Not Your Pathetic Ex Anymore

I spent seven years loving Nicole, putting her dreams before my own.

I promised her the world, believed she was my future.

Then, she chose him – Ryan, her volatile artist ex, the one who' d already broken her heart.

I died for that betrayal, a quiet overdose, a final pathetic act of devotion.

But then, I woke up.

Twenty-one again, sitting across from Nicole in a coffee shop, just before she was supposed to choose me.

The hesitation in her eyes, the yearning for him, it was all still there.

This time, I didn't beg.

I told her, "Go to him."

I walked out into the rain, leaving our painful past behind.

This time, I would live for myself.

In my last life, I died with ashes in my mouth.

They were Nicole' s ashes, the woman I had loved for seven years, the woman who drowned herself in the cold Atlantic waters of the Hamptons. She did it the day she heard the news. Ryan, her first love, the one she never got over, had crashed his motorcycle on the Pacific Coast Highway. A fiery, dramatic end for a fiery, dramatic man.

I scattered her ashes in the ocean she chose, and a year later, I followed her. A quiet overdose. A final, pathetic act of devotion to a ghost.

Then, I woke up.

I was twenty-one again, sitting in a cheap college coffee shop. The air smelled of burnt coffee and wet rain. Across from me was Nicole Anderson, her beautiful face tight with indecision. This was the moment. The moment she was supposed to choose me, the stable, loving boyfriend, over the memory of the volatile artist who had broken her heart a year before.

In my first life, I begged. I promised her the world. I told her I would support her dreams, that I would be whatever she needed. She cried and finally agreed, but a part of her always remained with him.

This time, I saw the hesitation in her eyes, the flicker of longing for him. The old wound in my chest, the one that never healed, felt strangely numb.

She started to speak, the same words as before, "Caleb, I... I think we can make this work."

I held up a hand, stopping her. I gave her a small, tired smile. "It's okay, Nicole."

She looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"Go to him," I said, my voice calm. "If you have to think this hard about choosing me, then you've already made your choice. Go be with Ryan."

Her jaw dropped. Relief and guilt warred on her face. She didn't argue. She didn't try to reassure me. She just stood up, whispered a faint "I'm sorry," and walked out of the coffee shop. I watched through the window as she broke into a run, pulling out her phone, already dialing his number.

I sat there for a long time, finishing my cold coffee. The life I had with her, the seven years of sacrifice, the gut-wrenching grief, it all dissolved like a dream.

I walked out into the rain, not looking back. This time, I was going to live for myself.

Ten years passed.

A decade can change everything. For Nicole and Ryan, it turned them into the darlings of the New York art scene. Their on-again, off-again romance was a constant source of gossip, culminating in a recent engagement announcement. They were a power couple, featured in magazines, their life a carefully curated performance of success.

For me, life went in a different direction.

I was in a penthouse suite at the Blakely Grand, one of Manhattan's most luxurious hotels. I wasn't admiring the view. I was chasing my seven-year-old son, Leo, who was currently giggling as he dodged around a ridiculously expensive sofa.

"Leo, no more running!" I said, lunging for him.

He shrieked with laughter and bolted out the suite door, which a room service attendant had just left ajar.

"Leo!"

I ran after him, not even bothering to change. I was wearing a soft, grey designer hoodie and matching sweatpants-comfortable, but hardly appropriate for the glitzy charity gala happening in the grand ballroom downstairs. I took the private elevator down, my mind only on my little escape artist.

The elevator doors opened directly into a service corridor behind the main event. I spotted Leo' s small form slipping through a door into the ballroom and followed him.

The change in atmosphere was instant. Low lights, the clinking of champagne glasses, the murmur of hundreds of conversations. I stood out immediately. People in tuxedos and evening gowns gave me sideways glances.

I was scanning the crowd for Leo when I bumped hard into a waiter, sending a tray of champagne flutes crashing to the marble floor.

The sound was like a gunshot. The music stuttered. Everyone turned to look.

And there, at the center of the room, standing on a small stage under a spotlight, were Nicole and Ryan. They were the guests of honor.

Nicole' s eyes found me in the crowd. Her smile froze. A look of pure, unadulterated embarrassment washed over her face.