On her deathbed, our son asked Kirsten Swanson if she had any regrets.

Through her tears, she said the greatest regret of her life was not boarding that boat.

A sharp pain tore through my chest.

Back then, the three of us had planned a trip together.

Kirsten fainted out of nowhere. I rushed her to the hospital in a panic, and by the time I got there, Peter Gilbert had already boarded the boat.

That night, the boat sank. He was gone.

When the news reached her, her face went whiter than paper.

It was only through my constant care that she gradually pulled herself out of that darkness.

Then we got married, had children, and spent fifty years together in what I believed was love.

I thought it was the happiest life a man could ask for.

It wasn't until today that I understood.

I was nothing but a replacement.

When Kirsten's heart monitor flatlined into a single, unbroken line,

my own heart seized. I collapsed right beside her.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of that trip.

I looked at Kirsten, unconscious in the passenger seat. This time, I didn't rush her to the hospital first.

I picked up my phone.

"Peter, something happened to Kirsten."

"Don't get on that boat!"

——

The light above the emergency room flicked on.

I looked down at my hands.

They were young. No age spots. No gnarled blue veins winding beneath the skin.

Fifty years of marriage, wiped away like a dream.

When we were kids, our three families were neighbors, all living in the same old tenement building.

Peter's family was on the third floor, mine on the fourth, Kirsten's on the fifth.

The three of us were close in age.

We walked to school together, walked home together.

We played hopscotch on the concrete lot out front.

On summer nights when the power went out, the adults would drag their lawn chairs outside to cool off, and the three of us would squeeze onto one together, counting stars.

Kirsten always insisted on lying in the middle. Peter on one side, me on the other.

Even back then, I noticed that whenever she rolled over in her sleep, she always turned toward Peter.

When I was old enough to know what love was, I realized I was in love with Kirsten.

It wasn't the loud, dramatic kind. It was quiet, something I kept locked away inside.

When she laughed, I wanted to laugh with her. When she was sad, I felt it worse than she did.

But I never dared to say a word.

Because I knew the one she loved was Peter.

The way she looked at him was the same way I looked at her.

In my previous life, when word came back that the boat had sunk, Kirsten was holding a glass of water. Her hand started to tremble, and the water spilled all down her front. She didn't even notice.

Then the color drained from her face, inch by inch, until even her lips were bloodless.

She didn't cry. Not a single tear.

But that look on her face was more terrifying than any amount of crying.

In the days that followed, it was as if her soul had left her body.

She wouldn't speak. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep.

She just sat on the hospital bed, staring out the window.

Every day after work, I went to the hospital to sit with her.

I brought her the red bean cakes she'd loved as a kid. I told her funny stories from the office.

Once in a while she'd glance at me, but her gaze would drift away almost immediately.

This went on for the better part of a year.

One day, out of nowhere, she asked me whether Peter had suffered when he died.

I told her no. The boat went down fast. He wouldn't have felt a thing.

She nodded. And finally, the tears came.

After that, she slowly started to come back.

She began eating again. Talking again. Smiling at me again.

I thought she'd moved on. I thought time could wash anything away.

So a year later, I told her how I felt.

I'd been carrying those words for years. I'd planned to carry them to my grave.

But I wanted to give myself one chance.

She was quiet for a long time. And then, to my disbelief, she nodded.

I was over the moon. In that single moment, it felt like the whole world was mine.

On our wedding day, I told her I'd be good to her. Good to her for the rest of my life.

She smiled and said she believed me.

For fifty years, I kept that promise. I worked hard so she could live well.

When she got sick, I sat at her bedside through the night, every night. If she craved something, I'd cross half the city to find it.

We had our fights. We had our silences. But we never truly separated.

I thought that was happiness. I thought that was what love looked like when it was whole.

Until the very end, when our son asked her if she had any regrets.

She answered through tears.

The biggest regret of my life is not getting on that boat.

Fifty years.

Fifty years sharing the same bed. Fifty years of grocery runs and utility bills and ordinary life.

I thought I'd finally made it into her heart.

Turns out, her greatest regret wasn't that she hadn't lived a better life with me.

It was that she hadn't died alongside another man.

Peter Gilbert arrived just as the doctors finished.

A doctor stepped out and told us the patient was out of danger. We could go in and see her.

Peter didn't wait. He pushed the door open and went straight in.

I followed behind.

At the doorway, I deliberately fell half a step back.

Kirsten was propped up against the hospital bed, her face drained of all color.

Exactly the same as the last life.

The moment she saw Peter, her whole face lit up.

"Peter, you didn't get on the boat?"

My feet nailed themselves to the floor.

So that was it.

She'd been reborn too.

I stood outside the doorframe. From that angle I could see the side of her face.

Her gaze was fixed entirely on Peter.

In the last life, across all fifty years, the way she looked at me had been gentle. Grateful. Dependent.

But never like this.

