Regrets

The A-list actor killed himself, and then the world found out he’d been in love with me for years. The hashtag #UnrequitedLoveGoesViral exploded online. Swarms of paparazzi camped outside my apartment, demanding I give him a response, even in death. When I refused to comment, an obsessive fan plunged a knife into my heart. I died in the dead of winter, taking my three-month-old unborn child with me. When my husband returned from his trip abroad, all that was left for him to see was my cold, lifeless body. 1 The day I died, the first snow of the season began to fall over the city. The little girl I had just saved from a mugging pulled a fruit knife from her bag. Before I could even react, she drove it straight into my heart. She was a horrifying mix of tears and laughter. "He's dead! What gives you the right to be alive?" "It's all your fault! He killed himself because of his depression, and it's all because of you! Why wouldn't you look at him? Why couldn't you just love him?!" She ripped the knife out. My blood mingled with her tears until you couldn't tell them apart. "You bitch! You took the best man in the world away from us!" Her sobbing stopped abruptly. With a desolate cry, she raised the knife and slashed again. This time, at my neck. 2 My spirit hovered in the air. The killer sat on my corpse, her eyes gleaming with a sick, triumphant joy. She pulled out her phone and opened up her social media app. A group chat was exploding with messages, scrolling by in a blur. I drifted closer, my spectral eyes catching the keywords. [MiaMustDie] [ThatBitchMia] [KillMia]... Mia. That's me. In their minds, I was the one who drove their idol, Mike Vance, to suicide. There were viler words, too, carefully crafted to bypass the app's filters, spat out by people hiding behind their screens. The venom bled through the display, so toxic it felt like it could suffocate even a dead woman like me. The girl's hands were trembling as she typed. Not with guilt, not with fear, but with pure, ecstatic excitement. [SISTERS!!!! I GOT REVENGE FOR MIKE!!! I sent the bitch who killed him straight to hell! I think she was pregnant, too. She was clutching her stomach, begging me to spare her. What an actress. No wonder Mike was fooled by her.] The moment she hit send, the thousand-member group chat fell silent. She frowned, checking her signal. "Did my internet cut out? Why isn't anyone saying anything?" she muttered. A few seconds crawled by before the first hesitant reply appeared. [What do you mean, you got revenge?] A smug grin spread across the girl's face. She started a voice memo while snapping a photo, centering the frame on my down jacket, which she’d torn open to reveal my slightly rounded belly. "I killed her. See? Her stomach's all swollen. Definitely pregnant. What a slut. God knows who knocked her up." The chat went dead silent. But she didn't seem to notice, rambling on, recounting every gruesome detail of my murder. When she finally finished her story, a user with Mike Vance's face as their profile picture replied. [Rose, turn yourself in.] 3 Rose didn't turn herself in. A passerby called the police. By the time the yellow tape cordoned off my body, Rose was long gone. She’d taken my ID, but she forgot one crucial thing. Thanks to Mike Vance, I’d already been doxxed a hundred times over. Traces of my personal information were scattered across the internet like snowflakes in the sky. You didn't have to look up to find them. The hashtag #MiaAndMikeVance started trending again, climbing even higher than #MikeVanceFanStabsWomanOnStreet. An actor who takes his own life at the peak of his career is bound to be romanticized, turned into the nation’s tragic sweetheart, an icon of impossible love. [I don't care, a double death is a HE (Happy Ending)!] [Even heaven couldn't stand his decade of silent love. The universe itself married them off! So sweet, I'm crying.] [Mike must be so happy, watching this from above.] His fans danced on my grave. At the police station, a female officer scrolled through the unhinged comments with a weary sigh. She gently closed my eyelids, then turned to the junior officer next to her. "Any luck contacting her husband?" The young officer shook her head. "His phone's going straight to voicemail. I sent him a text." "Other than him, Ms. Reed is an orphan. She has no other family." I wasn't surprised. My soul managed a faint smile. I couldn't see a mirror, so I had no idea if the expression was beautiful or grotesque. "Her husband's unreachable? It's been five hours since it happened. Five hours and still no word?" The flight from New York to Crestview City crosses the international date line; it’s a thirteen-hour journey. And my husband, Liam Hayes, has a habit of catching up on sleep during flights. When he's resting, he's not to be disturbed. It was normal that they couldn't reach him. Besides… We had a child by accident. The Hayes family has a sterling reputation; they would never allow their bloodline to be abandoned. He married me out of duty. There wasn't much love between us. Even if he got the news, he'd probably just send his assistant to handle it. I floated over to the police officer who was