I spent days planning our second anniversary, determined to make it unforgettable. I bought him the smartwatch he’d been hinting at for months, cooked his favorite dinner, and set the table with candles like something out of a movie. I was excited, nervous, and honestly a little proud of myself. When it was time to exchange gifts, he smiled and handed me a small envelope. The handwriting wasn’t his, and that alone made my stomach twist.
I opened it expecting a love letter, maybe a reservation, something thoughtful. Instead, my heart dropped. Inside was a gift card—not even handwritten, not even personal. A gift card with the balance scribbled on the back by the cashier. No note. No message. Not even the effort of writing my name on the envelope. After everything I’d done to make the night special, he handed me something he clearly picked up on his way home.
That tiny rectangle said everything he didn’t: that he didn’t think, didn’t plan, and didn’t care nearly as much as I believed. The dinner kept cooking on the stove, the candles kept burning, but the celebration ended the moment that envelope opened.
