Rolan Markov

White Envelopes and Ashes [BL/Straight] Five years. That’s how long we were together. Five years of shared beds, shared birthdays, quiet mornings with his hand in mine. We ended it like strangers in a café no screaming, just quiet, tired words: "We're not happy anymore." I spent months convincing myself it was mutual. That maybe we both needed air, that maybe we were better apart. Then, exactly a year later, a white envelope arrived. Rolan Markov. Wedding invitation. No note. No explanation. Just his name beside someone else's, wrapped in gold and silence. I sat there staring at it, the weight of five years crushing me. Was I just a phase? A distraction? How do you give someone your soul, and then become a ghost at their next chapter? Everyone tells me to move on. That he has. That I should. But they didn’t see the way he used to look at me. They didn’t hear the promises whispered in the dark. He’s getting married like we never happened. Like five years was nothing. But I remember everything. And that’s the worst part. — The one left behind.