Chapter 5

Lily Bennett’s pov

I floated in mid-air, watching Brian Locke open the front door. He held an elegant gift box, his face soft—a look I’d never seen before.

Sophia Reed sat on the sofa, scrolling through travel guides on her tablet—something she’d saved in her drafts five years ago, titled Brian Locke’s Favorite Beach Route.

"I’m free from work for a while. I can spend three days with you. Where do you want to go?" Brian handed her the gift box. "A trip will do you good."

Sophia froze, surprise in her eyes like ripples spreading across a lake. I knew what she was thinking—she’d planned so many trips over the years, stacks of guides that could cover a whole wall, only to have him brush them off with a single "I’m busy."

"Let’s drive to the beach. I like the sand." When she spoke, her voice held a faint, unnoticeable tremor.

I watched her open the gift box and take out an LV cashmere shawl. The color was outdated—nothing like her usual style. But she wrapped it around her shoulders anyway, like a kid given candy, forcing a smile.

Brian drove a red sports car—the one Sophia had talked about for three years. As soon as they got on the highway, his phone "dinged"—the special notification tone I’d used when I was alive. He’d given it to someone else.

"Brian Locke, I twisted my ankle. It hurts so bad."

He answered immediately, tapping the navigation screen. The route changed instantly. I saw a location-tracking app pop up on his phone—Joanne Morgan’s little avatar blinking red on the map.

It was a couples’ app. I’d pestered him to download it back then, but he’d always said it was "childish."

Sophia stared at the screen, her face turning white. She rolled down the window, wind rushing in, messing up her hair. "Brian Locke, you said you’d take me traveling."

"I don’t trust anyone else with her," he cut her off, his tone so certain it felt like a needle, making Sophia fall silent.

I floated over to Sophia, seeing the tears in her eyes. She must have been thinking—when she’d had a 104°F fever in the middle of the night, sending him ten voice messages, he’d said The master bedroom’s too messy. I’m sleeping in the guest room; when she’d been mugged overseas, calling him twenty times, he’d said Why didn’t you make it to the dinner?; when she’d had a car accident and lost their baby, listening to that endless "beep-beep" in despair, he’d been accompanying Joanne Morgan to her prenatal checkup.

It turned out—he could worry. He just never worried about her.

When they picked up Joanne Morgan, I saw she was wearing the same style of shawl—bright, the lake blue Sophia loved.

"Brian Locke, who picked out my shawl?" Sophia’s voice was icy.

Joanne Morgan spoke up timidly: "The store only had two left. I thought since you’re older, you’d prefer something more mature..."

"You gave me the one no one else wanted?" Sophia ripped the shawl off and threw it out the window. "Do you think I’m a garbage dump, Brian Locke?!"

Brian patted Joanne Morgan’s shoulder gently, saying "It’s okay," then turned to Sophia, his tone cold: "It’s just a different color. You overreact like this every day—no wonder you’re never happy."

I saw Sophia laugh, laughing until tears came: "So you do notice I’m unhappy."

Yes, he noticed. But he’d never asked why.

The day of our wedding, I’d texted him: I’m on the rooftop waiting for you. If you don’t come, I’ll jump. But Sophia had dragged him around to toast guests, making him miss that last message. He hated Sophia, but he forgot—I’d chosen death myself. It had nothing to do with anyone else.

He’d turned his guilt over me into cruelty toward Sophia. For five years, it had been like slow torture, cutting her heart piece by piece.

When they pulled up to the restaurant, Brian said: "Morgan doesn’t like French food. I’ll eat Joanne cuisine with her. I’ll come pick you up after."

Sophia said nothing, just stared out the window. Sunlight fell on her face, pale as paper.

I floated over to Brian, watching him help Joanne Morgan out of the car carefully. I heard Joanne Morgan ask: "Do you remember I like durian?" And him laugh and answer: "Of course I do."

I suddenly remembered—back then, I’d asked him: "Do you remember I don’t eat cilantro?" He’d hesitated and said: "I’ll remember next time." But until I died, every bowl of noodles he made still had cilantro sprinkled on top.

It turned out—he could remember. He just didn’t want to bother for people he thought weren’t worth it. And the "worth it" ones in his heart were first me, then Joanne Morgan—who looked like me. Never Sophia Reed.

Sophia sat in the car for a long time, until the sunset stretched her shadow far. She took out her phone and pulled up a photo—our wedding five years ago. She was in her wedding dress, her eyes full of stars brighter than the sky. He stood beside her, his gaze empty.

She deleted the photo, then texted her lawyer: "I signed the divorce papers."

I watched her push open the car door and walk toward the beach. The wind blew her hair, and she spread her arms—like a bird finally breaking free from its cage.

Brian Locke, look. She doesn’t want you anymore.

It took you five years to push away the girl who’d once loved you with all her heart. You thought you were making up for what you owed me, but you had no idea—the person you owed the most was Sophia Reed.

And I—had already forgiven you.

I just felt sorry. Sorry that Sophia’s five years of sincerity had been wasted on someone who didn’t deserve it.