For context: I’ve been in an EMT course for months. It’s not a “cute little class.” It’s the first thing I’ve wanted this badly since I was a kid.

I quit my job because my boyfriend, Jace, insisted.Briar, you’re burning out,” he said.

“Let me handle rent while you focus. Two months and you’re certified.”

I pushed back. “What if something happens?”Something happened.

He took me to a candlelit restaurant that looked like it came with a complimentary engagement ring.

Roses. Soft music. Couples doing intense eye contact.

The waiter called us “lovebirds,” and I almost evaporated.

Jace was smiling too hard. He drank half his wine in 10 minutes. I poked at my pasta because my stomach felt like it was tumbling down stairs.

Halfway through, he set his fork down.

“Briar… I don’t think I’m in this the way you are.”

I blinked.

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, calm. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel excited anymore.”

Four years.

Reduced to “not excited.”

“Not excited,” I repeated.He sighed. “I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.”

He glanced around like other couples might overhear.

“I just don’t see a future. I thought I did. I don’t.”

I laughed, sharp.

“You told me to quit my job.”