I Proposed After Two Years Together — I Ended It When I Saw The DMs She Sent My Friend

The ring box lay open on my office desk in Accra, and my colleague's phone glowed between us, showing my fiancée's message: "Taye doesn't need to know. When can I see you alone?" My throat closed. Two days ago, she danced in front of our families and called me her answered prayer.

Jide's fingers shook as he scrolled. The screen filled with Mara's words, soft at first, then bold. A selfie I recognised from our bedroom mirror. A line that made my ears burn. She wrote like she already owned him.

Outside the glass partition, my team moved between desks, laughed about lunch at the canteen, and chased deadlines as if everything were normal. Inside, my body went cold.

"Tell me this is fake," I whispered.

Jide looked at me, eyes flat with regret. "I wish it was. I did not ask for it, Taye."

I stared at the date stamp. It sat there like a slap. Two days after the engagement party in Tema, after my aunties pressed money to her forehead and she embraced my mother with promises of loyalty, she sent this.

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My hands started to tremble. Not the small tremble you hide by adjusting your tie, but the kind that makes you fear you might break something.

I heard my own voice come out thin. "She wrote 'don't tell me'."

Jide swallowed. "She wrote it twice."

In that moment, the office lights looked too bright, the ring box looked stupid, and the future I planned collapsed so fast I could not even catch it.

I work in a busy corporate office around the airport, the kind of place where everyone speaks in calendars and KPIs, and you learn to smile even when your head feels heavy. I built my life around structure because structure keeps me calm. I pay my rent on time, I call my mother every Sunday, and I save small amounts because Ghana has taught everyone that anything can happen.

Jide joined our department three years ago. He came in quietly, observed everything, and then started advising as if he had known us for years. He does not flatter people. If your idea does not make sense, he tells you. If you behave like a fool, he tells you, too. Somehow, that honesty made me trust him.

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Mara entered my life around two years ago, through a friend's birthday hangout in Osu. She laughed easily, held my gaze, and spoke with confidence. She worked in a creative space and always looked put together, even on casual days. When we started dating, she showed effort. She remembered my big presentations, she sent me lunch when I worked late, and she greeted my mother with respect.

I did not pretend we were perfect. We sometimes argued about time, priorities, and how my job consumed me. Still, Mara stayed. She told me she wanted peace, commitment, and a serious home.

Over time, I started to picture marriage as a natural next step. I introduced Mara to my family in Tema. My sisters liked her. My mother prayed for her. My friends welcomed her, including Jide. I felt proud when Mara stood beside me at gatherings, smiling as if she belonged.

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I saw little things I did not question enough. Mara guarded her phone like it carried secrets. She flirted with compliments that felt slightly unnecessary. If a man stared, she enjoyed it. I told myself confidence looks like that.

After two years, I decided to stop delaying. I wanted to build something steady. I bought a ring, planned a proposal, and told myself love means choosing one person and showing up every day.

The first crack came on an ordinary Tuesday, the kind of day that smells like printer ink and instant coffee.

Jide and I stood near the balcony corridor during a short break, watching traffic crawl. I complained about how proposal planning drained my savings. He laughed, then went quiet.

"You and Mara are serious, right?" he asked.

"Of course," I said. "Two years, chale. I'm proposing."

He rubbed his jaw. "Okay. I should have said something earlier."

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My heart shifted. "Said what?"

He spoke like he wanted to drop the matter and run. "She has been in my DMs for a while."

I stared at him. "Mara?"

"Yes."

My mouth went dry. "What do you mean, 'for a while'?"

He sighed. "Months. Not every day, but it happens. She replies my stories, she drops compliments, she tries to pull conversation."

I felt heat rise in my neck. "And you did not tell me?"

He lifted his hands slightly. "Taye, I didn't take it seriously. It looked like playful attention. I didn't realise your relationship had advanced to marriage. Some people date but continue living as if they're single."

That stung because it made my love sound like a joke.

"What did she say?" I asked.

"Things like, 'You always look fresh,' or 'You should come and teach me something about work,'" he said. "I shut it down."

I walked back to my desk with my mind spinning, then I forced myself to breathe. I did not want to turn one colleague's comment into a whole accusation. I told myself Mara only acted friendly. I told myself Jide misread her tone. I told myself love requires trust.

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So I still proposed.

I planned it at a quiet spot near Labadi, just before sunset. I kept my voice steady as I said her name and told her she felt like home. Mara covered her mouth, cried, and said yes to me. People clapped. Someone took videos. She hugged me so tightly that I believed her body spoke the truth.

We organised a small engagement party in Tema that weekend. My family cooked jollof and light soup. My aunties danced, sprayed notes, and teased me about finally calming down. Mara wore a bright dress and moved around, greeting everyone. She knelt to greet my mother properly, as tradition demanded. She smiled at my sisters like they were already hers.

I invited Jide because he mattered to me. He came, greeted my family, and kept a respectful distance from Mara. I noticed she tried to pull him into more conversation than necessary. I told myself she only wanted to look friendly to my circle.

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After the party, Mara started talking about wedding colours and venues, as if she wanted to run ahead of life. I relaxed. I began to imagine children, school runs, and Sunday afternoons.

Two days later, I sat at my desk reviewing a report when Jide sent me a message: "Can you step out for five minutes? It's important."

I met him in the small meeting room. He looked unsettled.

"She texted again," he said.

"Mara?" I asked, already tired.

