Ariella

"Unrequited love"—a term I once thought I understood, but its true meaning only became painfully clear after I met Damien. He was my first love, the kind that sweeps you off your feet and consumes every part of you. He wasn’t just the first man I loved; he might be the only one I ever truly will. But my feelings for him were like shouting into a void—desperate, unrelenting, always met with silence. His heart was never mine, not even for a moment. Loving him felt like chasing sunlight, always out of reach, no matter how much I yearned, no matter how hard I tried. It wasn’t just one-sided; it was a slow, suffocating ache, a heartbreak that only I carried.

He always had someone else—a shadow I could never compete with. I think I always knew it, deep down, even from the very beginning. But I refused to face the truth. I clung to the hope that if I loved him enough, eventually he would love me back. It wasn’t just denial—it was desperation, a hunger for something I could never truly have. I convinced myself that I could change his heart, that somehow I could become the woman he needed. But I was wrong. His love was never mine to claim, not even for a fleeting moment.

Now, I lie here, alone on this cold, empty bed, counting the shallow breaths that echo in the quiet room. There’s no hand to hold, no comforting voice to offer solace. Perhaps the world was right all along—greed has a way of dragging you into darkness, leaving you with nothing but regret. I thought I was chasing love, but in truth, I was chasing shadows, blind to the emptiness it would leave behind. Now, as the end draws near, I can’t help but wonder if this is my punishment—a lonely farewell for a love that was never mine to claim.

They say when you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes—images of the happiest moments, a montage of joy. But that’s not how it’s going for me. Instead of laughter and warmth, I’m confronted with shadows—the mistakes I made, the regrets that have gnawed at me over the years. Every wound, every failure, every heartbreak replays in my mind, refusing to let me forget. There’s no light in this montage, no comforting peace, only the relentless weight of the things I can’t change.

The biggest regret is clear now—the way I turned my back on the people who truly cared for me, the ones who offered love without asking for anything in return, while I wasted my heart chasing after someone who couldn’t have cared less. I see their faces now—the friends I ignored, the family I took for granted. I pushed them aside, convinced that they weren’t enough, while all along, they were the ones who truly loved me.

And then there’s the irony of it all. The people I should  have loved, the ones who would have given me the kind of affection I craved, never stood a chance. I chased after people who couldn’t see me, who never gave me more than crumbs, while the ones who would have given me everything were waiting in the wings, unnoticed and unappreciated. It's a bitter realization, one I can’t undo, and it stings more than any wound.

If I had the chance to do it over, to make things right, I would. I would love differently. I would love the people who showed me kindness and not take them for granted. I would cherish them, let them know they mattered to me—truly mattered. I would make sure they knew that their love wasn’t wasted on someone who couldn’t see it at the time. But I can’t now. That chance has slipped away, like so much else.

Months ago, I was diagnosed with cancer, and since then, my life has become a long, grueling battle. It’s drained me—physically, emotionally, and mentally. I’ve fought this disease alone, each day harder than the last, each breath a struggle. There’s been no one to lean on, no one to share the weight of it all. I’ve faced it with nothing but the hollow silence of my own thoughts. Now, as I reach the end, I wonder if it was all in vain. I can’t change anything. The chance to make amends is gone, buried beneath the relentless march of time and illness.

Damien Thomson, my ex-husband, never once showed his face after our divorce. It was as if I had never existed in his world at all. The only traces of him I have are through photos—images of him with Sofia Quinn, the woman he now calls the love of his life. Seeing them together stirs something in me, but it’s not jealousy. It’s a dull ache, a quiet resignation. He’s moved on completely, while I’m still here, haunted by the memories of what we once shared. The love I thought would last forever now feels like a distant illusion, something I can only look at from afar, like a dream I can never revisit.

Sometimes I wish I had never loved him. If I could go back, I would erase every feeling, every moment I spent wrapped up in him. I would guard my heart against the lie of love he once offered. I would choose a different path, one where my heart wasn’t tangled with his, where I could have healed without carrying the weight of what never truly was. I would avoid the pain, the heartbreak, the endless "what-ifs." I would build a life free of his shadow, one where I could move forward, unburdened by a love that was never really mine to keep.

And now, as I close my eyes for the final time, I can feel the weight lift. The long battle is over. There’s no pain anymore, no regret, no longing. Just peace. For the first time in so long, there’s no ache, no noise. Only silence, a quiet I’ve longed for. As I take my last breath, I finally surrender, letting go of everything—every regret, every unspoken word. And for the first time, it feels like I’m free.

