The Night I Thought He Would Propose, He Played a Joke Instead, So I Gave Him One Back!

“Oh, I know,” he said, waving a hand dismissively as he took a sip of wine. “But it’s about ‘manifesting,’ right? I’m just putting the energy out there. It’s a joke, honey. A way to lighten the mood so you aren’t so gloomy about it. Don’t be so sensitive.”

In that moment, the scales fell from my eyes. The man sitting across from me didn’t see my pain as something to be comforted; he saw it as an inconvenience to be mocked. He wasn’t celebrating my success; he was trivializing my failure under the guise of “positive vibes.” The “joke” was a power play—a way to remind me that my professional ambitions were secondary to his entertainment.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t make a scene. I felt a cold, crystalline clarity settle over me. I reached into my purse, pulled out my credit card, and signaled for the waiter. I paid for my half of the exorbitant meal, stood up, and looked at Ryan. He looked confused, his fork halfway to a mouthful of the “promotion” cake.

“Manifest this,” I said quietly. Then, I walked out of the restaurant and into the cool night air, leaving him alone with the chocolate script of a lie.

He didn’t call that night, likely waiting for me to apologize for “ruining” the evening. He didn’t call the next day, either. By the third day of silence, I realized that Ryan wasn’t just a man who made a bad joke; he was a man who felt comfortable in my discomfort. He was a man who thrived on being the one who could make me feel small. I decided then that if he wanted a joke, I would give him a masterpiece.

A week later, I sent out an invitation for a “Surprise Celebration” at my apartment. I invited our mutual friends and a few of his closest buddies. Ryan, arrogant as ever, showed up with a smirk, clearly assuming I was throwing a party to win him back.

The apartment was decked out in funeral-chic: black and gold streamers, dim lighting, and a massive banner across the living room that read: “Congrats on the Receding Hairline!”

In the center of the room was an elaborate, tiered cake topped with a tiny plastic man clutching a toupee. The frosting read: “Manifesting the Baldness Early!”

The room went silent as Ryan walked in. His face turned a deep, mottled red. He had always been incredibly vain about his thick, dark hair—it was the one thing he was most insecure about losing.

“What is this?” he hissed, stepping toward me. “You think this is funny?”

I tilted my head, mimicking the exact tone he had used at the restaurant. “Positive vibes, Ryan! I’m just putting the energy out there. It’s a joke, honey. Don’t be so sensitive.”

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