I found out because my college roommate sent me a screenshot of Caroline's Instagram. They're getting married next spring. In Connecticut. His mother is, I assume, "recovering" the way she said she wouldn't be able to. The ring Caroline is wearing is a different ring than the one he gave me. I looked at the photo for a long time. I did not cry. I did not text him. I did not send him a "told you so" or a "wishing you the best" or any of the things a pettier version of me would have typed. I just put my phone down and I walked out to my balcony in the new apartment I rent by myself now, in a neighborhood I chose because he had never been there, and I thought about Carlos the Uber driver and what he said at 4 AM nine months ago. It turned out to be the best thing. I'm not sure I'm there yet. Some days I am. Some days I am not. But I'm also not the woman crying at a sixty-thousand-dollar wedding to a man who was writing her ex at 2 AM. So maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Tell me honestly — did I do the right thing, or was one text enough to throw a life away?

* Story inspired by real-life situations. Names and details have been changed for privacy.