Married to the Man I Hate

Seven Days Closing In

POV: Her

The days stopped feeling like days after that.

They became numbers instead.

Six days left…

Five days…

I woke up to the sound of my alarm and the dull ache of exhaustion settling deep into my bones. My body felt heavy like it hadn’t fully recovered from the night before or the week before that or the months of pushing myself past reasonable limits.

I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling counting the cracks like I always did when I needed to steady my breathing.

Seven days had sounded distant when I first read the notice.

Now it felt like a threat ticking louder with every hour.

I dragged myself out of bed, washed my face with cold water and dressed quickly. There was no point lingering. Lingering led to thinking and thinking led back to things I wasn’t ready to face.

The hallway buzzed with morning energy as students rushed past me, laughing, complaining about lectures, planning their weekends. I blended into the crowd easily. I always had. Invisible was a skill I’d perfected long before university.

By midday, I’d already been rejected twice.

One café said they’d gone with someone “more flexible.” Another didn’t bother replying at all.

I checked my email between classes, my heart jumping every time my phone vibrated only to sink again when it wasn’t what I needed.

By afternoon, the weight in my chest had turned into something sharper.

I sat in the library pretending to study, the words on the page blurring together. My phone lay face-down beside my notebook, silent and accusing.

I flipped it over.

Nothing.

I exhaled slowly.

When my lecture ended early, I considered skipping the next one. What was the point? I might not even be here next week. The thought tightened something in my chest, stubborn and painful.

I went anyway.

The email came just as I was packing up my bag.

Subject: Tuition Balance – Immediate Attention Required

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t open it right away. I already knew what it would say. I slipped my phone into my pocket and walked out of the building on autopilot, my feet carrying me toward the administration office before my mind could catch up.

The waiting area smelled like paper and cheap air freshener. A few students sat scattered across the chairs, their expressions tense in different ways. I took a seat, my leg bouncing uncontrollably.

When my number was called, I stood too quickly and nearly stumbled.

The woman behind the desk barely looked up as I explained my situation…overdue balance, final notice, no guarantor. She typed something into her computer, her nails clicking sharply against the keys.

“You have already been issued a final warning.” she said flatly.

“I know,” I replied. “I just wanted to ask if there’s… any extension. Even a short one.”

She finally looked at me, her expression sympathetic but unmoved. “University policy is very clear, seven days is the maximum allowance.”

“I have been applying for jobs,” I said quickly. “I’m trying.”

“I’m sure you are,” she replied, already turning back to her screen. “But without payment, your enrollment will be withdrawn automatically.”

Just like that.

No negotiation. No compassion. Just procedure.

I left the office feeling hollow.

By the time evening came, the sky had darkened and the campus lights flickered on one by one. I sat on a bench near the dorms, watching people pass, the world moving forward while I felt stuck in place.

My phone buzzed.

I jumped.

Unknown Number.

My heart stuttered painfully in my chest.

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the notification. I didn’t need a name to know who it was.

I didn’t open it.

Not yet.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and stood abruptly as if physical movement could drown out the thoughts crowding my mind. I walked fast, then faster until I was nearly running.

Back in my room, I locked the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

This was ridiculous.

I was letting him occupy space in my head without permission. Letting his certainty seep into my doubts. Letting his offer loom larger than everything else.

I refused.

I opened my laptop and searched again…scholarships, emergency funds, student aid programs I had already exhausted. I sent more emails. Made more calls. Left messages that went unanswered.

By midnight, my head throbbed.

I closed the laptop and sank onto my bed, staring at the ceiling again. The silence felt louder now, broken only by the distant sounds of laughter and music from somewhere down the hall.

I pulled my phone out at last.

One unread message.

I opened it.

Take your time, the message read.

The offer stands.

That was it.

No pressure. No threat.

Somehow, that made it worse.

I tossed the phone onto the bed and covered my face with my hands. A sound escaped my throat…something between a laugh and a sob.

He didn’t need to chase me.

He knew the clock was doing it for him.

The next morning came too quickly.

Four days...

I skipped breakfast, my appetite gone and headed to class with a knot in my stomach. Halfway through the lecture, my phone vibrated again.

This time, it wasn’t him.

Mum: The school called. Is everything okay?

My breath caught.

They had called her.

I excused myself and rushed out of the room, my hands shaking as I dialed her number.

“I was going to tell you,” I said the moment she answered, the words tumbling out too fast. “I just needed more time.”

There was silence on the other end. Then a sigh. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly. “You’re already worrying me.”

Guilt flooded my chest, thick and suffocating. “I’ll fix it,” I said desperately. “I promise.”

After we hung up, I stood alone in the hallway, staring at the blank wall in front of me.

I was running out of lies.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I lay awake, counting hours instead of cracks replaying every conversation, every rejection, every narrowing path.

By morning, my resolve had frayed.

Day three.

I sat at my desk, hands folded, staring at my phone.

I didn’t feel dramatic. I didn’t feel weak.

I felt tired.

Tired of fighting a system that didn’t bend. Tired of pretending pride could sustain me. Tired of believing survival shouldn’t come at a cost.

I picked up my phone and typed a single message.

When can we talk again?

The reply came almost instantly.

Today.

I closed my eyes.

Seven days were closing in.

And I was walking straight towards the only door still open.