She Is Getting Anonymous Letters Telling Her Not to Marry Her Fiancé Pt 2
After the third note, Paris started dreading the end of her workdays.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, she spent the entire day trying not to think about the underground parking garage waiting beneath her office building.
Trying not to wonder if another cream-colored envelope would be sitting beneath her windshield wiper by the time she clocked out.
It became a quiet obsession she carried through meetings and client calls.
By noon, she'd convince herself she was being ridiculous.
By three o'clock, anxiety settled back into her chest.
And by five-thirty, when employees started packing laptops into tote bags and crowding the elevators downstairs, Paris's stomach tightened every single time.
Because part of her hoped there wouldn't be another note.
But another part desperately wanted one.
That realization alone terrified her.
Because somehow, anonymous notes from a stranger had become the most emotionally honest thing in her life.
—
Thursday evening, eleven days before the wedding, Paris walked through the underground parking garage after work with her heels clicking sharply against concrete floors.
The garage smelled faintly like motor oil and rainwater.
Her eyes lifted toward her white Mercedes automatically.
And there it was.
Another cream-colored envelope tucked neatly beneath her windshield wiper.
Paris stopped walking immediately.
Her pulse jumped so hard she felt it in her throat.
For a second, she just stood there staring at it from several feet away.
Someone had been there while she was upstairs working all day.
Someone who knew exactly which car belonged to her.
She glanced around the garage quickly.
A man in a navy suit loaded a briefcase into his trunk.
Two women laughed near the elevators.
Nobody looked suspicious.
Nobody looked interested in her at all.
Still, Paris's hands trembled slightly while she pulled the envelope free.
Inside sat another white card written in the same clean handwriting.
You keep calling it love because starting over feels terrifying.
Paris closed her eyes slowly.
The words hit somewhere painfully honest.
Because lately, every thought about the wedding came attached to a strange panic she couldn't fully explain.
Not panic about Ken specifically.
Panic about unraveling a life she'd already built.
About disappointing their families after invitations were mailed and deposits were paid and engagement photos already lived online forever.
Everyone loved them together.
At this point, Paris wasn't even sure people saw them separately anymore.
They were just Paris and Ken.
Always.
—
When she got home that evening, the loft smelled like cedarwood candles and takeout.
Ken stood at the kitchen island loosening his tie while unpacking containers onto plates because he hated eating directly from boxes.
"You eat today?" he asked casually.
Paris blinked.
"Hm?"
"You had that presentation today."
"Oh. Yeah."
"I got your favorite pasta."
He slid the plate toward her without looking up.
And there it was again.
That ache.
Because Ken did care.
In all the visible ways.
Watching him move comfortably through their shared loft, Paris realized something painful:
Ken loved her like a responsibility he genuinely enjoyed taking care of.
Not like someone he was still emotionally curious about.
There was no urgency between them anymore.
No emotional depth.
Just routine.
Comfortable, polished routine.
"You okay?" Ken asked suddenly.
Paris looked up too quickly.
"Yeah."
He nodded once, immediately satisfied with the answer.
Didn't ask again.
Didn't look long enough to realize she was lying.
And somehow that hurt more than if he'd ignored her completely.
—
That weekend, Milan came over to help finalize wedding seating charts.
The loft looked beautiful in the afternoon sunlight, city buildings glowing gold through the massive windows while soft R&B played low through the speakers.
Paris sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by invitation cards while Milan watched her carefully from the couch.
"You still thinking about those notes?" Milan asked.
"All the time."
"You think it's somebody y'all know?"
"I honestly don't know."
Paris rubbed her forehead tiredly.
"But whoever it is... they know too much."
Milan stayed quiet for a moment.
Then carefully asked, "You ever think the notes only hitting this hard because there's truth in them?"
Paris exhaled sharply.
"That's the problem."
Silence settled between them.
Finally, Paris admitted the thing she'd barely allowed herself to think.
"I don't know if I wanna get married anymore."
The words felt enormous once spoken aloud.
Milan's expression softened immediately.
"You don't love him?"
"No," Paris answered quickly. "That's not it."
Because she did love Ken.
At least she thought she did.
But lately she couldn't tell if her love was romantic anymore or simply familiar.
Like loving a home she'd outgrown but still felt attached to.
"I just..." Paris swallowed hard. "I don't think he sees me emotionally anymore."
Milan looked down briefly before answering.
"You know I been around since the beginning," she said softly.
Milan had witnessed Paris and Ken grow from teenagers into adults.
Which meant she'd also witnessed the subtle shifts Paris tried pretending weren't there.
The emotional distance.
The conversations that ended too quickly.
The way Paris constantly adjusted herself emotionally to keep the relationship peaceful.
"You know what scares me?" Paris whispered.
"What?"
"That I could marry him and still feel lonely five years from now."
Milan didn't answer right away.
Because there was nothing comforting to say.
—
The fifth note appeared the following Tuesday evening.
Paris already felt anxious riding the elevator down to the garage after work.
Her heart pounded harder with every level.
When the elevator doors opened, her eyes immediately searched for her car.
And there it was again.
The cream envelope waiting beneath the windshield wiper like clockwork.
Paris stood frozen beside the elevator for several seconds.
At this point, she wasn't just curious anymore.
She needed to know who was writing them.
Needed to understand how someone seemed to know her inner thoughts better than the man she was about to marry.
Quickly, she walked toward the car and looked around the garage again.
Nothing.
No one lingering.
No suspicious faces.
Just fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and the distant sound of tires screeching somewhere outside.
Inside the envelope, the same handwriting waited for her.
When was the last time he asked who you were becoming?
Paris stared at the sentence so long her vision blurred slightly.
Because she genuinely couldn't remember.
Ken knew who she had been.
Knew her habits.
Her routines.
Her favorite meals and coffee orders.
But lately, Paris felt like she was evolving emotionally while Ken remained attached to the version of her that existed years ago.
That night, Ken sat beside her on the couch scrolling through house listings on his phone.
"We should probably start looking seriously after the honeymoon," he said casually.
Paris looked over slowly.
"At houses?"
"Yeah. Figure we'll need more space eventually."
Eventually.
Marriage.
Children.
Suburban homes.
An entire future already mapped out.
"You don't sound excited," Ken noted.
Paris forced a small smile. "I'm tired."
Ken nodded once and returned to his phone.
Conversation over.
Paris stared at him quietly, feeling the distance between them stretch wider than the entire city skyline outside their windows.
And for the first time since getting engaged, she allowed herself to fully think the terrifying thought she'd been avoiding:
What if love alone wasn't enough to marry someone?
Or worse—
What if this wasn't love anymore at all?