I Died on His Wedding Day.

I know the date June 30th is seared into my soul.

It’s my birthday—Daisy Winters’s last birthday.

Three years ago today, Thomas Vance proposed with a ring made of braided silver.

I’ll never forget that night: string lights tangled in the oak tree, a cake dotted with edible stars in my favorite constellation. Twenty - three - year - old Thomas knelt on our apartment floor, pushing a shoebox toward me: "This is the mixtape you made me, these are the train tickets from our first trip, and this envelope has every love letter you ever wrote me."

Moonlight washed over his boyish face as he took a shaky breath.

"I thought a proposal needed a grand setting, but then I realized the only perfect place is wherever you are. I know you’ve always dreamed of Belrith, but I can’t wait another second. We’ll get married there. Right now, I just need to know—"

"Daisy Winters, will you be my wife?"

The memory plays in slow motion as I stare at him now—still the same chiseled features, but his eyes hold all the warmth of a frozen lake.

I inhale until my lungs ache, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass. "Congrats to you both. Hope you’re happy."

Wind howls through the hospital corridor, like someone’s ghost is wailing.

At the euthanasia agency, the clerk slides my papers back: "For the procedure, a family member must—"

"I’m alone," I cut in.

He sighs, pushing a calendar: "You have Seven - two hours. Make them count."

The second I step outside, my phone vibrates—Thomas’s name flashes. My thumb hovers over answer, but a sugary voice beats me to it:

"Hi, it’s Quinn. Thomas and I are dress - shopping tomorrow. His taste is tragic, and I have no girlfriends here. Will you help?"

I freeze, but Thomas’s growl cuts through: "Be at the salon at ten. Address sent."

Seconds later, a text arrives with the boutique’s name—and a five - thousand - dollar transfer.

"Payment. Don’t upset Quinn. That’s an order."

The next day, I sit on a satin couch while Quinn twirls in lace. Thomas nods at every gown, his smile softer than I’ve seen in years.

My mind drifts to when he showed me a magazine clipping: "This is the dress I’ll buy you. The neckline matches the tattoo behind your ear."

Back then, his words felt like sunlight. Now, I’m staring at Quinn holding up a gown—the exact Style from that clipping, with the same star - shaped beadwork.

"Thomas hates this one," she pouts, shoving the lookbook at me. "Tell him it’s timeless."

My fingers tremble on the page. He’s rejecting the dress I once called my dream because of me.

"You remember—" I start, but he cuts me off:

"Trends change. That Style’s obsolete."

Obsolete. Like our seven years together. Like the life we planned.

I force a laugh that comes out as a wheeze. "Yeah, totally outdated."

Just then, a drop of blood lands on the photo, blooming like a tiny rose. I wipe it away, but Thomas’s scowl slices through me:

"What’s your problem?"