Jake and I had been together for three years. We’d planned our future together, talked about kids, picked out our dream house. Then one day, he came home and told me he’d met someone else, someone who could give him the life he really wanted, someone who moved in “different circles,” someone who wasn’t “just a flight attendant, living paycheck to paycheck.”

I remember sitting on my couch that night, staring at the engagement ring I’d just handed back to him, wondering what was wrong with me. Why wasn’t I enough? Why did love always seem to come with conditions I couldn’t meet?

The months that followed were some of the hardest of my life. I threw myself into work, flying route after route, serving passengers who barely looked at me. I was invisible, just another face in uniform. At night, I’d come home to my empty apartment and scroll through Jake’s social media, watching him live this glamorous life with Isabella: gallery openings, fancy restaurants, weekend trips to places I’d only dreamed of visiting.