Reborn, But I Refused to Love Him Again

I didn’t die screaming. There was no dramatic confession, no last-minute realization, no grand apology whispered at my bedside. I died quietly. The doctors said it was exhaustion. My mother said it was stress. The internet would have called it burnout. But I knew the truth. I died because I loved a man who never chose me. I remember sitting on the edge of our bed that night, the city lights bleeding through the curtains, my phone glowing with a message that wasn’t meant for me. She’s just a friend. That was always his favorite sentence. My chest felt tight, but I told myself to breathe through it. I always breathed through things. Through his silences. Through his absences. Through the way his hand would slip from mine the moment someone more important entered the room. I lay down without changing my clothes. I remember thinking Maybe tomorrow he’ll notice how tired I am. Tomorrow never came. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the ceiling. Plain. White. Cracked in the same corner it always had been. I frowned. Hospitals didn’t look like this. Neither did heaven. I sat up slowly, my heart steady, my breath calm. Too calm for someone who had just died. The room smelled like cheap detergent and instant coffee. My old apartment. Not the penthouse. Not the house with glass walls and security gates. This was the place we lived in before the money came. Before his name meant something. Before my life shrank to fit his success. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. I picked it up with fingers that didn’t tremble. Date: seven years ago. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Still the same. I didn’t panic and i didn’t cry. Something inside me had already accepted this.