Let's get married
— Let's get married... if you pay for the home renovation and repairs, — he said. I smiled, gathered my things, and left. And I'm not one of those who pays for someone else's love. I remember it clearly: the smell of coffee, the yellow walls of his kitchen, and his voice, casual, as if mentioning it:— The renovation here, of course, is a bit worn out. If you want to live an everyday life, let's invest together.— Invest? — I repeated, although I already felt that something nauseating was coming.— Well, you have some savings. You work, no kids, no mortgage. You said you wanted a serious relationship. So… show that you're serious about it. I stared at him. Outside, someone was mowing the grass; the electric mower was buzzing. It smelled of damp earth. And suddenly that smell felt like it had released the brakes inside me. I realized: here it is. Here’s the moment of truth.— Wait, are you serious right now? He shrugged.— Well, what? I can't handle it alone if you invest, " he shrugged. —I'm sure that you're genuinely committed to me, not just in words. You know, everyone says 'I love you,' and then they bail during tough times. But here — it's specific. You pay — I understand that you're my woman. I couldn't even respond right away.
I couldn't answer right away because I had never heard such an arrogant substitution of love for a contract. It wasn't an offer. It was a price. - And you, - I asked calmly, - will you invest in something for me? He shrugged again. - Well, that's already details. Let's first deal with the renovation. And the wedding - maybe we'll have it if everything is okay. If. Maybe. If I pay. If I deserve it. And then it hit me. Suddenly, as if from somewhere in the past, from that version of myself who once lived, suffocating in a toxic family, and believed that her worth was in what she could give. Only now was I an adult. I had learned to breathe. And I was no longer planning to buy myself a place in someone else's life. - You know what, Vadim, - I said. - I don't need a person who needs to be paid for love. If you want a relationship, you should first learn to be in one. He stared at me as if I had lost my mind. - Are you out of your mind? I just offered you a standard, practical option! I'm not asking you to buy me a car! To invest.
Invest. Together. Like a couple! — We are not a couple. We didn't even really live together. I would come over, wash the floors, and listen to you complain about your job. You can't even wash a cup yourself. And now, should I invest in your walls? — You're exaggerating, — he replied irritably. — Okay, if you want, we can rent. But know this: if you're not ready to support when things get tough, then you're not for a serious life. — No, Jared. It's you who are not prepared. Because you don’t want to build, you want someone to invest in you, and then see if you will marry after that. He said nothing. Just stayed silent as if he was waiting for me to cool down. Maybe to regret it. To hug me and say, 'Okay, you talked me into it.' But I took out my bag. Calmly packed my things. He took off the t-shirt I had slept in and changed his clothes. He sat on the edge of the bed and started nervously fiddling with his watch strap. — Are you leaving? — Yes. And you should be grateful that I didn't come to you with a calculator — for every visit, for food, for the pots I washed. Though, you know, that would be a fair deal.
By your rules. — Huff… — he pronounced my name and suddenly became soft, almost pleading. — Well, let's discuss it one more time. I just… I wanted you to stay. — And you chose the most arrogant way to keep me. And you messed up. I left. Without tears. Without hysteria. I just went out — into June, into the sun, into my life. Two months later, I saw him on a dating app. The same photos. The same confident smirk. Probably he’s trying to find 'investments' again. And that day, I bought myself a chair and a rug. And I realized: here’s my contribution. To mine. I will no longer invest in people who only need my convenience, not my heart.