still tirelessly dialing his number. "You can stop calling," I whispered to her. "I don't have any family." But the living and the dead are separated by an uncrossable river. She couldn't hear me. She just kept dialing, over and over, for my sake. Her eyes welled up with frustration. "Why won't he pick up, why won't he pick up..." She was a complete stranger, yet she was grieving for me. There are still good people in the world, after all. I drifted to the station window and watched the day bleed into dusk. The setting sun cast a golden glow on every person walking below. Children bounced in the park, and elderly couples, their hair white as snow, held onto each other as they navigated the city streets. Only one car broke the rules of the road, speeding so fast I figured the driver was trying to lose his license in a single go. Thank God he didn't hit anyone. The car screeched to a halt in front of the station. I stretched my spectral neck, curious to see what kind of reckless person was behind the wheel. And then I saw a figure step out—a man both familiar and foreign. The sunset stretched his shadow long and thin, but its warm light couldn't melt the icy chill clinging to his shoulders. He strode towards the entrance, covering the distance in what felt like a single, impossible leap. Was the path from the curb to the lobby always that short? I floated slowly after him. Just in time to hear his first words. "I'm here to take my wife home." 4 Liam knelt beside me, his head bowed in silence. He was a man who wore his emotions like a mask; I never really knew him well enough to see what was behind it. I turned my head away and looked at my own body instead. A dead woman's pallor, a zombie's vacant face. The fruit knife had been removed from my neck, leaving a gruesome, gaping wound. It’s truly hideous, seeing yourself from a third-person view. "Mia." Liam's voice was a whisper. His large, warm hand gently cupped my cold, pale cheek. He repeated the words he’d said when he first walked in, but this time, he was speaking to me. "I'm here to take you home." Such a simple sentence. How could it steal the air from your lungs? The kind-hearted female officer's eyes suddenly filled with tears. They spilled over, splashing onto the linoleum floor. She fumbled for a tissue to wipe them away. I instinctively reached for the corner of my own eye. My fingertips met nothing but dry, empty air. Of course. The dead can't cry. Liam lifted me into his arms and carried me toward the door. I turned back and tried to comfort the officer. "Don't cry, miss. He's taking me home. This is a good thing." Then I laughed at my own foolishness. She couldn't hear me. No one could. A wandering soul, forever looking at the living from across the river of death. The river is too wide, the current too strong. No one can ever reach the other side. 5 Liam placed me in the back of the car. The suffocating atmosphere from the station intensified in the enclosed space. He was a man of few words, and this moment was no exception. As the last light of dusk faded, night began to cloak the earth. The city's neon lights blinked on, one by one. He didn't let me go. In the spacious back seat, it was just one man and one corpse, an arrangement so empty it felt absurdly tragic. I floated in front of him. The comforting words I could so easily offer a stranger were lodged in my throat. I couldn't say a thing to him. The car drove on, through the bustling downtown, past the rivers of people. We arrived at a brightly lit villa, where he laid me down on the sofa. The living room television turned on automatically. He sat down beside me. As if I were still alive. On the screen, the guests on a comedy show were laughing. In the living room, the audience of two watched with blank faces. Suddenly, Liam complained, "Why do you like watching this stuff? It's so boring." "It is not boring! It's hilarious," I retorted. "Wait, how did you know I liked this show?" "Mia, why aren't you answering me?" "I am answering you." "Are you ignoring me?" "I'm not! I'm talking to you!" "If you don't say something, I'm changing the channel." "Don't you dare! How can you blame me when you're the one who can't hear me? That's so rude!" Liam turned his head, his gaze falling on my stiff, dead face. He froze. The glare from the LCD screen was blinding. The background noise from the TV was deafening. I almost missed the sheen of moisture that gathered in his eyes, and the single, whispered word that followed. "Sorry." What was he apologizing for? I raised my hand, covering my eyes as my soul drowned in a flood of memories, shattering my thoughts into a million pieces. 