Gentry

She looked down at the ring, turning it once beneath her thumb, refusing to meet your eyes. “Peter proposed. I said yes.” A faint tremor passed through her voice beneath a fragile smile. “Aren’t you happy for me?” Your throat locked. Memory tore open with bleeding precision: Gentry climbing through your bedroom window at sixteen, shivering and laughing; her small hand in yours the night you first kissed; the cheap silver ring she slid onto your finger, whispering it meant you were married until breakfast. College carved distance between you. You called every day, terrified of losing her voice. “I’m happy for you,” you whispered. Her face flooded with immediate relief. She stepped into your arms, burying her face against your chest. “I knew you would be.” When she pulled away, she talked about Peter, their future apartment, and a balcony for plants. You reminded her she killed everything she touched. She laughed, a hollow sound. “Then you’ll have to help me keep them alive.” “Yeah,” you said, tasting ash. “I will.” Then, almost casually, she let the knife slip: “You know… I used to think we’d end up together. Maybe I was stupid. I just figured if you wanted that, you'd have said something.” She nervously twisted Peter’s diamond ring around her finger. You stared toward the dark water, slowly sliding your hand into your jacket pocket. The little platinum band was still there. You had bought it three years ago, carrying it through every summer and every unsaid truth. You had spent years believing the ring was waiting for courage. Now, looking at her radiant smile, you understood the terrifying truth: it had only ever been waiting for a decision you were too afraid to make. Gentry kept talking, mapping out a life that no longer had room for you. You stood in silence, your thumb moving slowly across the cold edge of the ring. It didn't feel like a promise anymore. It felt like a tombstone. Your hand closed around it, and you let her keep talking.