I Died on His Wedding Day.

I still remember the exact timbre of that phone call—one year post - breakup, my thumb hovering over Thomas Vance’s contact like a trigger. The second he answered, two sentences tore out of my throat:

"Congrats on the wedding."

"You swore to be my pallbearer, remember?"

The moment I hung up, his voice seeped through the receiver like ice water: "Daisy, why force me to track you down like this?"

My knuckles swiped the gore from the phone screen, smearing his name—Thomas Vance—into a bloody blur. "Sorry," I mumbled, staring at the ceiling as if he could see my shaking shoulders through the plaster.

His silence stretched into a razor - sharp laugh: "We’ve been over for twelve months. Get it through your head."

As if I could forget. That torrential night is branded in my memory: him standing on my doorstep, rainwater dripping from his coat as he said "it’s done" without meeting my eyes. I clung to his sleeve till dawn, only to learn from neighbors he’d boarded a flight to Tokyo that same morning—no explanation, no farewell, just a half - filled box of origami boats on my nightstand.

If not for that call, we’d have remained strangers in each other’s memories.

Rain lashed the window, fogging the glass like my blurry vision. "I get it," I croaked after an eternity.

"Then do us both a favor," he snarled. "If you’re set on dying, do it where I won’t find your body." The dial tone buzzed in my ear like an angry wasp.

That’s when the phone lit up again—an international number from Belrith. "Ms. Winters," a clinical voice said, "your euthanasia consultation... we had to use your secondary contact."

Three hours later, I collapsed into a train seat bound for Belrith, forehead pressed to the frosHira Jones window. The distant Alps loomed like gray shadows, their peaks mocking my crumbling resolve. The biopsy report burned in my bag: terminal pancreatic cancer, metastasis beyond treatment. Doctors offered sympathetic looks; I stuffed the paper away like a shameful secret.

Then, in the hospital corridor, I saw him. Thomas Vance in the black leather jacket I’d bought him, looking as if he’d stepped out of a nightmare—until his eyes met mine, hard as granite.

Memories exploded: folded paper boats, seven years of goodnight texts, the night he took a red - eye train 600 kilometers to hold me during a panic attack. I’d thought we were invincible, but all he left was a slammed door and a broken promise.

My legs gave way, but he only sneered: "I told you—stay out of my sight."

"I’m here for tests," I whispered, nails biting into my palms.

"Spare me the lies." His jaw ticked. "I made it clear: I don’t love you. Following me to Belrith is just sad."

Before I could retort, a voice chimed: "Tommy."

A brunette in a sapphire - blue dress looped her arm through his, a blue diamond ring winking on her finger. "Who’s this?" she asked, head tilted like a curious kitten.

Quinn Carver. His fiancée. The gemstone on her hand cut deeper than any scalpel.

"Getting married?" My voice cracked.

Quinn beamed: "He proposed last week!"

I forced a smile: "When’s the wedding?"

Thomas’s gaze pinned me like a butterfly. "June 30th," he said flatly.

My heart shattered. June 30th was the date I’d scheduled my euthanasia.