This look had light in it, the kind that had crossed decades and the boundary between life and death.

And the fiercest love I'd ever seen.

Peter blinked, caught off guard by her question, then answered, "Marlin said you fainted out of nowhere, so I rushed over."

Kirsten opened her mouth, glanced at me.

She looked like she wanted to say something, but closed her lips again almost immediately.

Her eyes reddened, and tears slid down her cheeks.

Peter panicked. He fumbled around for tissues, talking while he searched. "Hey, come on, what are you crying for? You're fine now. The doctor said you're out of danger."

I took the hint and stepped back, pulling the door shut quietly behind me.

I left the time and the space to the two of them.

The fluorescent lights in the corridor hummed.

White light made everything sharp. Everything real.

A detail surfaced in my memory.

In the last life, after Kirsten accepted my confession, I'd asked her once.

When did you start having feelings for me?

She smiled and didn't answer directly. All she said was, "You've been good to me. I've always known that."

At the time, I thought that was the answer.

A girl willing to marry you, willing to spend her whole life with you. Wasn't it because you were good to her?

Now I understood.

She hadn't dodged the question. She simply couldn't answer it.

Because she had never loved me.

She was grateful for me. She depended on me. She got used to me.

When she was at her most fragile, I was the one beside her, shielding her from the darkness she couldn't bear alone.

She married me because she needed a reason to keep living.

And I happened to be there.

I thought I was her destination. I was only ever her fallback.

Peter was the one she truly belonged with.

From the very beginning to the very end.

Half an hour later, Peter finally came out of the room.

He leaned against the corridor wall, fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and held one out to me.

"She told me," Peter said.

"Said she likes me."

He gave a small laugh, half helpless.

"Says it's been that way for a long time."

I didn't say anything.

"Came out of nowhere." Peter flicked the ash off his cigarette. "We grew up together. I always thought of her as a little sister."

I glanced at his lips.

There was a faint smudge on his upper lip, a shade redder than the surrounding skin, the edges blurred.

Like something had brushed against it.

Kirsten had never kissed me on the mouth.

Fifty years. Not once.

On our wedding night, I leaned in, and she turned her head just slightly.

Said she was a bit of a germaphobe. Wasn't used to it.

I said okay. No rush.

I tried a few more times after that. Every time, she found an excuse to pull away.

A headache. Too tired. Bad breath, she said, embarrassed.

I believed her.

Told myself to be patient. Once she let her guard down, it would happen.

I waited fifty years.

In fifty years of marriage, the most intimate we ever got was her allowing me to kiss her forehead and her cheeks.

Every time, she'd wipe the spot afterward without thinking.

I always assumed it really was the germaphobe thing.

Now I understood. It was never about that.

She'd just been keeping one clean place for the person who was meant to have it.

"What are you thinking?" I asked.

Peter's voice was vague.

"I don't know. She just woke up, still weak. I didn't have the heart to turn her down."

I took a drag and tasted something bitter in the smoke.

"Kirsten's a good girl. If you didn't have the heart to say no, then give it a shot. See where it goes."

Peter looked at me.

"What about you?"

"Don't you still li—"

I shook my head.

"You've got it wrong. There's someone else I'm interested in."

That was a lie.

But the truth wouldn't have served any purpose either.

Fifty years in my last life hadn't been enough to warm her heart. I wasn't going to spend this life trying again.

Peter stubbed his cigarette out on the rim of the trash can.

He patted my shoulder, turned, and walked back into the hospital room.

The door didn't close all the way. A sliver of light cut through the gap.

I didn't look inside.

About twenty minutes later, Peter came out supporting Kirsten.

She saw me, and something shifted in her expression.

It wasn't the kind of shift from a smile to no smile. It was something more complicated than that, harder to name.

Part awkwardness, part guilt.

But she collected herself quickly.

What replaced it was a wall of cold.

"I'll drive you two home," I offered.

Kirsten didn't look at me. She gave a small nod.

She was leaning her entire weight against Peter, one hand gripping his arm, knuckles white.

Like if she let go, he'd vanish.

Like if she loosened her fingers even slightly, he'd disappear.

At the car, I pulled open the rear door for them.

Kirsten pressed close to Peter in the backseat, practically molded against him.

I started the engine. The air conditioning blew cool against my face.

In the rearview mirror, I could see the two of them.

Peter sat a little stiffly, clearly not used to that kind of closeness, but he didn't pull away.

Kirsten had her eyes closed, her lashes trembling faintly.

The car rolled on for a while before stopping at a red light.

I glanced at the rearview mirror without thinking and found Kirsten's eyes open.

Our gazes collided in the glass.

She looked away fast, burying her face in the curve of Peter's shoulder.

Like a thief caught in the act.

In the days that followed, the two of them made it official.

Peter was the sentimental type. The three of us had grown up together, and now that he and Kirsten were a couple, he felt even more strongly that he shouldn't leave me behind.