College was supposed to be our fresh start, but it was just the same hard life, only with more books. We were both accepted into a decent university near home. We didn't have money for the dorms, so we still lived in our old neighborhood. Every day was a rush—classes, part-time jobs, and then late-night study sessions.
Our love grew in the small, quiet spaces we found. We were hungry for each other, always stealing moments, always needing the touch of the other to forget how tired we were. The lust between us was a fire. It was the only thing that made me feel rich. When he held me, I forgot the bills and the work.
Anders was different now, too. He was still my protector, but he had grown up, and he was seriously handsome. He had an easy smile and eyes that seemed to pull people in. He got a lot of attention. Women—girls in his classes, older students, even the bookstore clerk—they all looked at him.
I tried to ignore it. I told myself he was mine. But it hurt.
He had many female friends. Too many, I thought. He'd tell me they needed help with homework, or they were asking about a class, or they were just "like sisters." They were always texting him, always calling. I remember one day I saw a girl hug him in the student lounge, a hug that lasted too long.
"Who was that?" I asked, my voice tight.
He looked annoyed. "Just Sarah, Nina. She's in my History class. Don't be like this."
He always made me feel like I was the problem. He made my worry seem small and silly. But his jealousy was never small. If a male tutor helped me, or a guy even said 'hi' to me, Anders would get cold and angry.
"He wants more than just to help you with math, Nina," he'd snap. "Can't you see that? You're too innocent."
I always looked past it. I thought his anger meant he loved me, that he was so obsessed with me that he couldn't stand the thought of losing me. We had nothing else, but we had this intense, controlling love. I believed we would rise above our poverty together, side by side. I was always faithful to that promise.
We were struggling, fighting about money, fighting about his female friends, and fighting about my 'lack of trust.' But the fights always ended the same way: with a furious, desperate energy that ended up with us crashing back into bed, the argument forgotten in the heat of his embrace. It was a cycle of pain, passion, and promises.
One Tuesday, I got off work early. I had a terrible day. My boss had yelled at me, and I hadn't eaten much. I knew Anders had a late class, but I decided to surprise him at his shared apartment near campus. I pictured us lying there, tired, just holding each other. I needed that comfort.
I walked the four blocks to his place. The door was unlocked. The apartment was quiet. I smiled, thinking maybe he had canceled class and was waiting for me. I stepped inside the small living room.
Everything was exactly as it should be—until I saw it.
On the coffee table, next to his worn textbook, was a small, expensive-looking velvet box. It was definitely jewelry. It wasn't the kind of thing he would buy me. We couldn't afford jewelry; we could barely afford rent.
My heart started beating hard, pounding in my throat. I told myself it was for his mom, or maybe for one of his sisters. But then I saw the small, handwritten note tucked underneath the lid of the box, and my hands started to shake.
The note was written in delicate, flowery script. It wasn't for his mother, and it wasn't for me. As I pulled the paper out, my eyes locked onto the three words written in bright purple ink: "Thank you, darling."