Ariella

My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a sight so familiar it felt almost rehearsed, like waking up into a memory I hadn’t known I’d carried with me. The light was soft, diffused through gauzy curtains that swayed gently in the breeze, casting faint, golden streaks across the room. The air smelled faintly of something I couldn’t place—warm and familiar, like freshly washed linen mingled with the faintest trace of cologne. It wasn’t overpowering, just enough to pull me back into a sense of comfort and calm.

For a few moments, I lay still, letting my gaze wander. The worn-out edges of the furniture, the subtle hum of life just beyond the window, even the muted creak of the floorboards as the wind shifted—it all felt too specific to be random. This wasn’t just a room. It was the room. A place I had known once, maybe in a different lifetime. The familiarity wasn’t just visual; it was visceral, a quiet stirring in my chest like something too personal to name.

I let the silence settle over me, heavy but not suffocating, until my eyes drifted to the small table by the bed. There it was—my old phone, lying exactly as I’d left it all those years ago. The sight of it made my stomach drop. Its sleek surface had dulled over time, the corners chipped, the faint scratches on the screen catching the light in uneven lines. It looked worn, but it was unmistakably mine. Holding my breath, I sat up slowly, reaching for it like it might vanish if I moved too quickly.

The weight of the phone in my hand sent a jolt through me, pulling me fully into the present. Memories, buried under years of dust, began to stir. My eyes swept across the room, and for the first time, I noticed the walls—every inch of them covered in photos. His photos.

The sight knocked the breath from me. His face stared back at me from every angle, his expression frozen in time: laughing, serious, casual, candid. They weren’t just random snapshots—they were moments, fragments of a story I had told myself for far too long. Some were worn at the edges, others carefully preserved in frames, but they all shared the same haunting truth.

I could feel my pulse quicken as my gaze swept to the shelves. They were crowded with objects that screamed of him—remnants of a life I had once clung to like a lifeline. A dried rose, fragile and crumbling, sat in a small vase, a relic from a day I couldn’t even fully remember. A ticket stub lay tucked beside it, and though I couldn’t recall the movie, I could remember the way I had stolen glances at him instead of the screen. And then there was his sweater, draped over the back of a chair. I had taken it once, telling myself it was to “borrow,” but really, it was to feel close to him in a way I could never actually be.

The weight of it all crushed me. I had spent so long on the periphery of his life, orbiting him like a moon that couldn’t pull away. He had never let me in—never truly. Back then, I told myself it didn’t matter, that loving him from afar was enough. I had trained myself to be content with scraps: his photos, the objects he touched, the words he tossed my way like breadcrumbs. And yet, standing in this room now, it was impossible to ignore how much I had lost trying to love someone who had never reached back.

My chest tightened as I turned my attention back to the phone in my hands. The screen flickered to life with a soft glow, its familiar wallpaper pulling me deeper into the haze of the past. My fingers hovered over the lock screen. The password. I racked my brain, trying to remember it. And then it hit me like a gut punch.

His birthday.

Of course.

My hands moved on autopilot, the muscle memory kicking in as I tapped the numbers. The phone unlocked instantly, and the sight of the home screen—the apps, the messages, the photos—dragged me under a tidal wave of emotion. Back then, every password I’d had was the same: his birthday. My phone, my laptop, my email, even accounts I no longer used. Everything had revolved around him. I had tied every small detail of my life to him, as if I were afraid that letting go even slightly would sever my connection to him completely.

Now, holding the phone, I felt as though I were holding a version of myself I didn’t recognize anymore. A girl so hopelessly infatuated, so willing to disappear into someone else’s shadow, that she had given away pieces of herself she would never get back.

The photos on the wall seemed to press closer, their gazes unyielding. They weren’t comforting anymore; they felt like witnesses to my self-betrayal. The silence in the room shifted—it was no longer serene. It was heavy, suffocating, a weight I hadn’t felt in years but could never fully escape.

I closed my eyes, clutching the phone tightly as I fought back the rush of emotions threatening to drown me. Was this room a chance to finally let go, to reclaim the pieces of myself I had left behind? Or was it a cruel reminder, a prison of my own making, forcing me to relive all the ways I had loved and lost?

Either way, I couldn’t deny it any longer. This wasn’t heaven. This was a reckoning.

Ariella

"Did I really reborn?" The question lingers in my mind, but the answer seems just out of reach. I step into the bathroom, my feet brushing softly against the cool floor, and I pause before the mirror. For a moment, I’m unsure whether I’m seeing things clearly, or if my mind is playing tricks on me.

I look at myself—really look—and something isn’t right. My reflection stares back, but it’s... different. The woman in the mirror isn’t someone I recognize completely, yet I know it’s me. My skin is smoother, my eyes are brighter, and my face, somehow, looks more youthful—more alive. The lines that once traced the edges of my face are gone, as if time has erased them completely. My hair, too, seems fuller, glossier, and the tiredness I always felt inside is somehow missing from my expression.