He handed me his phone. "Read it."

The message started with a greeting that sounded innocent, then it turned explicit. Mara described what she wanted to do to him. She added, "Taye doesn't need to know. You are my kind of man."

I felt my stomach drop so hard I thought I might vomit.

"This is after the engagement?" I asked.

He nodded. "This is this morning."

I looked up at him, voice shaking. "So while she wears my ring, she hunts you."

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Jide's face tightened. "I'm sorry, my guy. I should have told you earlier."

I held the phone as if it burned my hand. I saw my future in pieces and realised I stood in the middle of it, barefoot.

I drove to Mara's place in East Legon that evening with the ring box in my pocket, not because I planned anything dramatic, but because I needed to look into her eyes and hear what she would say.

She opened the door, wearing one of my shirts. The sight almost weakened me. She smiled. "You did not call first."

I walked in and placed Jide's screenshots on her coffee table. "Explain."

Her eyes flicked to the phone, then away. "What is this?"

"Do not insult me," I said. "Read it."

She picked up the phone slowly, like she already knew what waited there. Her face changed, not into shock, but into calculation.

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"This is nothing," she said, too quickly. "You and your friends like drama."

I laughed once, sharp and empty. "Nothing? You wrote, 'Taye doesn't need to know.' Is that nothing?"

She crossed her arms. "It was a joke."

"A joke with photos?" I asked. "A joke with instructions to hide it?"

Mara rolled her eyes and tried to step closer. "Babe, you know I tease. You know I like to play."

I stepped back. "So you play with my trust."

She sighed as I inconvenienced her. "Listen. Jide is attractive. Sometimes I flirt. It does not mean anything. I came home with you, didn't I?"

That line hit me harder than the message. Mara spoke as if loyalty meant only physical presence, like the rest did not count.

I asked her one more time, calmer. "Why did you do it?"

She looked away and shrugged. "You were busy. You were always at work. I wanted attention. I knew he would not take it far."

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I felt something in me go still. Not anger. Clarity.

I realised Mara did not make a mistake after the engagement. She continued a pattern. She tested boundaries, enjoyed secrecy, and trusted that I would swallow it because I loved her.

The ring in my pocket suddenly felt heavy, like a lie I almost built my life on.

I did not need more proof. I needed self-respect.

I ended it that night.

I did not shout. I did not throw anything. I merely said, "Mara, the engagement is over."

She blinked as if she did not understand the consequences. "Taye, you are being dramatic."

I shook my head. "No. I am being awake."

She burst into tears, the kind that rush in as control unravels. "So you will end everything because of messages?"

"Yes," I said. "Because messages show intention. Because you wrote my name like I am a fool you can manage."

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She tried bargaining. "I will block him. I will apologise. We will go for counselling."

I replied, "Counselling fixes people who want to change. You do not even admit wrong."

When she saw I would not bend, her tears dried. Her voice hardened. "So that is it? Two years and you will throw me away."

I answered, "You threw us away. You just expected me to carry it."

I left without taking back gifts or arguing over furniture. I went home to my small apartment in Spintex, sat on my bed, and finally let the shaking come. It felt like grief and relief fighting in my chest.

The next morning, I called my mother and told her the engagement would not continue. I kept it simple. I did not drag Mara's name through the family like gossip. My mother sighed, prayed, and said, "My son, do not force what God is saving you from."

Mara texted for days. Some messages sounded sweet. Others sounded cruel. She accused me of being insecure, of listening to friends, of wasting her time.

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I did not reply. I removed her from my socials and asked my sisters not to engage.

At work, I thanked Jide, even though part of me still hurt that he waited. He apologised again. I told him, "Next time, tell the truth earlier. Silence protects the wrong person."

Our friendship grew stronger because we stopped pretending. We ate waakye during lunch and talked about life without turning pain into a joke. He checked on me when my mood dipped. He reminded me to sleep, to eat, and to go outside.

I started healing the way I know best. I returned to routine. Gym. Church. Work. I wrote down what I ignored, so I would not repeat it. I learned that a peaceful relationship does not demand detective work.

One month later, I saw Mara at a mutual event. She avoided my eyes. I felt no urge to chase closure. I already gave it to myself.

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People think betrayal only hurts because someone chooses another person. For me, it hurt because I realised I almost married someone who could look at me, accept my proposal, smile with my family, and still pursue my friend with the same mouth she used to promise me forever.

That kind of double life does not start after a ring. It begins long before, in the small disrespect you excuse. The secretive phone. The constant need for attention. The flirting that she calls "harmless" when it benefits her. The moment you raise a concern, she turns it into a joke, so you feel silly for noticing.

I learned that trust does not mean blindness. Trust means you watch behaviour and you believe what it shows you, not what you wish it meant. Love feels sweet, but love without boundaries becomes suffering dressed as patience.

I also learned something about friendship. A good friend tells you the truth, even when it shakes your world. Jide's honesty came late, but it still saved me from building a marriage on sand.

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It taught me to value people who respect me enough to be straightforward about their feelings.

Now, I choose clarity over chemistry. I choose peace over performance. If I cannot ask questions in a relationship without getting punished for it, I step back. If someone needs secrecy to feel alive, I let them go, and I keep my dignity.

If you are reading this and something in your relationship keeps nagging at you, ask yourself one question: Are you seeing love, or are you only seeing hope?

This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone's privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you'd like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.

Source: YEN.com.gh