1 Three years after I buried the man who died saving my life in an earthquake, I watched him get married again. There he was, under the brilliant spotlights, his hand outstretched to welcome his bride. But Tristan froze, his face draining of all color as his eyes locked on mine. The same friends and family who had held me through my darkest nights of grief were now rushing to push me out, their voices a frantic whisper. “Anna, please. It’s a happy day. Don’t make a scene.” I sidestepped their grasping hands, my own voice so calm it felt alien. “So, all of this… all these years… my attempts to jump off buildings, the scars on my wrists… was all of that just some pathetic joke to you?” The music was the only thing that dared to move in the cavernous hall. Every single person avoided my gaze. Rosalind, the bride, stumbled forward and dropped to her knees before me, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Anna, I’m so sorry. But I truly love Tristan. I can’t live without him. Please, I’m begging you, let us be happy.” They formed a circle around me, a human cage meant to contain the hysteria they expected. But I just smiled, a quiet, hollow thing. It turns out the man who swore he’d love me for a lifetime really did die in that earthquake. 2 I helped Rosalind to her feet. “Rosalind, tell me. When did you know Tristan was alive? And when did you two get together?” A flicker of triumph, quick and sharp as a cat stealing cream, flashed in her eyes before it was drowned by a fresh wave of tears. She wept beautifully, her hand clamping around my wrist, nails digging into my skin. “Anna, I’m sorry… It’s all my fault, every last bit of it! But I… I just love him so much, I couldn’t control myself… That’s why I asked everyone to keep it a secret from you. We were all just so afraid you couldn’t handle the truth…” “Afraid I couldn’t handle it…” I murmured the words back to myself. Then, in one fluid motion, I snatched an empty wine bottle from a nearby table and smashed it against the corner. The sound was a sharp crack, and glass sprayed across the floor, catching the light like cruel, glittering stars. I gripped the jagged neck of the bottle, its menacing points aimed directly at Rosalind’s perfectly made-up face. “Ah!” she shrieked, a short, sharp sound of terror, her face turning a ghastly white. “Anna! What are you doing?” “Put that down! Don’t do something stupid!” The same friends who had just been telling me not to “make a scene” were now in a panic, trying to inch closer. “Don’t move!” I snarled, my wrist as steady as stone. The sharp edge of the glass moved an inch closer to Rosalind, almost brushing the tip of her trembling nose. “Anyone takes another step, and I can’t guarantee where this thing ends up.” They froze, paralyzed as if by a spell, their faces masks of horror. Rosalind was shaking uncontrollably, babbling. “I’ll talk, I’ll talk! It was… three days after the earthquake. We got together then.” Three days after the earthquake. So, while I was making my first attempt to die, drowning in a sea of grief and guilt, Tristan was whispering sweet nothings to another woman. It all made sense now. The hazy memory I had from the hospital, of seeing Tristan standing in the corner of my room, his face a mask of anguish and worry. When I woke up, everyone told me it was a hallucination, a side effect of the sleeping pills and blood loss. They cried as they held me, saying how heartbroken Tristan would be if he knew I was trying to hurt myself. I believed them. After that, I sank even deeper, using alcohol and pills to numb the agony, living in a private hell built from my love and guilt for him. It wasn't a hallucination. He was probably there, not because his heart was breaking for me, but to make sure I wouldn’t die before he could run into the arms of his new lover. “Anna! Are you insane? Let Rosalind go!” A furious shout ripped me from my thoughts. A powerful force yanked me back. Pain shot through my wrist, and the broken bottle slipped from my grasp, shattering again on the floor. In the struggle, my ankle twisted with a sickening, sharp pain. My lower back slammed hard against the edge of the cake table, and a cold sweat broke out across my skin. Tristan, like a guardian angel, swept a trembling Rosalind into his arms, murmuring reassurances. “Shh, it’s okay, Rosie. You’re safe now. I’m here.” His voice held the same tender, protective tone that had once been mine alone. When he finally turned to me, his face was a complex mess of exhaustion, blame, and a deep, weary sorrow. He stared at me for a long time, the silence in the room so thick it felt solid, before his voice emerged, raw and raspy. “Anna, these past few years… I’ve failed you. I know I owe you everything, that nothing I do can ever make up for it.” He paused, searching for the right words, and then he delivered the line that turned my blood to ice. “I truly did love you. But I love Rosalind now.” I looked at the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms, and I started to laugh. A wild, broken sound that soon dissolved into tears streaming down my face. Tristan was the boy I grew up with, my childhood sweetheart. But Rosalind… she had been my childhood friend, too. 3 In middle school, our school organized a charity drive to sponsor kids from struggling rural communities. That’s how I first saw Rosalind, in a photograph. A girl with enormous eyes, dressed in worn-out clothes, but her smile was pure sunshine. I saved almost every penny of my allowance to support her. When Tristan found out, he quietly started giving me half of his. Rosalind was deeply grateful. She’d send me packages of wild herbs and nuts she’d gathered from the mountains, her letters filled with wide-eyed dreams of city life and endless thanks. Eventually, she earned a scholarship