Part 2I’m Done Pampering Him, Time to Get Rich

It was an age-gap romance.

The year I graduated, he was just a freshman.

He saw me in the university library, and that was it. A classic case of love at first sight, and he relentlessly pursued me until I said yes.

We’d been together for three years.

The first year, despite juggling my thesis and internships, was pretty smooth. We went hiking, on dates, to the movies, even took a road trip to the next state over.

But the second year, after I was hired on full-time, work got intense.

The cracks in our seemingly perfect romance began to show.

Asher started complaining that I was blowing him off, demanding to know why I wasn't texting back instantly.

“Even if you’re in a meeting, can’t you just sneak a look at your phone?”

He thought my boss was like a college professor, willing to turn a blind eye to a little slacking off.

“I have a basketball tournament tomorrow. I don’t care what you have to do, you have to be there. For all three days. Just take the time off.”

He had no idea that taking time off meant losing pay, not to mention my perfect attendance bonus. He didn’t understand that getting a manager to approve vacation time was harder than getting blood from a stone.

For that tournament, I lost out on a three-thousand-dollar bonus.

When I set my alarm for 7 a.m. and needed to be asleep by midnight, he’d pester me to stay up all night playing video games with him, completely oblivious to the fact that I had to work the next day.

If I didn't check my phone for an hour during the workday, I’d come back to a dozen videos he’d forwarded, each one requiring a personalized, non-generic reply.

After a draining day of negotiating with clients, I’d still have to spend an hour on a video call with him at night.

My friends all envied me for having a young, handsome, and clingy boyfriend.

And I believed it too, that I was the one who was lucky in this relationship.

I was three years older than Asher; I told myself I should be more patient, more accommodating.

So, even if it meant running on three or four hours of sleep and enduring a splitting headache the next day, I’d still go on that multi-mile hike to a lake with him.

We’d watch the fireworks, ticking off the ceremonial boxes of young love just like every other couple.

Even after a week of non-stop overtime, when all I wanted to do on the weekend was sleep, I’d drag myself to parties with him or go on hikes that racked up thirty thousand steps.

The second year passed in a blur of me placating him and forcing myself to keep up.

But the third year was different.

I got promoted. The job became even more demanding.

There were times I simply couldn’t take a day off.

Pressure from upper management, competition with other teams, I was often so busy I’d forget to even drink a sip of water all day.

I’d get home after ten at night, too exhausted to even wash my face, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed.

But a young man’s energy is relentless. And once his appetite is whetted, he's always hungry.

Slowly, Asher’s dissatisfaction with me grew, and our fights became more frequent.

Every time we argued, he’d resort to the silent treatment, using the threat of breaking up as his ultimate weapon.

He was young and impulsive, and I was usually the one to cave first, to apologize and make peace.

But after a while, even that started to wear me down.

I had bought him a gift, planning to find the right time to sit down with him and have a real talk.

I loved him. I wanted us to have a future.

I just never imagined that before I could even give him the gift, we’d be over.

And this time, I was the one who ended it.