making yourself look pathetic!” His fists clenched. “Like some kind of… obsessed freak, hanging around. It’s disgusting.” “I am not stalking you! Greg, show some respect when you speak to me!” Rage and lingering attachment fought a vicious battle in my chest. Yet, I couldn’t help but speak the words I needed to say. “Greg…” “Today is the last day.” I should have turned around and left right then. But I couldn’t. I deliberately chose a wall right next to them and began to climb. I was possessed, desperate to see. Was she prettier? More interesting? How did they meet? What magic did she possess that made Greg discard decades of family ties and self-respect? When I was joyfully planning our future, was he already plotting his escape? Was he merely delaying, out of misplaced loyalty? Did he choose the wedding day—that public stage—just to deliver the most devastating, final blow possible? The thought took root, a toxic vine strangling my heart. “Greg, I’m scared.” The girl, Juno, spoke softly. “I don’t want to climb down.” Her voice, and the sound of my own voice in my memory, overlapped. “Jump. I’ll catch you.” Thirteen-year-old Greg, reaching up from the base of the oak tree. I jumped, tackling him to the ground. “Jump. I’ll catch you.” Twenty-three-year-old Greg, his arms now wider and stronger, opening for someone else. The other girl jumped and was safely cradled in his embrace. The edge of her white shirt fluttered a small, barely perceptible breeze across my face. I abruptly let go of the handhold. In the moment of my fall, my eyes were locked on Greg. He instinctively moved toward me. He started to reach out, just as he did when we were kids, and then—he violently checked himself, stopping cold. I slammed onto the thick floor mat. Screams and gasps erupted around me. People rushed over. In that lightning-fast moment, time slowed, reversed, and froze. I clearly saw Greg’s hand stretching out, his cuff sliding back. Revealed on the inside of his wrist was a stark, jagged scar. Seven days ago, the Greg I loved didn’t have that scar. And seven days was not nearly enough time for a scar of that size to fully form. “You’re not Greg Elliot!” “Who are you?”