to the university in our city. Tristan and I picked her up on her first day. I’ll never forget the way her eyes lit up, like twin flames, the moment she saw Tristan standing there, tall and handsome in a crisp white shirt. From that day on, she was a constant presence, always finding an excuse to be around us. I wasn’t stupid; I could see the way she looked at him. A teenage crush is impossible to hide. The sight of it felt like a ball of cotton stuck in my throat, suffocating me. I started to avoid situations where it would be the three of us, giving them space, giving myself a chance to breathe. Until one evening, Tristan cornered me in the alleyway behind my house. The setting sun stretched his shadow long and dark on the pavement. His eyes were red-rimmed with frustration as he stammered out his explanation. “Anna! Why are you avoiding me? There’s nothing going on with me and Rosalind, I swear! You’re the only one I’ve ever liked, since we were kids! I don’t like her! I promise!” It was the first time he’d cried in front of me since he was thirteen. He looked like an abandoned golden retriever. The tightness in my chest dissolved instantly, replaced by a wave of sweet relief. That night, Rosalind showed up at my door with a case of beer. She got completely wasted, sobbing in my arms all night. The next morning, her eyes were puffy and red, but she smiled and wished Tristan and me a lifetime of happiness. I didn’t understand the complicated storm of emotions in her eyes back then. I do now. It was a potent cocktail of resentment and unyielding envy. 4 Waves of pain from my back and ankle pulled me back to the present. I set down the bottle I was holding and looked for a chair. But every face I once knew now looked back at me with wariness and distance. They formed a protective wall around Tristan and Rosalind, treating me like a contagion. “Just let it go, Anna. It’s supposed to be a happy day.” “Yeah, what’s past is past. Making a scene won’t help anyone.” “Tristan still cares about you. Once Rosalind has the baby, they’ll get a divorce, and you two can be together again.” Their words swirled around me, a sickening blend of placating lies and the ghosts of their seemingly sincere comfort over the past three years. I lowered my gaze, refusing to look at them any longer, and silently pulled out the nearest chair to sit. I took out my phone. First, I messaged my best friend, asking her to send over the wedding dress I’d treasured for so long via a courier service. Then, I booked an Uber. With that done, I poured myself a glass of red wine from the table. “I didn’t mean to crash your wedding, and I didn’t bring a gift. But I’ve arranged for one to be delivered shortly.” I raised my glass. “Congratulations. May you have a long and happy marriage.” But before the glass could touch my lips, a large hand clamped down on my wrist. It was Tristan. He took the glass from me, his brow furrowed in that familiar, scolding way he always had when he was worried about me. It was a mix of exasperated affection I had known since childhood. “You know you can’t handle your alcohol. Don’t drink, or you’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow.” How ridiculous. He didn’t seem to care about the heart-splitting agony I’d endured believing he was dead, but he was concerned about a potential hangover. I suppressed the bile rising in my throat and met his gaze, my voice flat. “I can drink just fine now, Tristan.” Disbelief was written all over his face. He looked like he was about to argue when one of my aunts standing nearby spoke up awkwardly. “Tristan, for the past three years… Anna hasn’t been able to sleep without alcohol. I imagine her tolerance is quite high by now.” Tristan’s body went rigid. He stared at me, his eyes filled with a raw, disbelieving pain. He searched my face for any sign of a lie but found only a numb, placid emptiness. I was done with him. I glanced at my phone; the car was almost here. Gritting my teeth against the shooting pain in my ankle, I tried to stand. The moment I put weight on my foot, a lance of agony shot up my leg, and I stumbled. The next thing I knew, Tristan had swept me off my feet, holding me bridal style, and forced me back into the chair. “Don’t move!” he commanded, kneeling before me without a second thought. He gently took my swollen ankle in his hand. When he saw the angry purple bruising, his brow tightened into a knot. “How did this happen? It looks bad.” Seeing that familiar concern in his eyes, and then glancing past him to the barely concealed hatred in Rosalind’s, a wave of nausea washed over me. I yanked my foot back, repulsed by his touch. Just as I was about to speak, my phone rang. It was the courier. I told him to come inside. After hanging up, I saw a message from my best friend, Sarah, sent over ten minutes ago. [You haven’t let anyone even touch that dress for three years. Why are you having me send it to you now?] I quickly typed a reply. [I’ll explain tomorrow. Let’s meet.] My screen was immediately flooded with her question marks. As I was figuring out a short reply, the courier, conspicuous in his bright uniform, pushed through the crowd. “Delivery for an Anna?” I pointed a finger at Rosalind, who was still being sheltered by Tristan. Rosalind looked at Tristan, who gave her a slight nod. Hesitantly, she took the large garment bag. When she unzipped it, a shrill, strangled scream tore from her throat. She threw the box and its contents away from her as if it were on fire. “Ah! What is this?!” The bag fell open on the floor, revealing the wedding dress within. It was white, yes, but a long, ragged tear marred the skirt, and the fabric was stained with huge, shocking patches of dried, brownish blood. Our blood, from the earthquake.
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