I always believed love was real — that it was something personal, something grounded in respect and genuine connection. Valentine’s Day felt like a chance to celebrate that kind of love. Then came Andrew — charming, confident, and full of stories that made me feel seen and admired in ways I hadn’t expected.
We met in the most unexpected way. A chance encounter at the hospital — him, injured and joking through pain, and me, an overworked medical intern doing my best to patch him up. His humor and confidence made an impression, and before long we were exchanging numbers, grabbing coffee after long shifts, and talking about dreams, debts, and futures. I was drowning in student loans and exhaustion, but with him, life seemed lighter.
I liked that we split bills — I didn’t want anyone to think I dated him for money. He laughed and called me different, but now I see how that “difference” served him more than it served me.
Then Valentine’s Day arrived. He teased me about a surprise so elaborate I barely dared hope for anything special. When he showed up in an Uber Black, I smiled nervously. Maybe this was the night everything clicked — the moment our connection was finally official.
We arrived at an ultra‑luxury restaurant, the kind with no prices on menus and sommelier suggestions that read like poetry. Andrew ordered wine, lobster, oysters — the works — all while streaming it live on his phone. And though the food was unforgettable, something inside me twisted with discomfort.
Then the check came.
$3,180.
And suddenly the night turned from fairytale dinner to cold humiliation.
He didn’t take the bill. He recorded me. And with a grin, he asked:
“So, we’re splitting it, right?”
— as if my presence justified half the cost.
My heart sank. I reminded him I couldn’t afford that kind of money. But he shrugged and flipped the camera on himself — mocking me, saying things that pulled laughter from his audience rather than empathy. He was proving a point to his parents — flaunting how “different” I was — but at my expense.
Humiliated and shocked, I bolted. I left the restaurant in tears, unable to believe that someone I trusted could humiliate me in front of strangers — and record it for applause.
Andrew begged later. He called and texted — “It was a joke!” — claiming he was just showing off, trying to impress his family. But his words felt thin, hollow, and self‑centered. He didn’t see the pain he caused.
That night I learned something painful:
Love isn’t measured by expensive dinners — it’s measured by respect.
I blocked his calls. I didn’t look back. And in the quiet hours of the night, I realized something even stronger:
I deserved better than someone who would put me on display rather than by his side.
