The Romance of Erla De Marknise

Jane didn’t remember the walk to the restaurant—only the cold wind against her cheeks and the way her heart kept beating too loudly, as if it already knew what was coming. She slid into the booth across from Michael. Six years together, and he couldn’t even look her in the eyes. His hands were folded too neatly on the table. His shoulders were stiff. His smile was polite in the worst possible way—like he’d practiced it in the mirror. Something inside her went still. “Is everything okay?” Jane asked quietly. Michael exhaled, long and heavy, like he’d been rehearsing this moment for weeks. “Jane… we need to talk.” That sentence alone drained the warmth from the room. She nodded, though dread had already started rising in her stomach. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About us. About the future.” Every word scraped at her. She listened anyway. “I don’t think we want the same things anymore.” A small crack ran through her chest. “You could have told me earlier,” she said, voice soft but steady. “You’ve been distant for months. I asked you what was wrong. You said you were just tired.” “I was tired,” he insisted. “I still am.” Something in the way he said tired made her flinch. Not because he sounded exhausted—he didn’t. He sounded done. She swallowed. “Michael… are you breaking up with me?” He hesitated—too long. His jaw tightened, his throat bobbed, his fingers curled against the table. Finally, he whispered, “No… no, I’m setting you free.” Jane blinked, stunned. A short, disbelieving laugh left her before she could stop it. “Setting me free?” she repeated slowly. “Michael, what does that even mean? A breakup is a breakup. ‘Setting me free’ isn’t romantic—it’s just you leaving.” He looked away, guilt twisting across his face. And for the first time that evening, something hot flickered under her heartbreak—anger, sharp and clear. She didn’t speak it. But she felt it. She steadied her voice. “What changed?” “I met someone.” The world dimmed. Just a little, but enough. He rushed on. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. And nothing happened while we were together. But I realized I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time.” Her breath shortened. “We’re getting married,” he added. That was the blow that emptied her lungs completely. Her fingers froze around the edge of the table. “You’re… what?” “The wedding is in four days,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else.” Four days. Six years together… and four days until he married someone else. Jane sat perfectly still as the ground shifted beneath her. Her heart didn’t even hurt yet—it was still trying to understand. “You should have told me,” she whispered. “You owed me that.” “I know,” he said. “I just didn’t know how.” Of course he didn’t. People always said that. They never knew how—but they always knew what they were doing. Jane stood, legs unsteady but determined. The restaurant lights felt too bright, too exposed. Michael rose halfway. “Jane—wait, let me drive you home.” “No,” she said immediately. “Please just let me go.” He nodded, but his eyes followed her until she walked out the door. The cold outside hit her like a wave. Brisk, sharp, grounding. She wrapped her arms around herself and walked, not sure where she was going. She only knew she couldn’t go home with that silence hovering in her chest. Her phone buzzed once. She didn’t check it. She didn’t want to see his name. She kept walking—block after block—past Christmas lights, past smiling couples, past everything that felt normal. Eventually, without planning it, she found herself near the small public square with the Christmas wish spring—a place she’d never paid attention to before. Coins glittered at the bottom beneath the lights. Jane sat on the stone edge of the spring, exhaling shakily. Her chest ached. Her hands were cold. Her mind was full of numbers that didn’t make sense. Six years. Four days. A wedding. And “setting you free.” She let out a breath that trembled. Jane sat on the stone ledge beside the wish spring, staring at the rippling water. Her hands rested in her lap, cold and tired. The world felt heavy and strangely hollow. Then her phone vibrated again. She sighed, expecting another message from Michael — an apology she didn’t want, or a long explanation she couldn’t handle. But when she lifted the phone and looked at the screen, her breath caught. Grandma. Of all times. Jane hesitated. Twice. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Finally, she picked up. The very first thing she heard was her grandmother’s voice bursting through the speaker: “Happy Christmas!!! Jane, my baby girl!” Jane closed her eyes. Of course. “Grandma…” she whispered, her voice thin. “Michael and I just broke up.” She didn’t know what she expected — comfort, maybe, or at least a shocked gasp. But her grandmother said, very calmly, as if Jane had told her the weather: “I know, I know.” Jane frowned. “You… know? How?” “Oh dear,” her grandmother said, amused. “We are Marknise. We have our ways around things. And we have told you many, many times — that boy is not for you.” Jane rubbed her forehead. “Grandma…” “Look at the romance and love between your grandfather and me,” she continued proudly, “and then between your mother and your father. Yours will come, not to worry. That Paul boy was never the one.” Jane let out a breath. “Grandma, it’s Michael, not Paul.” “Ahh, yes, yes,” her grandmother waved it off. “You’ve been calling him Paul for over five years now.” “God,” Jane whispered in defeat. “Grandma… I’ve never called him Paul.” “Whatever, whatever,” her grandmother said, brushing the entire issue aside like dust on a shelf. “And why do you think I suddenly called you to wish you Happy Christmas?” Jane narrowed her eyes. “Because it’s Christmas Eve?” “No!” her grandmother snapped. “Because you just came out of a stupid and useless three-thousand-year-old relationship, that’s why.” Jane blinked. “Three… thousand?” “Yes!” her grandmother insisted. “You’ve been emotionally frustrated for three thousand years and that three-minute Paul cannot satisfy—” “Grandma!” Jane said sharply, her face heating. “Please don’t— also, it’s Michael. And it’s been six years, not three thousand.” “What is the difference?” her grandmother asked with absolute seriousness. Jane pressed her palm over her eyes and exhaled. “There is a very big difference.” “No, there isn’t,” her grandmother decided. “A waste of time is a waste of time. Whether it’s six years or three thousand, it’s still nonsense.” Jane let out a small, helpless laugh — the first sound that didn’t hurt today. “Grandma…” “Oh, don’t ‘Grandma’ me,” the older woman cut in. “You have cried enough over that boy in my dreams. And in your mother’s dreams. And probably in your great-grandmother’s dreams too. Please, we are tired.” Jane pulled the phone away from her ear for a second, stunned. She wasn’t sure if her grandmother was being literal or dramatic. Probably both. Her grandma continued, voice firm as always: “Now listen, my baby girl. Your real life hasn’t even started yet. Your real man hasn’t even touched your story. So breathe. Go home. Wash your face. There is better waiting for you.” For a moment, the cold didn’t sting as much. Jane swallowed. “I… I’ll try.” “Good. And one more thing,” her grandmother said. “Yes?” “If you start calling him Paul again, I won’t correct you this time.” Jane covered her mouth to hide a broken laugh. “Goodnight, Grandma.” “Goodnight, my sweetheart. And Merry Christmas.” The line clicked off. Jane stared at her phone for a long time before she lowered it slowly into her pocket. Her chest still hurt. Her world was still cracked. But for a second — just a second — she didn’t feel completely alone. The wind rustled through the trees above her, and the lights reflected across the spring’s surface, soft and gold. She took a deep breath.