I got promoted – finally. Called my parents, hoping for pride. Mom said, “Still single?” Dad added, “Hope you find someone before your eggs give up.” No “congrats,” no questions. I stopped calling. Then came my cousin’s wedding invite – tucked inside was a note: “Maybe you’re next.”
I stared at it for a full minute, then threw the envelope across the room.
It wasn’t just a note. It was a reminder that, in their eyes, I was still behind. I could be running Fortune 500 companies, flying across continents, solving global crises – but if I didn’t have a ring on my finger, none of it mattered.
I didn’t RSVP.
But I went.
Not for them. Not for my cousin. I just wanted to see what it would feel like to show up on my own terms.
The wedding was in a quaint vineyard outside of town. Rustic lights, white peonies, violins playing some Ed Sheeran remix. Everyone wore pastel.
I wore black.
As soon as I stepped in, the whispers started. Aunt Raluca elbowed her husband, eyes darting toward me. My mom tried to pretend she didn’t see me, then offered a hug that smelled more of awkwardness than affection.
I dodged small talk and went straight to the bar.
“Sauvignon blanc,” I told the bartender. He handed it over with a smirk. “You here alone?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is there another way to live?”
He laughed, genuinely. “Touché.”
Turns out he wasn’t the bartender. Just helping out. His cousin owned the place. His name was Dorian. And he didn’t ask me if I was married.
We ended up talking under the olive tree for nearly two hours. About books, favorite childhood snacks, the weird fear of accidentally sending a text to the person you’re gossiping about.
He was kind, but not trying to impress me.
I liked that.
Then my mom showed up. “Oh,” she said, clearly caught off guard. “You’ve met someone. That’s good.”
Dorian stood to greet her, polite. She smiled tight. “Do you live around here?” she asked him.
“Nope. Bucharest,” he said. “But I might move closer.”
“Hm,” she replied, already doing mental calculations. “What do your parents do?”
I sighed. “Mom, this isn’t an interrogation.”
She didn’t take the hint. “I just want to know what kind of family he comes from. That’s normal.”
Dorian gave me a look. A kind one, that asked if I wanted him to stick around.
I shook my head, mouthing “Go.”
He nodded and left.
My mom sat down in his place like she hadn’t just embarrassed me. “I’m only looking out for you.”
“By judging strangers I talk to?”
“By making sure you don’t waste time.”
“Like I wasted time getting a master’s degree? Or building a career? Or doing literally anything that wasn’t finding a husband at 23 like you?”
She didn’t answer.
I left the table and didn’t look back.
That night, I drove home in silence. No music. Just the sound of tires against road and the echo of my mother’s words.
I thought of Dorian. And how easy it felt, for once, to just be. No expectations. No questions about eggs or clocks or timelines.
Three days later, he messaged me on Instagram. Said he was passing through my city and asked if I wanted to grab a coffee.
I said yes before I could overthink it.
We met at a place that roasted their own beans and wrote quotes on every coffee cup. Mine said, “It’s never too late to bloom.”
I kept the cup.
Coffee turned into a walk. The walk turned into dinner. We didn’t talk about labels or futures. Just the present. Just what made us laugh. What hurt us. What healed us.
I told him about my parents – about the pressure, the comparisons, the loneliness.
He listened, then said, “You ever think maybe they’re just scared?”
“Scared of what?” I asked.
“Scared you won’t follow their version of the happy ending. Because then they’ll have to question theirs.”
I never thought of it that way.
Weeks passed. Dorian and I saw each other often. But we didn’t rush. There were no declarations. Just presence. Just showing up.
One night, I invited him to a small dinner with some friends. He brought a bottle of wine and flowers – not roses, but wildflowers.
He said roses felt too rehearsed.
My friends loved him.
After they left, I walked him to his car. The air smelled of jasmine and pavement after rain.
“I’m not looking to get married right now,” I told him.
“I know,” he said.
“I just want someone who shows up.”
“I will.”
And he did.
My parents found out through an aunt, of course. The photos from dinner ended up on someone’s story. My mom called.
“So… this boy. Is he serious?”
I paused. “I am.”
She didn’t respond.
Then, “We’d like to meet him.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
Dorian met them a month later. It was a strange lunch. My dad asked about his job, his apartment, if he planned on having kids.
Dorian smiled the whole time. Politely. Then said, “I care more about the person than the plan. Your daughter is incredible. I’m just lucky she lets me be in her world.”
Even my dad blinked at that one.
We left, and I exhaled only once we were back in the car.
“Sorry about that,” I mumbled.
“I’ve had worse,” he grinned.
I turned to look at him. “Why do you stay?”
He shrugged. “You’re not a task to complete. You’re a person to love.”
That night, I cried.
Not because I was sad.
But because, for once, I felt chosen for who I was. Not what I represented. Not what I could become.
It wasn’t perfect. We had fights. Disagreements. Growing pains.
But we grew.
Together.
A year later, we moved in. Not because the world expected it. But because we were ready.
My parents didn’t approve at first. “No wedding?” my mom asked.
“We’re working on our own timeline,” I replied.
She pursed her lips but said nothing.
Months passed.
Then my cousin – the one whose wedding had started it all – called me. Crying.
Her husband had left. For someone else. She was devastated.
I drove to her house with ice cream and soft tissues.
She asked, “How do you know he’s the one?”
I smiled. “Because he never made me feel like I had to earn his love.”
She looked at me, tears in her eyes. “I wish I had waited.”
“You still can,” I whispered.
That night, I thought of all the times I had cursed my singleness. How it had made me feel unworthy, behind, broken.
But really, it gave me space. Space to know myself. To grow. To learn what I needed.
And when I met someone who honored that – I knew.
Not because of a checklist.
But because of peace.
Two years after we met, Dorian proposed. No big audience. No fireworks. Just us. In the park where we first kissed.
He got on one knee and said, “I don’t want to complete your story. I just want to be part of it.”
I said yes.
Not because I needed to.
But because I wanted to.
We had a small wedding. No seating charts, no pastel color schemes, no white peonies.
Just people we loved. Music we danced to barefoot. And vows that sounded more like promises made under stars than rehearsed speeches.
My mom cried.
This time, out of joy.
My dad hugged Dorian and said, “Take care of our girl.”
He nodded. “Always.”
As we danced under fairy lights, I looked around.
And thought about that note: “Maybe you’re next.”
Maybe I was.
But not in the way they meant.
Not next to be married.
Next to be free. To choose. To live.
To love – on my own terms.
And that?
That was the real win.
Life doesn’t follow timelines. And love isn’t a prize for “catching up.”
So, to anyone who’s felt like they’re behind – you’re not.
You’re just growing into the kind of person who doesn’t settle.
And trust me, that’s the best kind of “next” you can be.
If this story moved you even a little, share it. Someone out there might be waiting for their “next,” too. And maybe – just maybe – they need this reminder. ❤️
