Valentine’s Day was supposed to be simple. Dinner. Nothing else. I’m Briar, 28, deep in an EMT course that’s all I’ve wanted since I was a kid, and that night, I left a restaurant thinking my life had just fallen apart. I had no idea it was about to get even stranger.
My name’s Briar. I’m 28. And yes, I’m still mad about the tiny heart-shaped butter pats.
For context: I’ve been in this EMT course for months. This isn’t a cute little class where you get stickers for showing up. This is the first thing I’ve wanted this badly since I was a kid.
I even quit my job because my boyfriend, Jace, insisted.
I poked at my pasta, stomach tumbling like it had its own roller coaster.
“Briar, you’re burning out,” he said. “Let me handle rent while you focus. Two months, and you’ll be certified.”
“What if something happens?” I pushed back.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” he said.
Right.
He took me to a candlelit restaurant that looked like it came straight out of a rom-com. Roses. Soft music. Couples staring into each other’s eyes like they were in a trance. The waiter called us “lovebirds,” and I almost evaporated on the spot.
“Are you serious?” I whispered.
Jace smiled too hard. He drank half his wine in ten minutes. My stomach felt like it was tumbling down stairs. I poked at my pasta.
Then he set his fork down.
“Briar… I don’t think I’m in this the way you are.”
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.”
He nodded, calm. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel excited anymore.”
Four years. Reduced to “not excited.”
“Not excited,” I repeated, my voice sharp.
He sighed. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean,” I said.
“You begged me to focus. You said you’d support me until I finished.”
He glanced around like he was worried other couples might overhear. “I just don’t see a future. I thought I did. I don’t.”
I laughed, bitter. “You told me to quit my job.”
“I didn’t force you,” he said, almost calmly.
My hands started shaking. “You begged me to focus. You said you’d support me until I finished.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not saying I regret supporting you. I’m saying I can’t do it anymore.”
If he wanted to leave, I couldn’t stop him.
“So you waited until Valentine’s Day, in public, to tell me you’re done.”
“It’s not like that.”
“What is it, then?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel it.”
Something in me just gave up.
“Can we talk like adults?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said. Relief in his voice.
“Okay? Then we’re done.”
“Briar—”
I stood, grabbed my coat. “Enjoy your wine.”
I couldn’t go home. Home was our apartment.
“Can we talk like adults?” he snapped.
“Adults don’t pull the rug out from under someone and then demand a calm tone.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“With the same voice you use when the Wi-Fi’s out,” I said, and walked into the cold.
Outside hit me like a shock. Hearts in windows, couples everywhere, guys holding flowers like trophies. Two months left in my course. No job.
Standing still felt like drowning.
Halfway down the block, a wet, awful wheeze made me stop. At first, I thought it was a drunk guy. Then I saw him. A man crumpled near a dumpster, convulsing.
People stared. Nobody moved.
A woman covered her nose. “Oh my God, he smells.”
A guy in a blazer muttered, “Don’t touch him. He probably has something.”
“CALL 911!” I shouted, dropping to my knees.
They stared.
“CALL 911!” I shouted again.
A teenager fumbled out his phone. “Okay, okay!”
I checked the scene. Safe enough. I checked him. Responsiveness? None. Breathing? Barely there. Pulse? Weak, wrong. Lips blue.
“I need someone to flag the ambulance!” I shouted.
No one moved. Fine.
I laced my hands and started compressions, hard and fast, counting out loud to keep panic at bay. Arms burning, sweat freezing on my back.
Sirens finally cut through the night. Paramedics rushed in, one dropping beside me.
“You started compressions?”
“Yes,” I panted. “No effective breathing. Weak pulse. Cyanotic.”
He gave me a quick nod. “Good work.”
They took over—oxygen, bagging, monitors—moving with that clipped confidence that makes you believe in systems again.
The man’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at me like he was holding onto life itself.
He rasped, “Marker.”
“What?” I leaned closer.
The next morning, someone knocked like they meant it.
He grabbed my wrist. “Your name. Write it. So I don’t forget.”
Someone shoved a marker into my hand. I wrote on the inside of his wrist:
BRIAR.
He stared at it like it was a life raft. Then the ambulance doors shut.
I walked home like I was underwater. Showered, cried until my throat hurt. Not just for Jace. Not just for the breakup. For being 28, still fighting for my dream, still fighting for life itself.
The next morning, someone knocked.
I froze. A black limo sat at the curb. Standing there, clean and put together, was the man from the alley.
“You’re the woman who saved my life yesterday, right?”
I blinked. “Either I hit my head, or you’re about to sell me something.”
“Murray from the dumpster,” he said, laughing. “Fair. I’m Murray.”
I didn’t shake his hand. “Murray from the dumpster.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“Can I explain? And if you still tell me to get lost, I will.”
“I found you in an alley,” I said.
“I’m an heir,” he said. “Family estate. More money than I could ever need. My last parent died last week. I flew in for the funeral, landed late, and decided to walk to my hotel.”
“And I found you in an alley,” I said.
“I got robbed. They took everything. I chased them, got hit, woke up in that alley.”
“So why are you here?”
“So you were ‘trash’ for a night,” I said.
“One night was enough for most to decide I didn’t count,” he said quietly. “At the hospital, I proved who I was. The estate sent people.”
“Convenient,” I said.
“Very. But you didn’t know. You just helped.”
He offered me a temporary job. Part-time. Sit in meetings, take notes, speak up if something feels off.
“How much?” I asked.
“Too much,” I said. “No. That’s a trap.”
“I’m not trapped,” he said.
“Then it’s fine. I’ll stay part-time. EMT course first. If anything’s weird, I’m out.”
“Written contract,” I said.
“Agreed.”
“Job title that doesn’t sound like a cult,” I added.
He laughed once. “Fair.”
“This is Briar. She saved my life,” he told the estate staff.
Over the next few weeks, I became Murray’s boundary. I watched meetings, asked questions. I arranged for my things to be picked up.
When someone pushed papers and said “urgent,” I asked, “Why urgent? Who benefits?” The man faltered. Murray backed me up.
Meanwhile, Jace texted like he was doing me a favor.
When he came to move things, I had a printed inventory. He stared. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Start with the TV,” I said.
His friend joked, “Damn, Briar, intense.”
“I’m accurate,” I said.
Jace didn’t like that I wasn’t crying. I said loud enough for the hallway, “You’re not taking the laptop. I bought that before you moved in.”
I worked nights at a clinic, studied whenever I could, finished my course without Jace’s money. Sometimes Murray’s driver helped with timing. Murray never made it weird—just made space.
Two months later, I passed my final assessment. I shook, not from fear, but relief.
That night, I went back for my last things. Called my friend. Then Murray.
“I passed,” I said, voice cracking.
“Of course you did,” he said, quiet but steady.
In the lobby, I ran into Jace.
“So… you’re doing okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. I am,” I said.
“Hmm. Maybe you never really needed me,” he said, like a jab.
“I needed support. You offered. Then pulled it. But I never asked any of it,” I said.
He opened his mouth. I lifted my hand. “Don’t.”
I walked past him into the cold.
It didn’t feel like punishment anymore. I had control of my life, and I was proud. The weather was still cold, but I felt warmth inside. I wasn’t waiting for anyone to decide my life anymore.
I was done waiting. I was done doubting. I was finally moving forward.