While looking for batteries in my boyfriend’s drawer, I found a velvet ring box. My heart raced.

I thought he was about to propose. But when I opened it, I saw the engraving: “To Emily, my forever.” I’m not Emily.

Turned out, I wasn’t even the first “forever” in his life.

I sat on the edge of Reyan’s bed, holding that box in my palm like it might explode. My heart thumped against my ribs. It wasn’t just the name that hit me—it was the tone of it. “My forever”? That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t a passing fling. That was something you say when you believe you’ve found your last person.

And here I was, two years into what I thought was a solid, honest relationship.

The box wasn’t dusty or shoved to the back of the drawer either. It was right on top of some random cables and receipts. Like it’d been opened recently. Like someone meant to keep it close.

Reyan was out picking up dinner. Thai food. I remember because I’d asked for extra peanut sauce, and I now felt queasy just thinking about eating.

I put the ring back exactly how I found it, but I took a photo of the engraving. I needed to make sure I wasn’t dreaming when I brought it up later. And I would bring it up. I’m not the type to just let something like that go.

But first, I needed more information.

That night at dinner, I acted normal. Or I tried to. Reyan didn’t seem to notice. He talked about his day at the studio, laughed at something dumb our neighbor had said in the elevator. The whole time, I kept thinking: Who is Emily?

After he fell asleep, I did something I’m not proud of. I went through his phone. I’d never done it before. Never felt like I had a reason to. But that ring changed everything.

I didn’t find any messages from Emily. Not recent ones, anyway. But I did find a photo in his hidden album from two years ago—him and a girl on the beach, smiling, forehead to forehead. Her hair was lighter than mine, her smile wide and familiar. I zoomed in on her necklace: a gold “E.”

So yeah. That was probably Emily.

The next morning, I waited until we were both half-awake, sipping coffee in bed. I asked, as casually as I could manage, “Hey, who’s Emily?”

Reyan’s face shifted instantly. Just for a second. Like a crack in glass that vanishes if you blink. He took a slow sip and said, “Why?”

I told him I’d found the ring. I showed him the photo on my phone.

He looked down, rubbed his jaw, and finally said, “We were engaged. Before you. I should’ve told you. It ended badly.”

I asked why he still had the ring. He said he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. That it felt like a grave marker—proof that something real had existed, even if it died.

It was… poetic. And Reyan was poetic, in that slightly tortured, artistic way that had pulled me in to begin with.

But still. Something about it didn’t sit right.

I told him I wasn’t mad he’d been engaged. I was mad that he’d hidden it. That he kept this piece of his past right there in the same drawer he kept his passport and wallet. Close. Accessible. Alive.

He apologized. Said he understood. Offered to throw it out. He even brought it to the kitchen trash and dropped it in, right in front of me.

I nodded. Said thank you. Tried to let it go.

But I couldn’t.

A few days later, I checked the trash. It was gone. And I knew he hadn’t taken it out because the rest of the trash was still there—same old takeout containers and coffee grounds. But the ring box? Poof. Gone.

That’s when I knew something was off.

So I did something even worse: I messaged Emily.

I found her on Instagram through a tagged post from his friend Yanik. She looked just like the beach photo, only a little older, a little softer around the edges. I kept it short:

“Hi. I know this is random, but I’m dating Reyan. I found something that made me realize you two were engaged. I’m not trying to stir anything up—just wondering if you’d be open to talking for five minutes?”

She replied within the hour.

“Yeah. I’ve been wondering if he ever told you. Sure. Call me.”

My hands were shaking when I dialed. Her voice was calm, but there was a quiet bitterness under the surface, like someone who’d been holding her breath for too long.

She told me they were engaged for eight months. That Reyan proposed after just six months of dating. She said he was intense, romantic, persuasive. That she’d been swept up in it all.

Then she found out he’d been messaging an ex behind her back. Nothing explicit, but emotional. Lots of “what ifs” and “I still think about you.” When she confronted him, he swore it was nothing. She forgave him.

Until it happened again. Different woman.

She gave the ring back and walked.

I asked her if she thought he’d changed.

She was quiet for a second, then said, “I think Reyan loves the idea of forever. But when it gets messy, he starts looking for exits.”

