On our wedding day, I told her I'd be good to her. Good to her for the rest of my life.
She smiled and said she believed me.
For fifty years, I kept that promise. I worked hard so she could live well.
When she got sick, I sat at her bedside through the night, every night. If she craved something, I'd cross half the city to find it.
We had our fights. We had our silences. But we never truly separated.
I thought that was happiness. I thought that was what love looked like when it was whole.
Until the very end, when our son asked her if she had any regrets.
She answered through tears.
The biggest regret of my life is not getting on that boat.
Fifty years.
Fifty years sharing the same bed. Fifty years of grocery runs and utility bills and ordinary life.
I thought I'd finally made it into her heart.
Turns out, her greatest regret wasn't that she hadn't lived a better life with me.
It was that she hadn't died alongside another man.
Peter Gilbert arrived just as the doctors finished.
A doctor stepped out and told us the patient was out of danger. We could go in and see her.
Peter didn't wait. He pushed the door open and went straight in.
I followed behind.
At the doorway, I deliberately fell half a step back.
Kirsten was propped up against the hospital bed, her face drained of all color.
Exactly the same as the last life.
The moment she saw Peter, her whole face lit up.
"Peter, you didn't get on the boat?"
My feet nailed themselves to the floor.
So that was it.
She'd been reborn too.
I stood outside the doorframe. From that angle I could see the side of her face.
Her gaze was fixed entirely on Peter.
In the last life, across all fifty years, the way she looked at me had been gentle. Grateful. Dependent.
But never like this.
This look had light in it, the kind that had crossed decades and the boundary between life and death.
And the fiercest love I'd ever seen.
Peter blinked, caught off guard by her question, then answered, "Marlin said you fainted out of nowhere, so I rushed over."
Kirsten opened her mouth, glanced at me.
She looked like she wanted to say something, but closed her lips again almost immediately.
Her eyes reddened, and tears slid down her cheeks.
Peter panicked. He fumbled around for tissues, talking while he searched. "Hey, come on, what are you crying for? You're fine now. The doctor said you're out of danger."
I took the hint and stepped back, pulling the door shut quietly behind me.
I left the time and the space to the two of them.
The fluorescent lights in the corridor hummed.
White light made everything sharp. Everything real.
A detail surfaced in my memory.
In the last life, after Kirsten accepted my confession, I'd asked her once.
When did you start having feelings for me?
She smiled and didn't answer directly. All she said was, "You've been good to me. I've always known that."
At the time, I thought that was the answer.
A girl willing to marry you, willing to spend her whole life with you. Wasn't it because you were good to her?
Now I understood.
She hadn't dodged the question. She simply couldn't answer it.
Because she had never loved me.
She was grateful for me. She depended on me. She got used to me.
When she was at her most fragile, I was the one beside her, shielding her from the darkness she couldn't bear alone.
She married me because she needed a reason to keep living.
And I happened to be there.
I thought I was her destination. I was only ever her fallback.
Peter was the one she truly belonged with.
From the very beginning to the very end.
Half an hour later, Peter finally came out of the room.
He leaned against the corridor wall, fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and held one out to me.