6 Liam had never done anything to wrong me. We had known each other for three months, and in that time, we’d only met five times. The first time was when I found out I was pregnant. The second was when he came to discuss our marriage arrangements. The third was on our wedding day. After the ceremony, he gave me a slight nod, his voice gentle. "I'll be staying in the guest room next door. You can find me if you need anything." I breathed a sigh of relief. A marriage born from an accident wasn't about love; it was about responsibility. He was willing to be responsible, and I agreed. That was all there was to it. As for any further... marital duties, I wasn't ready. After the wedding, before we even had a chance to get to know each other, my company assigned me to an overseas project. I asked for Liam's opinion. "It's your job," he said. "You can make your own decision." With his blessing, I left. When I returned from my business trip, he left for his. The last time I saw him alive was three nights ago. He was leaning against the kitchen island, a glass of red wine filled to the brim. The air was thick with its intoxicating aroma. His eyes were hazy as he looked at me. "You're back." He slid off the barstool, swaying slightly. I wondered what he was doing, but then I saw him take a clean glass and pour me a glass of warm milk. "You can't drink while you're pregnant. Milk instead?" I blinked and took the glass. It was the closest I'd ever been to him. He gently placed the needle on an old record player, and the soft, scratchy notes of Mozart filled the room. The atmosphere grew thick with unspoken things. He leaned in closer. The scent of wine mingled with a sweet, citrusy fragrance. The perfume didn't quite seem to suit him. The thought had barely formed in my mind when I heard him say, "Mia, you have no heart." I looked up, stunned, ready to ask him why he was insulting me, when he cupped the back of my head and lowered his lips to mine. It was my first sober kiss. And my last. The next morning, he left a note saying he was going on a business trip and rushed out of the city. I chalked the kiss up to another accident, planning to ask him about his vision for our marriage when he returned. We were married, after all. Even if there was no love, we could build it. We had a baby on the way, a long, long future to live together. But I would never get to ask him my question. A kiss goodbye had become a final farewell. 7 I hugged my knees, sitting on the sofa next to my own corpse. Thankfully, the sofa was long enough for one man, one body, and one ghost. A ringing phone pulled me from my reverie. Liam answered. The vulnerability I thought I’d seen in him vanished in an instant, erased completely. His voice, usually deep and carrying a cold, imposing weight, was back to normal. I couldn't hear what the person on the other end was saying, but his hand resting on the sofa clenched into a fist. The veins under his skin pulsed, betraying his anger. "Bring her to me," he commanded coldly. "Bring who?" I asked instinctively. But with only that one line, I couldn't figure it out. I never liked to dwell on things I couldn't solve, so I pushed the question aside and went back to watching my favorite show. If someone had told me before that you could still watch TV after you die, I would have thought they were insane. But here I was. Liam hadn't changed the channel. As I was getting lost in the program, he spoke out of nowhere. "Rose." "Huh?" I paused. Wasn't that the name of the girl who killed me? Why would Liam suddenly say her name? But after that one word, he fell silent again. I floated around to his side and leaned over his shoulder, blowing a puff of air at him. I remembered some meme I’d seen online and whispered, "You know, there are two types of people I can't stand in this world. The first is people who stop talking mid-sentence." Liam didn't move a muscle. Disappointed, I floated back to my spot. He can't hear me, so of course he wouldn't be curious. From the corner of my eye, I noticed his posture was ramrod straight. Such good manners, to sit so properly even while watching TV. How annoying. 8 Someone even more annoying showed up half an hour later. When Rose was dragged into the villa's living room, I felt a strange sense of inevitability. So that’s who Liam meant. He was bringing her here. It was almost as if... he was answering my unspoken question. He really was a good person. I sat on the arm of the sofa, swinging my spectral legs. Rose was flanked by two bodyguards, forced to her knees in the center of the room, facing my direction. Facing my corpse. Her face was flushed, showing no hint of guilt or remorse. Instead, her eyes shone with a disturbing excitement. "She's dead. She's really dead. This is great, this is great, this is great..." she chanted under her breath. I circled her, the sound of her voice grating on me. "You're so loud!" Apparently, Liam couldn't stand it either. A bodyguard quickly stepped forward and clamped a hand over her mouth, turning her repetitive mantra into muffled sobs. It was a long time before she fell quiet. I crouched down beside her. Rose wasn't old. You could tell from the blue and white uniform she was still wearing. She was just a student. The crest of Crestview High was stitched onto her chest. The moment I recognized that symbol, a flood of unwelcome memories washed over me. Rose's shriek broke my train of thought. "This is kidnapping! It's illegal!" The toe of Liam's shoe appeared in my field of vision. He let out a cold laugh and grabbed her by the chin. Her young, delicate face twisted in his grip, pain replacing her earlier smugness. The chill radiating from him was as bitter as the snowstorm outside, which