Page 122 of The Love Operation

This is the first memory that truly unsettles me. The first one that bends my trajectory. Because what did I just watch?

In the past, I told myself I was blindsided. I felt wounded. I experience that same ache now, but it’s layered with something else: concern.

I’m missing something.

Dominique essentially said I made him feel small. It’s not far from what Benedict said. Even my siblings have hinted at something like this.

I only want the best for the people around me. I don’t look down on anyone. So why does this keep coming up?

My chest rises and falls so quickly I’m very near hyperventilating. I can feel panic pressing against my ribs, begging for an exit. I hate this impression people have of me. It couldn’t be further from my self-image.

I force myself to slow down. To observe, not react.

I recall the last time I spoke with Dominique:

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking my hand and kissing it. “You didn’t deserve that outburst. My feelings got too big because I kept shoving them down. I’m sorry.”

When he apologizes, I want to accept it, and I do, but we can’t go back. There’s an impenetrable wall between us now.

“I’m sorry for whatever part I played in making you feel so strongly.”

“Honestly,” he says, “I think it’s more me than you.”

I nod. But it ends there. We don’t process it. We don’t fix it. We just . . . part ways.

A normal couple might’ve talked, accepted apologies, worked through it, moved on. We didn’t.

I go back, study our relationship from the beginning with a closer eye, like a medical file, being as objective as I can be.

On the surface, we looked happy. But as I look back, it’s a collection of small things that tell the real story. Just like with Jeremy.

A glance. A flat smile. A backhanded compliment.

And suddenly I see it. I feel it.

Dominique resented my success.

The realization feels petty at first. I watch it again to be sure, but it’s clear: He needed reassurance. I gave it. But he didn’t like that it came from me.

It was never about me “looking down” on him. It was about how he viewed himself—and how deeply he hated needing validation from me.

Saturday passes in a blur. I barely eat, barely sleep. By Sunday, I’m back under—chasing clarity like it’s a cure.

And slowly, a pattern begins to form.

I’ve always believed that something in me was inherently unlovable, that I had a flaw I couldn’t see but needed to fix.

Now I still feel like the problem. But maybe it’s not who I am. Maybe it’s what I’ve been doing—what I’ve been too desperate to see. I wanted each relationship to work so badly, I ignored every red flag.

It’s embarrassing. But also . . . a relief.

Because I can fix this.

One final set of memories pulses behind my eyes like an oncoming migraine—sharp, inevitable, and full of warning, a prodrome of dread and expectation.

Benedict Calder.

I’ve examined every other relationship that mattered. Now it’s time to end where it began, with the one person I’ve avoided the longest.