Chapter 4: Picking Up the Pieces

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After the sudden breakup, I couldn’t stop checking Rachel’s Instagram, searching for any sign he still cared about me. I found nothing. I kept looking, again and again.

I’d scroll through his feed late at night, my thumb moving on autopilot, hoping for a slip-up—a lyric, a sad quote, something. There was nothing but gym selfies and brunch photos.

Until one day, he posted a short video and tagged me.

He and a girl walked hand in hand under the sun. I clicked in and heard his mother’s voice: “A perfect match—get closer!”

Her voice was unmistakable, full of pride. I could see them, framed by sunlight, all smiles and easy laughter.

This relationship was out in the open, blessed in ways I never was.

They looked like a Christmas card—Rachel’s mom grinning, the new girlfriend radiant and comfortable.

The caption read: [Stop lurking like a rat in the gutter, peeping at other people’s happiness.]

The words were a punch to the gut—public, pointed, and cruel.

I didn’t shed another tear. My hands shook so badly, it took several tries to delete Rachel from my contacts.

I hovered over his name, thumb trembling, then pressed delete. The phone screen went blank, but it felt like a door slamming shut inside my chest.

The act felt like erasing part of my own history. But I did it—finally.

After the breakup, my mother renewed her campaign to get me to come home. “You’ve broken up, what’s the point of staying there?”

Her calls came every night, like clockwork, her voice equal parts worried and annoyed.

My aunt chimed in, “Come back quickly! I had a few good young men lined up for you, but they think you’re too old now…”

She’d drop hints about local lawyers, dentists, even a guy who owned the hardware store. Like moving home would reset my life, make me eligible again.

As always, I refused. Only now, Rachel was no longer my reason.

The words sounded different now. I was staying for myself, not for him.

I’d worked at that top tech company for six years. My experience and abilities had reached the ceiling there. But being single and childless was always a barrier to promotion.

I watched coworkers get raises and new titles, usually after posting engagement photos or baby announcements. I was stuck at the same desk, my LinkedIn gathering dust.

After the breakup, I threw myself into work, practically living at the office. At year’s end, I had the best numbers on the team. But in the end, all I got was praise and empty promises. The promotion went to a married male colleague.

At the Monday meeting, the conference room smelled like burnt coffee and ambition. My boss flashed his new wedding ring as he handed out the promotion list.

I ate most of my dinners out of vending machines, my apartment turning into little more than a place to sleep. When the promotion list came out, I stared at it until the letters blurred.

In the group chat, he offered to buy everyone Starbucks. The replies were a string of “Thank you, boss” emojis, and a few jokes: “If I get rich, I’ll take care of you all.”

I scrolled through the messages, sipping my own coffee, the bitterness lingering longer than I’d like to admit.

I glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window—skyscrapers, endless traffic. The people here changed batch after batch, each both like and unlike me.

The city moved on without me, its energy humming day and night, indifferent to individual heartbreak.

Maybe it was time to try a different path.

I typed my resignation letter in the break room, hands steady, heart surprisingly calm.

That day, I handed in my resignation.

I walked out into the rain, letting it soak through my blazer, every drop washing away another layer of old regret.

Years later, I still remember that moment clearly. Many of life’s most important decisions are made on the calmest of days.

It’s never the thunderstorm—it’s the silent morning after, when the sun finally breaks through.