was only growing worse as night fell. "Illegal?" Liam chuckled softly. "So you do know the law." He took a sanitized wipe from someone's hand and meticulously cleaned his fingers, the ones that had touched her. Then he casually tossed the used wipe onto her face. Liam hadn't even started to do anything, but she was already terrified. Rose's voice trembled. "What... what's your relationship with Mia? She was a whore! She was selling herself in high school, every guy has had a piece of her. You were just conned! I knew her, I can tell you all about her past. Please, just let me go!" I slumped to the floor, a wave of sadness washing over me. I looked at her. "Why is it always 'whore'? Why is slut-shaming always the go-to insult for a woman? I could almost understand it from Mike, he was a guy, spreading those disgusting rumors about me. But why are you saying it too?" I poked her cheek with a spectral finger. "Oh, right. I forgot. You're his fan. Like master, like follower. You're all just garbage." The smile on Liam's face deepened. His voice dropped to a gentle, almost seductive murmur. "Her past?" Those two words validated Rose's existence. And she began to talk, spilling everything like a broken dam—about me, about Mike. About those three years in high school. 9 Rose was a year below me. Her knowledge of me was pieced together from campus gossip. Crestview High was one of the best schools in the city, an alma mater to countless prominent figures, from scientists to entertainers. The former required years of dedication; the latter, just one lucky break. Mike Vance was Crestview High's most famous student in recent memory. He shot to fame as a teenager, playing the second male lead in a fantasy epic that became a cultural phenomenon, making him the nation's beloved tragic hero. His stellar grades made him stand out in an industry full of high school dropouts, earning him legions of fans. None of this had anything to do with me. What did have to do with me was that, in high school, Mike Vance sat behind me. The shy, respectful boy he played on screen was just an act. In private, he was a psycho. He'd play with my hair in class and snap my bra strap during breaks. When I'd whirl around to tell him to stop, he'd report me to the teacher for harassing him. He was already famous back then, so the teacher automatically assumed I was a starstruck fan. She advised me to focus on my studies and not get distracted by celebrities. There were no security cameras in classrooms back then, and my classmates, enamored with the popular star, didn't care about my side of the story. The teacher meant well, so I couldn't get mad at her. I just swallowed my anger and requested a seat change. The girl who switched with me was one of Mike's biggest fans. She was so thrilled to be his new deskmate that she gave me a huge bag of snacks. Poor girl, I thought. You're about to be harassed and you're this happy about it. But it turned out she wasn't the one being harassed. It was still me. When Mike couldn't reach my hair anymore, he found other ways to torment me. He'd hide my homework, pour soda on my textbooks. Once, I found a dead rat in my desk, blood trickling from its eyes and mouth. So, the unlucky one had always been me. Furious, I poked a hole in my test paper, picked up the rat by its tail, and marched to the teacher's office. She was horrified. After hearing my story, she thought for a moment and transferred me to the class next door. After that, I had a period of peace. The only annoyance was that Mike would always hang around the window of my new classroom during breaks, laughing and joking with his friends. Just seeing him pissed me off. If only it had ended there. We probably would both still be alive today. His secret crush would have remained a secret. He wouldn't have fallen into a depression and killed himself, and I wouldn't have been caught in this disaster. "If only." It's a magical phrase. It lets you imagine a past that never was, and dream of a future that could have been. But in the real world, there are no "if onlys." 10 The turning point came at the end of my sophomore year. Crestview was a fairly liberal school; students having phones wasn't a big deal. One day, my phone started vibrating uncontrollably. A storm of calls from unknown numbers, one after another. I'd hang up, and another would immediately come through. During study hall, my classmates kept looking at me. I was confused. My phone was on silent, no vibration. How could it be disturbing them? Then, my deskmate tapped my shoulder. She pointed me toward the internet. A post on the school's online forum. The first thing I saw was my picture. The text was a self-introduction, a list of prices, and my phone number. The post had been pushed to the homepage; even students from other schools were seeing it. I stared, stunned, and then answered the next call. A middle-aged man's voice crackled through the speaker. "Mia Reed, right? I saw your post. I'm flying into town for two days. How much, flight included?" I glanced down at my deskmate's phone, the meaning of his words sinking in with a bizarre clarity. I couldn't stop myself. "Fuck off, you creep!" 