I lied to Estelle about one thing.
In our past life, I didn't love Alina as much as she thought I did.
After Estelle's death, I spent countless nights in my study, going through her belongings, crying and laughing, drowning in regret until tears soaked my face.
The story was absurd, a tragic joke. Even as the protagonist, I wanted to punch that version of myself.
The memories felt surreal—as if I were watching a film about someone else's life, someone who looked exactly like me.
I couldn't face Estelle again.
I threw myself into work, rejecting every matchmaking attempt my parents arranged. I met women who had surgically altered themselves to resemble her, but none had her radiant smile.
"Does it have to be her?" my mother once asked. "Must you stay trapped in this cage forever?"
I laughed bitterly. "I don't want to, Mom."
If forgetting her were possible, wouldn't I have done so in three years? Why continue this hopeless entanglement?
I still remember her in denim shorts and a loose shirt, hooking her arm through mine and smiling. "You're so handsome; you walked right into my heart."
She was so sweet then, so full of love for me. Why didn't I love her back in our past life?
---
I'll never understand.
Though I'm the same person, the same soul, life's circumstances won't allow a repeat of the same choices. My past sins, I must bear alone.
Sometimes, I think—why me? Why must I, innocent in this life, atone for the sins of my past?
The thought consumed me, and in a moment of madness, I bought a plane ticket to see her.
Across the street, I saw her walking her golden retriever, bundled in a scarf, her gloved hands swinging as she laughed. A rare calm settled over me.
"I'm not repenting for him," I thought. "I'm making amends for her pain."
Estelle would never take me back. All I could do was stay distant and treat her well.
---
I witnessed her meet someone new, fall in love, and marry. To my shame, I even knew how much they spent on groceries, how long they walked their dog, how many hours they slept.
Their love story had an unwelcome observer.
I know I'm pathetic, deserving of ridicule, but I couldn't stop.
When Estelle gave birth, her husband waited outside the delivery room. I stood at the hospital entrance.
Snow fell like grains of salt, dissolving in my eyes.
Estelle and her daughter were safe and healthy.
Tears welled up in my eyes.
Pregnancy and postpartum are the times when men are most likely to stray. During those months, I kept a close watch on her husband. Even casual conversations with store clerks while grocery shopping were carefully observed and recorded.
I couldn't decipher my own feelings.
I wanted Estelle to be happy but also selfishly wished for her unhappiness. If she were unhappy, perhaps I'd have a chance to comfort her.
Two months after her postpartum recovery, I saw her husband return home with candles and steak, dressed to impress, a broad grin plastered across his face.
My hand gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
Chewing on gum, I fought back the urge to confront him.
I reclined my seat and silently gazed at the window to Estelle's bedroom.
To be honest, I didn't know how much longer I could hold on.
I've never been a good person.
I only wanted her to be happy.
For her, I tried to be patient.
The day of our reunion was meticulously planned.
The perfect breeze, just the right amount of sunlight, her favorite suit color and tie, my clean-shaven face...
I prepared for this day with great care.
But she noticed none of it.
She called me "Mr. Caldwell," her tone distant and polite.
Her attention was fixed on the man holding their little girl, her smile warm and full of love.
She was happy.
There was no hesitation or sadness from the past, no traces of nightmares or struggles. She was simply living her life.
I smiled faintly. The roaring tiger in my heart was suddenly tamed.
I couldn't understand why I had orchestrated this meeting.
Was it to show her how wretched I had become?
I told her, "I'm getting married, too."
And then I left in haste.
As I walked away, I recalled the many nights I had spent in the past, holding onto her clothes and crying.
I chuckled bitterly.
Loving her but never having her... it seems to be the fate I cannot escape.
