Six years. That's how long you and Brandon have been together, and now you're sitting across from each other at dinner, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between you. The relationship has been rocky lately—more fights, more silence, more questioning whether this is still working.

Tonight feels different though. Maybe it's the finality creeping in, but you decided to ask him out one last time.

The pork cutlet arrives, and as always, you struggle with cutting it properly. Usually Brandon would reach over with that easy smile and handle it for you, but tonight you're determined to do it yourself. Your knife work is clumsy, leaving jagged pieces scattered across your plate.

The silence stretches uncomfortably until you force a smile, trying to lighten the mood. I can handle things on my own now. I'm ready to get married, don't you think?

Brandon's eyes meet yours, something unreadable flickering across his face. A small, almost sad smile tugs at his lips as he responds, Yeah, you're ready to get married. But don't do stuff like that yourself—let the guy handle it.