I blink several times, hoping it’s some sort of trick of the light. But no matter how many times I close and open my eyes, the reflection remains the same. This can't be real, can it?

I raise a trembling hand to my face, fingers lightly grazing my cheek, as if expecting the reflection to shatter or change under my touch. The softness of my skin—how could this be? My gaze drifts down to my arm, and without thinking, I pinch myself, a sharp, stinging pain that snaps me back to reality. The pain is undeniable, real, grounding me to this moment.

I wince from the sensation, but it doesn’t help the swirling confusion inside me. It hurts, but it doesn’t make sense. How could I be here, looking like this, when everything I knew had been so different just hours ago? Is this really happening?

I stare into the mirror, my reflection both comforting and alien. There’s no explanation for this, no reason that I can understand. The questions circle in my mind, and the weight of them presses down like a heavy fog. My breath catches in my chest as I wonder if I’ve crossed some line, if this is some second chance, or a twisted dream I haven’t yet woken from.

I was lost in my thoughts when suddenly, a voice broke through the haze. It was soft, yet unmistakably familiar. "Ariella," it called—gentle but clear, and filled with something that made my heart skip. I froze for a moment, my mind racing as I tried to place it. It was a woman’s voice, but there was something deeply comforting about it, something that made me feel safe. And then it hit me.

It sounded like her. My mom. I couldn't deny it.

Before I had time to think, my feet were already moving, my legs carrying me forward on their own, as if some invisible force was pulling me toward the sound. The house around me seemed to blur as I sprinted, the air cool against my skin as I followed the voice, desperately, through the familiar hallways. It felt like a magnetic pull, drawing me closer and closer.

I burst into the kitchen, and the moment I laid eyes on her, everything in me stilled. Standing by the counter was a woman who could have been my mom—wearing a simple, light-colored dress that hung just right on her frame, and an apron tied neatly over it. The brown apron matched the warmth of the room, a cozy comfort that made everything feel like it belonged here.

Her hair was pulled back effortlessly, soft waves framing her face. It was her—the way she stood, the way she looked at me. A kind of warmth radiated from her, but what stopped me in my tracks was her smile. It was brighter than anything I had ever seen, filling the room with a warmth that wrapped around me like a blanket.

The smile was so familiar, so full of love, that my heart squeezed in my chest. It was the kind of smile that I had missed, that had been absent for so long. I didn’t even think, I just moved—running toward her without hesitation, propelled by a mixture of disbelief, longing, and the overwhelming need to close the distance between us. It felt surreal, like I was standing in some dream where nothing made sense, but everything felt right.

I ran toward her, my heart pounding, and the world around me seemed to fade away, leaving only the warm glow of the kitchen and the woman standing in front of me. Every step felt like an eternity, but my legs carried me faster, until I was right in front of her.

For a moment, we both just stood there, frozen in time. I could see the details now—the way the soft light from the window caught in her hair, the way her hands rested gently on the counter as if she had been waiting for me all along. She didn’t move at first, her smile never wavering, just looking at me with a kind of recognition in her eyes, like she knew me even if I couldn’t make sense of everything.

"Mom?" I whispered, the word slipping from my lips before I could stop it. It felt so strange, so right, but at the same time, so unbelievable.

“What happened, dear?” My mom asked, her voice filled with worry. She sat down beside me, her hand gently brushing my hair back from my forehead. I could see the concern in her eyes, the way she always looked at me when something was off.

“Nothing, I just love you, Mom. I missed you,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotions I hadn’t expected to surface. The words came out more vulnerably than I intended, and I felt a lump form in my throat. I didn’t even realize how much I needed her in that moment.

She gave me a soft smile, her hand still resting on my shoulder as she leaned in closer. “I missed you too, sweetheart. But if something’s bothering you, you know you can tell me, right?”

Before I could respond, I heard another voice—deep, warm, and familiar. “Did you have a bad dream, princess?”

I turned toward the sound of the voice, and there he was—my dad, Maxwell Carter. Tall and imposing, his presence filled the room. But despite being one of the wealthiest men in London, there was nothing intimidating about him at that moment. His eyes were soft, filled with concern, and he knelt down in front of me, resting a hand on my knee.

“You’re safe, kiddo,” he added with a reassuring smile, his voice calm and steady. He always had a way of making everything feel right, even when the world around us was anything but.

I looked at my parents, their faces glowing with care, and for a moment, I let myself feel the warmth of their love. It was a comfort I didn’t realize I was craving.