11 The rumor spread like wildfire. Soon, the way my classmates looked at me changed. Boys started approaching me with offers, following me, saying they could hook me up with clients. It was the first time I realized that the people around me, my peers, could be like this. That period is a blur. The human brain has a way of forgetting things it doesn't want to remember. I only recall one day, someone broke into our apartment. My mom died protecting me. For a while after that, I was in a daze, completely lost in depression. Later, the first person to publicly defend me was my deskmate. The second... was Mike Vance. He declared that it had to be a malicious rumor, that Mia would never do something like that. My deskmate was a bookworm; she didn't have the influence that Mike did. After he spoke up, many of the students who had been suspicious started to show me sympathy. How strange. I was trying to solve a math problem, but my mind drifted. A line from somewhere I'd read popped into my head. "The person who slanders you knows your innocence better than anyone else." Even though Mike had helped me, I just couldn't stand him. There was no logical reason for it. Maybe our energies just clashed. My gut feeling about him turned out to be right. At our graduation party, one of his friends got blackout drunk and let it slip that Mike was the one who posted the ad. I overheard it in the hallway. When I went back into the private room, I walked right into his public confession of love. To be fair, after that incident, Mike, probably on someone's advice, started trying to be my friend. He was nice to me. The bullying tactics were put away, as if they'd never happened. He had a crush on me. I wasn't an idiot. I could see it in our daily interactions. An unrequited love stays hidden not because it's well-concealed, but because the object of affection pretends not to see. I had been playing blind for two years, but he was determined to force my eyes open. Students from both our classes were cheering, congratulating us. I just tilted my head and asked him, "You say you like me. Do you even deserve to?" At eighteen, he couldn't handle the blow. His face went pale. He asked me why. He didn't understand. I understood even less. "Do I look like I have some kind of victim complex? That I'd fall for the guy who bullied me and spread rumors that I was a prostitute? Mike, nobody could ever love a piece of trash like you." He swayed on his feet, looking like he was about to collapse. I walked past him and went back to my seat. And that was the end of my high school story. To use a term that's been run into the ground now, I suppose I was Mike's "one that got away." He never forgot about me, sending me messages every so often to update me on his life, asking me out to dinner. I blocked his number. Out of sight, out of mind. The last time we spoke was a few days ago, when he called me from a new number. The wind was howling on his end of the line. His calm voice was nearly swallowed by it. "Mia, if you make one mistake, does that mean you can never be forgiven?" I knew what he was talking about. "Yes," I said. His voice grew quieter. "If I died, would you forgive me then?" I blinked. "You could always try it. Maybe I'd forgive you then." A rush of wind screamed through the phone. I hung up. I was lying. Even if he died, I would never forgive him. 12 "...and that's the story. Everyone in high school knew Mia was a prostitute. For the right price, even a beggar could have her. You need to see that woman for who she really is!" Rose sobbed, embellishing her story as she pleaded with Liam. "And I have proof on my phone!" she said, her voice rising with excitement. "My phone! It's on my phone!" Liam looked down, his expression unreadable. "Oh? What kind of proof?" Sensing hesitation, Rose eagerly demanded her phone back. Once it was unlocked, she found a saved recording. "This is the last call Mike ever made to her. She's a vicious, evil woman!" The recording was clear. It was indeed my conversation with Mike. "If I died, would you forgive me then?" "You could always try it. Maybe I'd forgive you then." Rose was practically vibrating with righteousness. "See?! She was goading him into it! A woman like that deserved to die!" Liam's expression turned focused, deadly serious. "Is there more?" he asked, his tone flat. Rose froze for a second, then frantically scrolled through her gallery. Finally, she found a video. The moment she pressed play, the sounds of a woman's cries and a man's lewd laughter filled the villa. Listening closely, both voices were sickeningly familiar. "I paid a lot of money for this," Rose said, holding the phone up to Liam as if presenting a trophy. Liam's face looked as if it had been swept by a Siberian blizzard, frozen so solid he couldn't even raise his eyebrows. He held out his hand to Rose. "Give it to me." For the first time, Rose hesitated. Liam snatched the phone from her. My heart, or whatever passed for it now, seized. I knew what video that was. Those distant memories, the ones I had deliberately buried, came rushing back. I lifted a spectral hand to my face. It felt... damp.

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