That line stuck with me.

Because Reyan was all in when we first got together. Morning coffee in bed. Handwritten notes tucked in my jacket pocket. Little surprises, like buying my favorite brand of shampoo before I even mentioned I was out.

But lately? Less present. Distant. Always working late, or “too tired” to talk. I chalked it up to stress.

Now I wondered if I’d just missed the signs.

I didn’t confront him right away. I wanted to be sure. And I didn’t want to be the girl who jumps to conclusions.

But life handed me the truth on a silver platter.

One night, I saw a notification flash across his phone while he was in the shower. Just one word: “Soon?” from someone named Maika.

My stomach dropped.

He never mentioned a Maika.

When I opened the message thread, I felt like I was floating outside my body. Weeks of messages. Some innocent. Others flirtatious. A few crossed the line completely.

The worst part? He called her “Em” once. Whether by mistake or intention, I don’t know.

I took screenshots. Sent them to my email. Then sat on the couch, waiting for him to come out of the shower.

He walked in, towel around his waist, humming some tune. Then he saw my face.

I held up his phone. Just said, “Explain.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. Just closed his eyes like he’d been waiting for this shoe to drop.

He said Maika was someone he’d known before me. That they’d reconnected randomly. That it “wasn’t physical.”

I asked if it was emotional. He didn’t answer.

I packed a bag that night. Went to stay with my cousin Laleh. I didn’t want to cry in front of him. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He texted. A lot. Apologies. Promises. More poetic lines about how he was broken and trying.

I ignored all of them.

But here’s the twist: that wasn’t the end of it.

About a week later, Laleh and I were having wine on the balcony when she told me something weird. Said she recognized Maika’s name—from a group therapy circle she attended years ago.

Laleh had struggled with anxiety after a bad breakup and joined a women’s support group. Maika had been in it too.

“She used to talk about a guy,” Laleh said. “Obsessed with her. Hot and cold. Manipulative.”

She couldn’t remember the name, just that he was “artsy and intense.” But she was sure it ended badly, and Maika had to block him eventually.

That got my wheels spinning.

I reached out to Maika. Not to accuse her—just to ask.

She responded kindly. Confirmed that yes, Reyan had reached out after years. She hadn’t intended to engage, but he was charming. Said he’d changed. That he was in a “hard place” and just needed someone who understood him.

She admitted it went too far.

But then she said something that floored me: “I think he gets off on keeping women dangling. I don’t think he knows what love actually means.”

Harsh. But maybe true.

It made me reflect on all the moments I excused. The long silences. The flirty jokes with baristas. The emotional unavailability that I told myself was just “creative burnout.”

Reyan didn’t need a girlfriend. He needed an audience.

And I was done being front row to his self-pity opera.

I blocked his number. Changed my locks. Canceled the streaming service we’d shared.

Then I did something for myself: I booked a solo trip to Portugal. A week to breathe, eat pastel de nata, and watch sunsets without pretending I was fine.

And while I was there, something clicked.

It wasn’t just about Reyan. It was about me. About how often I made myself smaller, quieter, easier to love. I twisted myself into the shape of someone else’s fantasy. All while ignoring the small voice in my head that said: This isn’t enough.

When I got back, I started therapy. Started writing again. Even started dating—slowly, cautiously.

And here’s the full-circle part.

Months later, I got a message from Emily.

She’d run into Reyan at an art event. He tried to strike up a conversation. She shut it down.

“I just wanted you to know,” she said. “You weren’t crazy. You were brave.”

I sat with that message for a long time.

Because yeah. I was brave. Not for walking away. But for trusting my gut, even when I wanted to believe the fantasy.

The ring? The lies? All of it was a gift in disguise. A painful, embarrassing, messy gift that shoved me toward a life I actually chose for me.

I’m not angry anymore. Just wiser.

So if you’re reading this and your gut’s whispering that something’s off—listen. It might hurt like hell, but on the other side? There’s peace. Real peace.

And peanut sauce tastes better when you’re not eating it next to someone who’s lying to your face.

If this hit home, hit that ❤️ or share it—someone else might need the nudge too.