Love in Warzone

I had so carefully chosen all the wedding decorations. All the hopeful dreams I once had for that day—now every humiliating memory came crashing back like a tidal wave.

I walked down the aisle in my wedding dress, heart full of hope, ready to marry Sam. But the man standing at the altar wasn't in a tuxedo.

When the officiant asked us to exchange vows, he took the microphone. His voice was ice-cold. "Claire, I'd rather take vows of celibacy than ever love you."

My thoughts froze. Then I made a call. "I'll transfer you to Melissa," I said. "She's the real bride."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "But the invitation says this is your wedding."

"Mine has been canceled," I replied briefly.

I ended the call, messaged my professor, and quietly began to pack. An entire day and night passed. My parents still hadn't returned, but by then, I had nearly finished preparing to leave.

Just after I washed up, the apartment door swung open. Sam stepped inside.

I looked up, surprised. "What are you doing here?" Shouldn't he be at the hospital with Melissa?

He didn't respond. Instead, he walked in and set a small, delicate cake on the table. "Blueberry. Your favorite. Eat it."

I froze. It hit me—he was trying to cheer me up. Just like before, when we hadn't yet fallen apart. Whenever I was upset, he'd bring me blueberry cake to coax a smile.

That was how he was. Cold on the outside, but he remembered everything I liked.

When I was curled up in pain during my period and my parents ignored me, he would bring me warm milk.

I was allergic to mangoes; my parents always forgot, but he made sure no mango ever touched my plate.

When our parents spent the night in the hospital with my feverish sister, he sat with me in the living room so I wouldn't be afraid.

When I was hospitalized after jumping from a building, he was the one who stayed by my side.

And when the truck came barreling toward me, it was him—he was the one who died to save me.

Day after day. Year after year. Quiet, enduring kindness. How could I not become addicted to that?

I had mistaken his compassion for love. I convinced myself he cared, just didn't realize it yet. So in my past life, I clung to him desperately.

But now, I understood. He didn't love me. He was just a good person. Everything he did was to repay the debt of that one day, when we were twelve and I shielded him from shattered glass, ending up covered in cuts.

I pulled myself from the memory and smiled faintly. "No need. I don't like blueberry cake anymore."

Sam froze and looked at me in confusion. "When did that change?"

A long time ago. After Melissa's accident.

Suddenly, the pieces snapped together. In my past life, her downfall had started right around this time. I snatched up my phone and checked the date—May 1st.

Today was May 1st. This was the day Melissa drowned her sorrows in alcohol, was taken advantage of, and later jumped to her death. The day that turned everyone against me.

This time, I had given her the scholarship. I had called off the wedding. But I didn't know—would she still spiral into despair?

I didn't have time to explain. I ran out of the apartment like a madwoman.

Guided by memories from my past life, I called the police and raced straight to the alley behind the bar.

To my shock, Melissa was there, surrounded by several young men, being coaxed and pressured to drink. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was laughing like nothing mattered.

"Melissa!" I stormed forward and grabbed her wrist. "Come home with me."

She whipped around. "Claire? What are you doing here? Stay out of my business!"

The guys exchanged a few glances. One of them, with blond hair, stepped toward me with a smirk. "Hey, sexy. You're even prettier than your little sister. Why don't you come party with us too?"

The smell of alcohol and cigarettes on him made me nauseous. I fixed him with a cold glare. "I've already called the police. If you're smart, you'll leave now."