I'd pulled overtime all the way to midnight, and while I waited for my documents to print, I mindlessly scrolled through short-form videos. In one clip, a girl clutching a bright, wrapped bouquet was waiting at the airport exit. The second she spotted who she'd been waiting for, she launched herself straight into his arms. He laughed and swept her up in a tight, full embrace. The caption on the video read: My rock is finally home. I froze, blood turning to ice in my veins. That man in the video? He'd told me good night just one hour earlier. I dialed Harold's number, my voice ice-calm as I asked, "Where are you?"  Thumping bar music blared so loud at his end it almost drowned out his voice, and he sounded totally unbothered, like he had nothing to hide. "Just grabbing dinner with my riding buddies. You're so far away, you know? They're the only ones around to keep me company right now."  Before I could get a word in, a bright, pealing laugh cut through the line from his end. "Harold, it's your turn to drink! Quit dragging your feet."  It was the exact same voice as the girl in the video. I ended the call. I sat there, dead still, for half an hour, before I picked my phone back up to dial a different number. "I'm turning down the California branch posting. I'm coming back home, and I'll agree to the arranged marriage."