Two days before our wedding, I was sitting on the couch while he showered, trying to send a song to a friend. His phone buzzed beside me with a gallery notification, and I wouldn’t normally pay attention, but the folder name caught my eye: “Sunshine.” That was the nickname he always called me, especially on quiet mornings when we were cooking together, or during late-night conversations about our future. Curious, I opened the folder expecting photos of us or little memories he had saved.

My heart dropped. None of the pictures were of me. Every single one showed him with another woman. They were laughing in cafés, holding hands, cooking together, kissing. There were videos too—recent ones. My whole body went cold. My heart started pounding so loudly it felt like it echoed in my chest. All those sweet promises he had whispered to me suddenly felt like lies carved into glass—sharp and fragile.

He came out of the shower humming, towel around his waist, acting like life was perfect. I couldn’t speak at first. I just stared at him, phone in hand, still open to the photo of him kissing her cheek. When he finally asked what was wrong, I simply said, “I found Sunshine.”

His face changed instantly. Panic, guilt, fear—everything flashed across his expression. But I didn’t wait for excuses. I stood up, handed him his phone, and walked out without another word. He called after me, but I kept going. My heart hurt, but my steps felt steady.

Two days later, instead of walking down the aisle, I woke up alone, made coffee, and breathed. It hurt, but it was also peaceful. There was no wedding dress, no vows, no pretending. Just quiet. Just clarity.

And in that moment, I realized I hadn’t lost my future—I had protected it.